by Sara Bennett
Radulf laughed at the expression on his face. “Do not let it go to your head, Ivo. And tell your songstress that I am willing to help her, when she asks. Despite legend, I am no monster.”
“I know that, my lord.”
“Do you love her?”
Ivo didn’t know what to say. There was an attraction between them, a desperate, burning need, and she felt it as much as he. But was that love? Ivo did not know, and nor did he want to. He had sworn never to love a woman again, for her own sake as much as his.
Radulf was amused by his silence. Ivo stiffened, annoyed that he was the object of his lord’s mirth.
“Love,” Radulf spoke musingly, gazing down at the ring on his finger. “It is the cause of so many of our woes, and yet without it…Without Lily, I would as soon be dead.”
His frankness made Ivo uncomfortable. “You miss her,” he said, when it seemed Radulf would say no more.
Radulf looked up, and there was more emotion in his eyes than Ivo had ever seen. But all he said was, “Aye, I miss her.”
Chapter 10
The day looked as bleak as the one before. Ivo glared at the weather as if he thought his displeasure might change it. He was tired and his head ached, and the only sleep he had had was when he sat down to take off his boots and dozed off on a bench by the fire. When he finally woke, stiff and disoriented, it was already dawn. He had grabbed a crust and swallowed a mug of ale, and hurried back to his horse.
Briar.
She was all he could think of. She had taken possession of his mind. His stupidity was beyond bearing. Had he not learned he was not suited to matters of the heart? How could he care for her? Emotional entanglements were not for him. Best he remember that now, before it was too late—for them both.
Smoke drifted from the roof of the cottage, and puddles lay everywhere. Ivo dismounted and strode to the door, thudding his fist against the wood. Sweyn’s muffled voice called to ask who was there, and when Ivo answered, the door was swiftly opened.
Inside, the air was thick with the smell of herbs.
Mary was up, looking flushed and busy, while Briar stirred something bubbling in a pot resting over the coals. It was from this brew that the strong smell of herbs came, and it looked singularly unappetizing to Ivo. Briar must have felt the same, for her face was white and pinched, her lips pressed hard together.
Stubborn. Determined.
She shot him a sideways look and caught his smile, but didn’t return it. She simply turned back to her pot and grimly continued to stir.
Ivo met Sweyn’s eyes and raised his brow. In unspoken agreement, the two men moved into a corner and lowered their voices.
“She is sick,” the Dane murmured. “She says she will be better when she eats that mess in the pot.”
That was debatable, thought Ivo. “Everything quiet?” he asked instead.
“Nothing to be heard or seen.”
Ivo nodded. “I am certain last night’s attackers were fixed on us, not the women. Even if their leader was not Miles, I do not see the point in threatening Briar or Mary.”
Puzzled, Sweyn tilted his head to one side. “Did you ever imagine it otherwise? Why would Mary and Briar be in danger from those men?”
“They are Kenton’s daughters.”
And yet, he thought, despite their illustrious past, it still made no sense that they should be in danger. For what reason? The past was just that. They were paupers now, they had nothing to steal, their deaths would solve nothing. Unless…could the attack have something to do with the murder of Anna? Was that murky pond stirring, giving up its secrets?
Sweyn cleared his throat.
Ivo glanced up and knew that before he could think further on the matter, he had some explaining to do. His friend was staring at him hard.
“Lord Kenton’s daughters?” Sweyn repeated. “Share this with me, Ivo, and do it right fast!”
But Sweyn’s expression soon turned to bemusement as Ivo quickly explained the entire story. By the time he had finished, Sweyn’s blue eyes held both sorrow and resignation.
“They are the daughters of Lord Kenton,” he repeated, as if to set the fact in his mind. Ivo found he could read his friend’s thoughts in his face easily enough. She is not for me, then. Even in her present state, she is too high for the likes of me.
Well, Sweyn must fight his own demons; Ivo would not make up his mind for him.
“I still feel a need to guard these ladies, Sweyn,” he said quietly, “however great they may once have been. What say you?”
Sweyn nodded, slowly, as if resigned. “Aye, Ivo, I too feel a need to guard the ladies.”
