by Sara Bennett
The woman in his arms shifted. Ivo felt all the softness leave her body as she realized where they were going. Like a wild creature scenting danger, Briar stiffened.
“You are safe,” he said firmly, slowing his horse as they made the approach. “There is a man I want you to see. He is a prisoner here. He knows you.”
“He knows me?”
“’Twas he who gave me this fine bruise upon my face.”
“And you want me to congratulate him?” she asked cautiously, her eyes gleaming.
He laughed. Jesu, he admired her. She was making jokes, when he well knew she was terrified. The king was her enemy and this was his castle—how could she not think the worst?
“Aye, you can do that if you wish.”
They had been admitted through the gate and into the bailey without any problems. Now Ivo dismounted and, reaching up, grasped Briar’s waist, bringing her down beside him. She stepped closer and he hid a smile. Now he was her protector, disgraced or not.
Without asking first, he took her cool fingers in his and led her toward the place where the prisoners were held.
It was cold and forbidding here, but little different to most dungeons. Ivo had seen many, though rarely from the inside. Briar, he suspected, had seen none; indeed, it appeared she did not like the look of this one at all. Perhaps she was imagining herself in here, imagining what it would be like if she were locked up by the king’s order.
“’Tis a dreary place,” she murmured.
He wanted to pull her closer, to kiss her, to tease her in his arms until she was warm and feisty again. His sharp-tongued lady. But there were too many eyes upon them, and he did not wish to make her a cause for gossip. With a murmured word to the guard, he led her into a cell.
The man he sought was master of a gloomy corner. He sat on a bench before a smoky brazier, one of his legs heavily bandaged. Graying hair hung long about his shoulders, and pale eyes adorned a tanned and wrinkled face. He peered at them as if he had trouble seeing them.
“I have the lady you asked for,” Ivo said clearly, and drew Briar forward.
She resisted but then, with a deep breath, allowed it.
The prisoner began to struggle to his feet.
“Nay, do not stand,” Briar said hastily. She took a step and stopped. A sense of recognition swept over her, ousting the sickness in her belly. ’Twas this wretched place, she thought, ’twould make anyone bilious.
Briar glanced at Ivo, but he stood to one side, as if he had no part in the conversation. His eyes were fierce, glowing with some strong emotion, but she could not read it.
“Do I know you?” she asked the prisoner uncertainly. “Why have you asked for me, old man?”
“Aye, you know me, lady.” The pale eyes lifted to hers, and froze her in place. Nausea twisted within her again, while that well-remembered voice said, “I am Anthony the traitor, lady, but once I was called Sir Anthony Delacourt.”
Sharp memory, like the sting of a whip to her flesh.
Sir Anthony, vassal and friend, stood by her father at Castle Kenton, his face as grim as Lord Richard’s, as the two men prepared to make treason against the king.
“I thought you died at the hands of Radulf’s men,” Briar said, her voice oddly devoid of feeling. The cell was growing dark around her, as if night had come suddenly and without warning.
“No, my lady, I did not die.”
For a single, insane moment she thought: If Sir Anthony is alive, then mayhap so is my father! And then she remembered that that could not be. Her father had died at his own hand and she had prayed over his poor, cold body…
Dizziness assailed her. Briar reached out, blindly, her legs giving way. A hard, strong arm came around her, and cool, gloved fingers closed over her own grasping ones. Eyes shut, she clung to him, soaking up his strength and support, while the world faded in and out, and sickness threatened to humiliate her.
Gradually everything stilled and righted. Her breathing returned to normal, and her stomach stopped doing a jig. He was, she realized, holding her up, his voice a soft, urgent murmur in her ear.
“My angel, my sweet lady, please, be strong…”
There was a temptation to simply remain where she was and listen to his endearments. No man had ever called her such things before, and again that warm and wonderful feeling filled her. But to play at helplessness was not Briar’s way. He was right, she was strong, and she must be strong now.
“I am recovered.”
