by Sara Bennett
For a moment he allowed her to do so, confused by her desperation, and then Ivo caught her hands in his, stilling her. “Nay, Briar, stop. I am unharmed.” His voice was gentle. “’Tis an old injury, and sometimes the muscle pulls again.”
Briar nodded, feeling foolish. He was still gazing down at her, and when she flicked her own eyes up to his, she read warmth and admiration in his gaze.
“You are brave, demoiselle. You did not swoon, like your sister.”
“Swoon!”
Startled, Briar swung around to Sweyn and noticed that Mary had fainted in his arms. Sweyn looked as if he would faint himself, touching Mary’s cheek, her shoulder, whispering in her ear. “Sweet Jesu, Mary,” Briar gasped, wriggling to escape Ivo’s grip.
“She is not hurt.” He would not release her. “She swooned when she knew we were safe. ’Twas better than had she done it in the midst of a fight.”
“I am glad that pleases you,” Briar said sharply, her concern for him forgotten. But she gave up her struggle, content that Mary was in good hands.
“Who were they?” she asked, watching him curiously.
Ivo’s mouth went hard and straight. “Friends of the rebels who would take Lord Radulf’s lands? Thieves intent on our purses? Enemies of mine?”
“What enemies do you have?” she demanded.
He shrugged. “I am a mercenary and, as you are so fond of reminding me, a disgraced knight. We all have enemies, awaiting their chance to hurt us, whether it be by word or blade. Perhaps I have wronged someone and now they seek revenge. Or mayhap ’tis Sweyn they seek, in retaliation for one of his bad jokes.”
Sweyn pulled a face at him, too occupied with Mary to reply.
He was probably right, thought Briar. Enemies were everywhere, and Lord Radulf must have many. She was among their number. The troop of men had been well armed, they looked like soldiers who had killed before, but mayhap they had not expected such seasoned fighters as Ivo and Sweyn. Was that why they had ridden off like that?
Briar shivered, and Ivo’s arms closed more firmly about her. Keeping her safe. He brushed his lips against her hair, his voice quiet, “Let us go home, demoiselle.” As his horse set off at a slow trot, Briar closed her eyes, suddenly very content to be exactly where she was.
Briar must have dozed momentarily, for when she awoke, they had already reached the cottage by the river. Starlight washed the dark water intermittently as cloud slipped across the sky. Waves brushed the shore in soothing motion. The dwelling was a black shape, silent and faintly sinister.
Swiftly, Ivo dismounted and brought her down beside him. Briar had hoped he might carry her—she was oddly loathe to give up the warmth and safety of his arms—but understood he needed to have both his arms free. In case he had to fight for them.
“Wait here.” His eyes were very dark, a warning that he meant what he said. Briar nodded, though her frown told him she didn’t like it. He smiled, a faint lift of his lips, and turned away.
He was only gone a moment. It seemed like much longer to Briar, as she waited, her breath held.
“’Tis safe.”
His shadow appeared at the door, but at the sound of his voice, Briar had already followed him inside. Fumbling, she found and lit a candle. The wane light fought with the shadows. Briar wondered how a single candle could give such comfort? The same way in which one man, among all the others, tugged at her heart and made her so weak, so vulnerable.
It was incomprehensible, and very frightening. Once before she had believed in a man and he had failed her. How could she give herself to Ivo? He was near enough to a stranger.
“No one has been here,” she said huskily, carefully looking about her. “I would know if they had.”
He nodded, his dark eyes glinting in the weak flame. Moisture from the misty night sparkled on his hair as he bent to stir fire from the coals.
“Briar?” Mary’s voice trembled.
Her sister was standing within the door, leaning heavily upon Sweyn. Briar hurried to take Mary’s hands; to her dismay the girl’s fingers were cold and shaking. “Come,” she insisted, and with Sweyn’s help, lowered the girl onto a stool. Ivo made quick work of turning the smoldering fire into a warm blaze, and dry heat began to chase the cold and damp into retreat.
“Briar, ’tis you who needs care.”
“Hush, sweeting, I am quite well again.” Briar stroked her sister’s dark hair with gentle fingers. “The sickness is past. Truly.”