“Good.”
Sweyn shook himself, his eyes narrowing. “Did you speak to Radulf about the attack last night? About Miles?”
“Nay, not yet.”
“Why in Odin’s name not, Ivo? He needs to know.”
Ivo looked bleak. “I will tell him, ’tis just…I want to make certain first ’twas no random attack. And nothing to do with Briar and Mary.”
Sweyn heaved a sigh. “You want to face him by yourself,” he said, with a touch of irritation unusual for him. “He means to kill you this time. If you do not mean to kill him, then he has the advantage.”
“I know.”
But did he? And could he, when the moment came, actually destroy a man who was of his own blood? His own brother?
Briar served up the mess from the pot, and handed a bowl to Mary, who began delicately to eat. Catching the horrified eyes of the two men, Briar smiled as brightly as she was able and filled two more bowls, holding them out.
For a moment neither of them moved, and then Sweyn swallowed audibly and edged forward to take his portion from her. Ivo managed a faint smile as he reached for his bowl. “Thank you, demoiselle, I am grateful,” he said with his usual knightly courtesy. Then he just stood there with the bowl in his hand.
“Eat it, sir.” Mary was watching him, wry amusement in her eyes. She was, thought Briar, looking much better this morning. The swooning fit had passed, and Mary was full of life again. Or mayhap, ’twas Sweyn spending the night in the dwelling with them that had something to do with that.
Briar still did not believe the handsome, fair-headed mercenary was good enough for her sister, but after last night, seeing his dedication to protecting them, and his obvious fondness for her sister, she had thawed toward him.
“Do you sing again tonight?” Ivo asked, distracting her.
Mary nodded, giving him a shy smile.
“Lord Shelborne has offered us a generous fee,” Briar said, forcing down a mouthful of her breakfast. “His daughter and her new husband have returned from London, and he wishes to greet them with pomp.”
She chewed and swallowed another mouthful, then scooped up the next spoonful and stuck it into her mouth. Her cheeks bulged. She could feel the blood leaving her face, and suspected by the interest showing in Ivo’s eyes that she had turned pale green. She swallowed her mouthful and started on the next, sure that if she ignored it long enough, the feeling would go away.
Her throat closed over. The mouthfuls she had already forced down changed course, and started to make their way up. With a despairing groan, Briar made a dash for the bucket in the corner. Everything she had eaten came back up, and she was utterly powerless to stop it.
Mary made as if to go to her, but Ivo caught her arm and shook his head, and she subsided. Sweyn set his own bowl thankfully aside. It was Ivo himself who crossed to the dejected form.
Briar had stopped retching at last, and seemed too exhausted to do more than sit with her head in her arms. Gently, Ivo lifted her up from the floor. Her arms fell limply to her sides, and he saw the tears running down her white cheeks. Her mouth was trembling with the effort it was taking not to cry, not in front of him. Ivo’s heart ached for her, his brave, beautiful Briar.
“Take this,” Mary murmured, and handed him a warm, damp cloth.
Ivo smiled his thanks, and sat down, cradling the w
oman in his arms. She kept her eyes tight shut, refusing to look at him while he bathed her face as he had done once before. Gently, thoroughly. After a little time, her tears stopped running and she was quiet, acquiescent against him and close to sleep.
“You will not sing this even, demoiselle,” he murmured the order, and set his lips to her brow.
It was as if he had stuck a pin into her.
She stiffened, her eyes shot open, their color almost completely green, and she glared up at him.
“I will sing!” she declared. “Leave me be, Ivo de Vessey. I will sing. ’Tis nothing to you. You cannot tell me what I can and cannot do.”
She struggled up, shaking herself free of his arms, and stalked to the other side of the room. Ivo watched her in amazement, her feet bare beneath the ragged hem of her gown, her hands clenched into fists at her sides as she fought him with every fiber of her being. If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he would never have believed her to have been prostrate with illness only moments before.
Jesu, she was magnificent! Ivo tried very hard not to grin, but he must have given himself away, because she let out a faint, strangled scream.