Instantly he stilled, his breath ragged against her hair, waiting.
She swallowed, and licked her dry lips. “’Twas just a moment, when I…I remembered…”
“I understand.”
He said it as if he really did.
Her fingers tightened on his as she straightened, regained her footing, and then she released them. He stepped back, but not very far.
Sir Anthony was watching her warily, his face more haggard even than before.
“You say you did not die.” She sounded cold, emotionless—it was necessary to be both.
“I escaped and fled north, to Scotland.”
“Then what do you here? Now?”
“I have lost all I had in England, so I made a life by fighting for whoever wanted me. I was part of the recent rebellion on Lady Lily’s lands, but this time I did not escape. De Vessey here has brought me to justice, lady. He beat me in fair fight, and treated me kindly in defeat. On the journey to York, we spoke of many things, and one of them was you.”
De Vessey. The realization squeezed her, dangerously tight, so that for a moment she could hardly breathe. She fought back, refusing to collapse before him like one of the foolish, hysterical women she had always despised. She dare not show any more weakness, not now.
Now, when he knew who she was.
Ivo de Vessey, Radulf’s man, knows me. Can anything be more disastrous?
Sir Anthony’s voice droned on. “When de Vessey told me you were in York, lady, I asked to see you again. Lady Briar, I think often on those days. Your father was a great man.”
“Aye,” she whispered, tears spilling from her eyes, though her voice did not tremble. “So he was.”
Behind her the silence was palpable, but she could not turn, she dared not.
“I asked to see you again, Lady Briar, because I wanted to make sure you did not blame your father for what occurred. ’Twas never his fault. He found the king’s justice wanting, and in his pain and grief, sought to make his own justice.”
“I know this, Sir Anthony,” she said, and now it was anger that made her voice shake. “I do not blame my father. I well know who to blame for our calamity.”
Anthony eased his wounded leg with a grimace. “I tried to tell him, lady, but he would not listen to me. If Odo had been well, mayhap he would have listened to him, but Odo was close to death.” The pale eyes lifted and fixed on hers. “’Tis not something one man can easily tell another. That he is a cuckold.”
Briar blinked, her anger turning colder.
What was this? Cuckold? Had the man been wounded in the head, as well as the leg?
There had been talk, afterward, of Anna’s unfaithfulness, but Briar had always dismissed it. Her father had loved his beautiful wife so much; how could Anna betray devotion such as that? Briar could not imagine being loved in such a single-minded way, and if she was, she knew she would never wantonly destroy it. That was why she had chosen the form of vengeance against Radulf that she had—to destroy his wife’s love and faith in him. It was the worst punishment Briar could imagine.
“But I thought ’twas only talk!” she cried out now. “I know Radulf lusted after Anna, but I believed she resisted his importunings, and that was why he had her killed. Are you telling me, Sir Anthony, that they were lovers? No wonder my father was so bitter!”
Sir Anthony shook his head. He looked as if he were sorry for what he was about to say—there was something in his eyes that spoke of deep regret. But there was also a recklessness in the
set of his head, a strong need to speak, to set himself free. Whatever the cost to her.
“Anna was faithless, lady, but I do not know if Radulf was her partner. There were…others. I heard mention of both Lord Fitzmorton and Lord Shelborne. Your father did not know—or pretended not to. I think, if he had been forced to recognize her for what she was, it would have destroyed him. As it did. Nay, lady, she was the reason he died. He fought for her, seeking justice for her death, when she had been all too happy to besmear his reputation while she was alive. If anyone killed your father, Lady Briar, then it was Anna.”
The silence was deep; a dark hollow sound.
What does it matter whether she was faithful or not? screamed a shrill voice in her head. Radulf still ordered Anna to be murdered, and it was that murder which began the whole downward spiral of the Kenton family. Whether she was a faithful wife or not changes nothing!
But it did.
Sir Anthony had spoken of matters Briar had never heard before. Mayhap it was simply that she had been too young, and too sheltered, to grasp the meaning of them at the time. Whatever the explanation, hearing them now had left her shocked and shaken. She needed time to be alone, to lick at her wounds, to recover herself.