And it was so. She felt perfectly well again, if a little tired. But then what woman would not feel tired after the evening she had had? It was Mary who needed care now—they were back to normal, and the return of their equilibrium was a great relief to Briar. She had begun to fear Mary no longer needed her.
Where would that leave Briar? She would have to begin thinking of life alone, just her, all by herself.
And she did not like it.
Ivo watched Briar while she busied herself making her sister warm and comfortable, and set a posset over the flames to heat.
He had known she loved her sister, of course he did, but to see it so clearly in her actions…His firebrand, Briar, seemed suddenly softer, more womanly, very much gentler.
He remembered how she had clung to him on the ride from Lord Shelborne’s, her lips sweet on his. He believed her. She felt no revulsion for his maimed hand—Briar was not the sort to cringe and turn faint at the sight of blood or damaged flesh. His raw feelings where his lost fingers were concerned had deceived him into seeing something that was not there.
Ivo took a long slow breath and wondered where he could go from here. He would protect Briar, he would help her solve the mystery of Anna’s death, but after that? What then?
Matilda.
His sister’s name was a bittersweet memory, reminding him of his failure once before. Not this time, though. Miles won’t win this time…
Sweyn caught his eye.
The Dane looked miserable and uncomfortable, as if he wished himself far away. Ivo jerked his head at the door, and Sweyn followed him back out into the night.
Mist from the river puddled about their feet. They could hear the voices of boatsmen and the wash of their oars, strangely muffled by the miasma. From inside the dwelling, the women’s soft murmurs spilled like candlelight.
Ivo spoke. “Radulf has asked to speak with me, otherwise I would stay. I must leave them in your hands, my friend.”
Sweyn nodded, his handsome, good-natured face more serious than usual. “I will guard them, Ivo. I will do whatever I must to keep them safe. Return to Radulf, and know they are in good hands.”
Ivo nodded. He wanted to stay, but Radulf had asked specifically for him. Radulf was a good lord, but even the best of them did not like to be disobeyed.
“Who were they?” Sweyn was watching him, waiting. As if he sensed Ivo had his suspicions.
The knot in Ivo’s belly tightened. “Enemies of Radulf, mayhap?” he offered.
Sweyn turned thoughtful. “They wore dark colors—no emblems, no signs as to who was their master, and yet a troop of men like that…They were disciplined, trained, not the riffraff who normally set out to steal and plunder. And they were mounted on good horses, too. Aye, Ivo, they belonged to someone. ’Twas some reason to it.”
“They were not afraid; that was not why they ran.”
Again Ivo remembered how the leader had thrust his sword at him so aggressively before he rode past. Ivo had blocked it easily, but there had been real menace and intent in that blow. More feeling than one stranger should feel for another. Personal feeling, old feeling, the feeling between those who are well known to each other. Mayhap even blood feeling…
“Was Miles among them?”
Ivo went still at Sweyn’s question. Had his friend read his mind? Sweyn said no more, waiting, until at last Ivo spoke, making his voice slow and measured.
“Miles hates me, ’tis true, but he is in hiding. Why come out into the open and risk being arrested by the k
ing’s men? Why show himself for my benefit?”
“Do you really think Miles would balk at showing himself, if it gave him the chance to do you harm, Ivo? He will know how you tricked him at Somerford, how you played dead and then escaped from him. He missed his chance to kill you that day, and he will have been brooding about it ever since. Aye, what else does he have to think of, now he is in hiding from the king? If he hated you before, then he will hate you more now. It could be that Miles has just set you a challenge.”
Ivo flexed the fingers on his gloved hand. Miles wanted him dead. It was the truth. A strange and incomprehensible truth to Ivo; his brother loathed and hated him, and longed to hurt him. Mayhap even kill him. Did Miles see Ivo as his conscience? Did he think that the only way to silence that conscience was by crushing it? Ivo knew the evil of which Miles was capable, although Miles’s mind, even after all these years, was still a mystery to him. But for all its puzzlement, the fact remained: Miles wanted Ivo dead.