“Do not patronize me, de Vessey. You are not worthy, and we both know it.”
Ivo’s amusement fled. He squeezed his fist about the cloth he had used to cool her face, and tossed it aside. “Your insults grow old,” he said, and stood up. “You need to think of new ones, Briar, if you are to hold my attention.”
“’Tis not a matter of thinking up insults—there are so many, I hardly know where to start.”
With an impatient shrug, Ivo left her to her sister’s care, and beckoned Sweyn outside.
Sweyn grinned. “I’ll say it again. She is a shrew, my friend. You will have your hands full if you decide on her.”
Ivo glanced sideways at him. “Even if I dared to think such thoughts, what use would the daughter of a baron have for a disgraced knight? She is right, I am unworthy of her.”
Sweyn laughed. “Better to ask yourself how the outcast daughter of a traitor can make herself worthy of you, Ivo.”
Ivo smiled at last, and some of his anger drained from him. “And what of you? If I am worthy, then so are you, my friend.”
But Sweyn shook his head, and the bleak look in his amiable blue eyes returned. “Nay, Ivo. You are wellborn, a knight…aye, yes you are. What am I? The mercenary son of a Danish farmer. Not even a Viking raider, but a tiller of the soil.”
“The son of a farmer? Who would think it? Do you ever feel the urge to go back to the soil? Mayhap Mary can help you sow your seed.”
He took off for his horse with speed, but not before Sweyn had struck him a solid and painful blow on his shoulder.
“You are very foolish and very stubborn, Briar. But then so you always were.”
Jocelyn stood before her, hands on hips, but there was worry in her blue eyes. Mary had gone to help with the hall—there were never enough hands. The girl seemed full to brimming with energy since Sweyn had stayed with them, as if her thoughts could not be still.
The sickness of this morning had passed again and, although tired, Briar had passed an uneventful day. It was only now, as darkness fell, that her stomach had begun to roil again. As if in sheer bloody-mindedness it sought to upset her plans for the evening. Lord Shelborne had offered them more money than they had yet had for any one performance, and Briar was determined to have it.
“Mayhap Lord Shelborne has discovered who we really are,” Briar said now, amidst the bustle of Jocelyn’s kitchen. “Mayhap he wants to make amends for the past.”
“What past?” Jocelyn retorted, frowning.
Briar chose her words with care. “I have heard a rumor that Lord Shelborne was our stepmother Anna’s lover.”
Jocelyn seemed to freeze, the curious expression in her eyes slowly draining away. Her voice sounded strange. “Her lover? Lord Shelborne?”
“Aye,” Briar replied, watching her doubtfully. “And Lord Fitzmorton. And others. Did you not know this, sister? Did you not know how many others, apart from Lord Radulf, our stepmother was merrily welcoming into her bed?”
Slowly, as if she were in a daze, Jocelyn turned to the table. Her hands shook as she put the finishing touches to a songbird pie, and Briar had the odd feeling she was just fiddling with the elaborate pastry decorations to gain time.
“I wondered.” She spoke at last. “When I first saw her, I thought her beautiful, and afterward I heard ’twas all skin deep, and she had never been faithful in her life. I hoped ’twas nothing more than talk, for our father’s sake. He was happy, and so blind with love for her—”
“Why did you never tell me!”
Jocelyn flinched at the accusation. “I had no proof, and it seemed unnecessarily cruel to speak of such things.”
“I have believed all this time that Lord Radulf was the one who sent her to her death.”
“He probably was. I can tell you this, Briar, that of them all, Radulf was the one she cared about. She wanted him to come to her, and when he wouldn’t she was furious with him.”
Briar shook her head, feeling abandoned and adrift. “You should have told me. Now ’tis too late.”
“Why too late?” Jocelyn retorted, a strange bitterness flavoring her words. “I thought you were determined to revenge our father, right the wrongs? Once you could talk of nothing else. What has changed now?”
Briar opened her mouth to defend herself, and promptly burst into tears.
Jocelyn made a wordless cry and moved to comfort, but Briar pulled away. Furiously, she dashed at her cheeks, as if to scrub away the evidence of her weakness before it fell.