And to convince herself she had been right to waste two years of her life seeking vengeance at Radulf’s door.
“I do not know who killed her.” Sir Anthony’s already wrinkled face creased in thought. “Perhaps ’twas Radulf, perhaps ’twas some other who desired her and could not own her, not wholly. Even I let her use me. You do not know how persuasive she could be.”
Shamefaced, he turned away, and Briar felt the hot sickness return. Suddenly she knew she did not want to hear any more.
“Take me away, de Vessey.”
He reached out as if to comfort her, but Briar pulled back, standing rigid and alone. Aye, alone, as it should be. It seemed that no man was to be trusted after all.
Turning, blindly, Briar all but ran out of the dark cell, past the guard, and up the stairs. Her chest was heaving from more than physical exertion as she burst into the light.
Cold, gray day surrounded her. She took deep gulps of the frigid air, desperately attempting to still the queasiness in her stomach.
She would not be sick before Ivo, she would not!
It was a long moment before she sensed he was standing right behind her. Silent, waiting, so attuned to her that he knew exactly what she wanted from him. Tears stung her eyes and she gave a shaken laugh. He was playing at being her loyal knight. Aye, her very own disgraced knight.
“’Tis all lies,” she said, recovering a little. “You have had much time on the journey to bring Sir Anthony to your side, and to help him in the telling of his tale.”
When he did not answer, Briar took another deep, steadying her breath, and turned at last to face him.
Had she expected to see distrust, because she was a traitor’s daughter? Mayhap even triumph, that he had kept this information from her so completely. Sir Anthony must have made him aware on the journey to York of who she really was, but he had waited until now to tell her. Briar had not thought Ivo de Vessey a naturally cautious man, who would keep such information to himself longer than necessary, but mayhap she was wrong.
But as she looked into his dark eyes, all she could see was compassion and understanding, and the hot flicker of temper that she had lit.
“Why would I feed him lies?” he asked her evenly, but with an edge to his voice. “Sir Anthony is dying—his leg is beyond healing—and seeks to lighten the burden on his conscience. He thinks that if he had forced your father to accept the truth, that his wife was a whore, then your father might well be alive today. Anthony was weak when it mattered, he thought only of his own shame where Anna was concerned and what telling your father would mean to their friendship, and his future. He accounted his own skin more important than that of Sir Richard. That is what he seeks to redress now.”
“It doesn’t make any difference.” Woodenly, Briar repeated the words she had spoken to Sir Anthony. “Radulf still had Anna killed—mayhap she had threatened to tell Lily. He still deserves to suffer for what he did to her…to us.”
“Nay, Briar,” he said softly.
“Aye! He did! Now take me home.”
He hesitated, but he must have sensed she was on the verge of breaking down completely. How could he not? Briar asked herself wildly. She was clutching onto self-control with her fingernails, and even now they were slipping.
Ivo nodded and moved toward his horse.
Briar took two shaky steps before she stopped again. The words almost choked her.
“You knew, de Vessey. May you rot in hell, you knew who I was, and did not tell me.”
Ivo paused—she could see him setting his shoulders, preparing himself for the tempest, before he turned. His face wore a resigned look. “Let us leave this place first, demoiselle, and then we will talk.”
Briar was tempted to have it out with him at once. She wanted to shout and scream. He knew it, too. The watchfulness was there in his eyes, but he gave a wry grin.
“Later, Briar,” he promised softly, “you can tear my flesh off in strips. But not here, not in front of the king’s guard where questions may well be asked.”
Briar glanced about and realized that they had gathered quite a deal of interest from the other occupants of the castle bailey. With a stiff nod, she led the way to Ivo’s horse and allowed him to help her to mount before him. Together they rode in silence, beyond the sturdy walls and into the city of York.