“I recognized him,” he said quietly, as if speaking too loud was dangerous and would make something that he as yet only suspected into reality. “When the troop leader came riding at me, I recognized him. Not with my mind, Sweyn. Inside my heart, deep in my belly. I felt his hatred like hot air on my face.”
Sweyn was silent, listening to the boatsman’s oars, the splash and dip drifting over the dark Ouse.
“And then I noticed the way he held his sword, the set of his head, the line of his shoulders, and I knew him. ’Twas Miles.”
There, it was said now. Like something bad forced out of the shadows and into the light. But Ivo felt no better for seeing it. Tension coiled in his stomach, made his throat ache. Miles was here, in York, just as Lord Henry had said he was. Miles, his brother and his most deadly enemy.
“You can’t be sure,” Sweyn said mildly, now playing at devil’s advocate. “A man might resemble another, it does not mean ’tis him.”
“Mayhap.”
“Miles would be a fool to pit himself against you here, with Radulf at your back, and me at your side.”
Ivo managed a grin, and the knot in his belly loosened slightly. “Fool indeed, Sweyn.”
“Good.” Sweyn nodded, as if the smile had been his aim. “Go now, and speak with Radulf. Tell him of the troop of men, tell him what you think. It won’t hurt to warn him.”
“Aye. Stay here, and guard them well. I will return as soon as I can.”
Sweyn teased. “Do you plan to sleep at all, then?”
Ivo laughed. “Do you think I have slept since Briar came into my life? I am used to going without.”
Sweyn gave a roar of laughter, the sound drifting over the river. The silence following it was eerie. As if someone out there was listening to them, observing them.
“I will say my farewells, then,” Ivo murmured.
Sweyn nodded, and set his gaze upon watching the shadows.
Inside the cottage, Briar had settled Mary into her bed by the fire. The girl was almost asleep, her dark head cradled against her sister’s shoulder as Briar stroked her hair. As Ivo stepped forward, Briar looked up and smiled.
Ivo held her eyes, as if he would convey something to her by them alone. “I have to go back,” he said softly, mindful of the sleeping girl.
“Oh.” She glanced away, but he sensed her disappointment.
“I am called to Lord Radulf.” He came still closer, eyes fastened on her profile. Beauty was in the curve of her brow and the straight line of her nose, the stubborn tilt of her chin and the long tendrils of her chestnut hair.
“Lord Radulf,” she said, and managed to invest those two words with all her disgust.
He smiled. Here was the firebrand back again. “Sweyn is on guard, demoiselle, nothing will get by him. I will return as soon as I am able.”
“You must please yourself, de Vessey.”
“So you do not care whether I come back or not, Briar?”
“Not at all.”
He reached out and touched her hair, the softest of strokes with his blunt fingers. “I do not believe you,” he whispered. And then he turned and went outside.
Sweyn, who had been waiting by the doorway, closed the door and dropped the bar into place. With a half smile, he sank down onto the floor with his back to it and closed his eyes. Briar frowned at him a moment, but he seemed impervious to her displeasure. So, instead, she listened as Ivo rode away.
“I do not need his help,” she said softly, firmly.
Sweyn smiled mischievously. “I see that, lady. But be kind to him, for he does not.”
Radulf was waiting for him.
He sat in his chair, a goblet in his hand, a fur cloak wrapped close around his broad shoulders and chest. When he looked up at Ivo, his eyes were almost as intent as Ivo’s own.
“Are they who I think they are?”
Ivo came forward, his direction clear. He could not even think of lying to this man; he had complete faith in Radulf.
“Aye, my lord. They are the daughters of the traitor Lord Richard Kenton, outcast from their estates and their home. They play and sing, not for the pleasure of it but because it keeps them alive.”
Radulf nodded slowly. “Tell me, Ivo,” he said, and leaning forward, prepared to listen.
“I don’t know all, my lord, only what I have heard, and what has been told me by Briar. ’Tis not much.”
Radulf shrugged impatiently. “Sit down, Ivo—you make my neck ache—and talk.”
Ivo sat on the stool by the fire. The heat was so wonderful against his back, after the damp cold of the riverbank and then the road to Radulf’s quarters, that he almost groaned aloud. But he stiffened his spine and prepared to tell his lord what he wanted to know.