“What in God’s name is wrong with me!” she wailed. “I am sick, I am well, I am tired, I cry, I think foolish thoughts that I never thought before! Jesu, I beg you, heal me or let me die!”
Jocelyn had stopped to stare at Briar, and now her eyes widened. Purposefully, she grasped her sister’s shoulders in hard, hurting hands, forcing her to look up. Even Jocelyn’s lips were white, Briar thought in amazement. What had she said? What was wrong?
“When did you have your last flux, Briar?”
Briar moved to shake off that cruel grip, and then she froze. Last flux? She had not even thought of such a thing. She had been too busy trying to survive and being angry at Ivo de Vessey…Ivo! The night they had spent together under this very roof, his seed spilling into her, finding fertile ground in her womb…
“No.” The word stuck in her throat. She shook her head. Her vision wobbled and darkened.
“Aye,” Jocelyn retorted grimly. “How long ago was it? Briar?”
Briar pulled herself up, swallowing past the shock and disbelief. “Near to three moons. ’Tis late October now.”
“Then you are with child.”
The idea was too big, too overwhelming for her to take in. A child. Ivo’s child. Her fierce and brooding knight, a father? Briar, a mother? Wild emotions flooded her, each clamoring for their turn, until she put her head in her hands and cried, “Enough!”
Silence, blessed silence.
Jocelyn’s fingers were gentle on her hair, smoothing the tumbled locks, comforting her. But Briar knew in her heart her sister could not really help her; she was alone in this. Alone…
“There is no need to worry yet,” Jocelyn said carefully. “Three moons is not long. Mayhap it has not taken root properly. You will lose it as easily as it was gained.”
Did she want that? Briar struggled to make sense of her feelings.
“I cannot talk of this now,” her muffled voice was shaky. “I have to sing. I know you mean well, Jocelyn, but I cannot speak of this now.”
Jocelyn nodded and stepped back. “Very well, Briar. But you will need to speak of it, and soon. You can not will this away by ignoring it.”
Why not? Briar thought hysterically. Why can I not just wish it away? She was carrying the child of her disgraced knight. Aye, the daughter of a traitor and a disgraced knight! What sort o
f parents would they make for a babe?
And how could they be parents, when they were but passing strangers, brought together by a mistake. He would go south again, when Lord Radulf was finished killing rebels, and she would remain in York. Alone.
I have my sisters. They will help me.
But the voice in her head sounded forlorn, afraid, desperate.
She was carrying Ivo de Vessey’s child, and despite his claim that he wanted her, it was doubtful he planned to settle down and play at husband and father. Would he?
The waiting stillness in her heart gave her no reply.
Ivo watched as Briar climbed up to the dais and seated herself on her stool. She looked white but composed. She clasped her hands in her lap, and straightened her shoulders. There was courage in every line of her. Even at a moment like this, when every face turned to her was welcoming and anticipatory, she was prepared to fight.
Aye, he admired her. While she was cutting at him with her sharp tongue, he admired her. Besides, she did not mean to hurt him—the attack was a defense, he knew that. She was frightened and confused, so she lashed out. And the target she chose was one who she knew would never hurt her, upon whose tough hide her barbs would fall harmlessly.
Because he would never hurt her intentionally. Ivo knew it deep, deep in his soul. He would never hurt her, and he would fight anyone else who dared to try.
By now Mary had also settled herself, the harp ready. The two women conferred briefly. Then Briar turned back to her audience. Her eyes searched the expectant faces, discarding each one, looking for someone in particular. Until she found him.
Their gazes held, locked.
Ivo felt the power of it.
What was it in her expression that struck him to the core? He sensed her wildness, her despair. Her need of him. It shimmered between them.
Shocked, Ivo took a blind step forward.
But it was too late. She had begun her song. He stopped, hesitant, suddenly uncertain whether he had really seen such naked anguish in her beautiful, slanting eyes. He stood and listened, while her husky voice and poignant words tore at his heart. Ivo moved to lean back against the wall, his legs unable to hold him and with a deep breath tried to prepare himself for the emotional ride ahead.