Their surroundings meant nothing to her. Her eyes were blind. Her mind kept running back and forth, trapped; over and over she heard Anthony’s words, but she could not concentrate. She could not think. Her father’s face filled her vision, and Anna, beautiful Anna.
Why did I not know? Was I so blind that I could not see what was happening? Or mayhap I preferred not to? Am I so like my father? Wilfully blind…
“I was protected and innocent,” she whispered. “And a fool. I should have seen. I should have spoken to my father, made him listen, made him stop—”
“Lady, I know a private place.” His voice cut through her soft mutterings as he turned into a narrow snickleway. There was a small hostelry at the farther end. At this time of day there were few inside, and Briar waited, head aching, stomach roiling, while Ivo called for the host.
“Ah, good sir!” The man came forward eagerly. “The private room you wanted is—”
“Aye, I will have a private room,” Ivo cut him short, glancing uneasily at Briar. She stared back, knowing she should be suspicious of their exchange but too shocked to take it in properly.
“Of course, of course.” The man winked, broadly and unmistakably. “This way.”
The private chamber was small, barely large enough for the table and stool and narrow bed that filled it. Ivo had to stoop his head beneath the ceiling beams. Briar held herself still, hands clenched at her sides, impatience making her skin twitch. Ivo kept one watchful eye on her as he instructed the host to bring food and drink, and then at last they were alone.
Briar barely waited until the door was closed.
“Tell me now, de Vessey,” she said, and her voice was husky with the strain of being calm.
“I will. But first, come and sit down.”
She sighed, but did as she was told. ’Twould save time, she reasoned, if she didn’t argue. And besides, her legs were weak and shaky, and it was a relief to sink down onto the bed. The straw mattress rustled under her, and Briar drew her warm cloak more closely about her, as if the woollen cloth could protect her from what was to come. Ivo de Vessey seemed concerned for her welfare, but Briar wasn’t deceived.
He was Radulf’s man.
Did that mean he had told Radulf who she was, too? Briar did not expect a great man like Radulf to be afraid of her, but she did not want him warned of her presence. Vengeance, justice—how could she extract them if Radulf were forewarned?
Venge
ance?
Anna’s beautiful face appeared before her, smiling, always smiling. Her stepmother had hidden her black heart behind her smiles, and Briar had been too blind to see it.
She covered her lips with her fingers, but whether to stop herself laughing or crying, she did not know. At this moment, either seemed possible.
“I do know you, demoiselle. But I knew you before I met Sir Anthony in the north.”
His voice was so reluctant that she turned to look up at him, where he stood with head and shoulders bowed beneath the roof that was too low. His black eyes were glittering with emotion.
“How is that so?” she asked, and held her breath.
He pulled the stool closer to the bed, and sat down on it, ignoring the ominous creak as it took his weight. Now he was closer, she could see the black stubble on his jaw, the darker centers of his dark eyes, the firm fullness of his lips. Something coiled in her belly, and this time it was not nausea.
He smiled, as if he had read her mind. “I knew you by this, demoiselle,” he said, and reached out and brushed the tiny scar on her cheek with his rough fingertip. “Briar, I was there when it was made.”
She opened her mouth to reply, but could not speak. She could not think. What did he mean? There when it was made? She did not understand. Her quick mind seemed to have slowed to a crawl.
He recognized her confusion, and leaned closer. He smelled of soap and sweat, man and horse. She liked it. She wanted to run her tongue along the crease of his neck, into the hollow there. Her nails dug hard into her palms beneath the Lincoln green cloak.
“You were a child,” he explained slowly, as if he realized her wits were befuddled. “I was a young squire in your father’s household. One of the hounds knocked you over and you cut your cheek. There was much blood, and you screamed very loud.” He gave her a reminiscent smile, but his eyes remained watchful of hers. “I came to your rescue like the knight I meant to be. You followed me about afterward, and others laughed, but it pleased me and I did not stop you. A short time later my father died, and I returned home. The next time I saw you, you were singing like an angel in Lord Shelborne’s hall.”