“Briar, the songstress, knows little of Lady Anna, only that she was murdered. She blames you for that, my lord. There were rumors at the time, and she believed them. Her father swore vengeance upon you before he turned traitor and died, and she has taken up his pledge as her own.”
Radulf’s eyes were far away, but he nodded for Ivo to go on.
“After Lord Richard’s death, the king gave all that was theirs to other barons, and they were declared outcasts. From what I have heard elsewhere, they made their way to York, where you see their life now. Very different from what it once was. Do you remember Sir Anthony Delacourt?”
Radulf blinked, his thoughts returning from wherever they had been. “Aye. He is a prisoner.”
“And once vassal to Lord Richard Kenton. I took Briar to see him, at his request. He has much on his mind—he is dying—and he wishes to cleanse himself of sin before he faces God. Sir Anthony told Briar that Lady Anna cuckolded her father with many men, Lord Fitzmorton and Lord Shelborne among them. There must have been others. Briar was distressed to hear it, at first would not believe it, but I think she will grow to accept the truth. It is the truth, is it not, my lord?”
Radulf’s mouth twisted in what may have been a smile, though not a very pleasant one.
“’Tis the truth, Ivo. This talk of the past disturbs me…brings back memories that are not so pleasant.”
Ivo said nothing, watching the other man as he shivered, and huddled deeper into the fur cloak. He had never seen Radulf in this pensive mood, and never seen him appear so vulnerable. This man was a long way from the tales of greatness, the legends of immortality and brutality. This was the real man, seated here before him, shivering from the cold. Lonely. If only Briar could see her hated foe now…
“Anna was like a dark storm cloud, and she hung over me for many years before I met Lily, but I am free of her now. Not because she is dead,” he added, when Ivo moved as if to ask the question, “but because Lily freed me. I am like the legendary creature held under a curse until the beautiful woman comes to break the spell.” His eyes shone with laughter now, and something hotter.
“Anna pursued me when I was in York two years ago. She would not believe I did not want her. She thought all men desired her. But I had Lily, and I knew if I di
d not stop her, she would destroy my wife. I met her and told her, brutally, that I loathed her. She was furious. She tried to ride me down, but…well, the saints were watching over me. I was hurt only. My men drove her off, and I did not see her again. I was told, later, that her body had been found and she was murdered, but whoever did it was never discovered. Lord Richard accused me before the king, but the king was satisfied with my replies and dismissed his accusations. Kenton would not…could not, believe that. He rebelled, and later took his own life.”
Radulf glanced up at Ivo. “’Tis a grim little tale, is it not, de Vessey?”
“Why could Lord Richard not see what Anna was?” Ivo demanded, impatient with such willful blindness.
Radulf laughed softly. “You did not know her. She found pleasure in twisting men’s hearts inside out with jealousy and doubt, until they would crawl over hot coals for her smallest favor. And then she would swear she loved them and only them, and all the rest was lies. Kenton would want to believe her, need to believe her, for his own sanity.”
“I see.”
“I knew it, but I could not see a way to make Kenton listen. I felt I did not have the right to force such knowledge upon any husband, but my reasons are private, de Vessey, I will not go into them here. However,” he drew a long breath, unknowingly echoing Sir Anthony’s words, “if I had tried harder, mayhap none of the tragedy would have occurred. And I knew Anna; I knew of what she was capable. Aye, I feel in some way responsible for Kenton’s daughters, for their misfortune. If I had known of their plight before now, I would have tried to help, but I was in the south, busy with concerns of my own.”
“I think Briar is still set against you, my lord,” Ivo reminded him quietly. “She is stubborn, but I hope to turn her from that.”
A glimmer of laughter shone in Radulf’s face. “I can believe it, Ivo. You are a man who could turn the devil to sainthood.”
Ivo frowned. “I am no glib tongue, my lord.”
“Nay, ’tis your earnestness, your knightly qualities. You are a man who has a solid core of gold, and it shines through.”
Ivo was nonplussed. He did not see himself like that, far from it, and yet it was flattering for his lord to say so.