Heart of Vengeance

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  Copyright © Tracy Cooper-Posey

  Smashwords Edition

  About Heart of Vengeance

  A woman in search of revenge…. An honorable man with a dark past.

  It is 1197, and King Richard, known as the “Lionhearted,” is fighting France while Prince John hatches his own plans back home.

  To find her father’s killer, Helena of York must pose as a Norman in the great halls of Richard’s England. Her only desire is to kill the man who destroyed her father and her future. Should she be unmasked, her life will be forfeit.

  Stephen, Count of Dinan, once Richard’s friend and trusted knight, is outcast for reasons shrouded in mystery. Known as the “Black Baron,” he is friendless in a glittering world he despises. His only goal is to restore his honor and once again serve his king.

  Stephen’s suspicions draw him into Helena’s web of deceit, and the two outsiders find themselves tangled in a greater conspiracy that threatens the throne of England itself, while their embattled hearts grapple with a far greater challenge.

  Heart of Vengeance is part of the Jewels of Tomorrow series.

  Praise for Heart of Vengeance

  Finalist, Best Medieval Historical Romance – Romantic Times

  CAPA Nomination for Best Historical Romance

  Night Owl Reviews Reviewers’ Top Pick

  Historical romance at its best. With perfect amounts of suspense, intrigue and passion the novel is simply impossible to put down. Night Owl Reviews

  I’m convinced the author’s beautiful story, coupled with historical accuracies intertwined in such a way, you couldn’t possibly debate its winning outcome. Love Romance Passion

  Exceptionally well written, the reader feels they have walked straight in to the forest and castles which are richly detailed throughout the story. Single Titles.

  Finally, another author not afraid to include historic details in her historical romance. I highly recommend this book to anyone that loves rich details, and a wonderful story that will pull you into the time period. Kristi Ahlers, Top 1000 reviewer

  With a myriad of secondary characters ranging from King Richard to Robin Hood, Heart of Vengeance captures the reader from the start. Romance Reviews Today

  Part I

  Oxford

  Chapter One

  Oxford, England, December 6, 1197

  Helena knew she took an enormous risk. She had lived and breathed caution for well over a year now but still took painstaking care as she hurried through the busy streets. She must not be caught abroad at this late hour, when her proper place was at Lady Catherine’s side.

  Every shout, every hail, every approaching horse startled her and set her blood churning. Every third step produced another fright. She had gone no more than three streets from the manor, yet her mouth was thick with the coppery taste of fear. Her head pounded with it.

  All of Oxford was in an uproar. Hubert Walter, the King’s Chief Justiciar, had returned from Normandy and called a meeting of the Great Council. Like ants returning to the nest, the barons King Richard had left in England were converging on the town.

  Darkness had fallen and still they arrived in steady numbers. Their entourages clattered up the narrow streets. Their noisy progress echoed and bounced off house and shop walls, giving Helena plenty of warning.

  She took great care not to be seen. If she were discovered outside the manor walls it would raise questions and suspicions about her. She could not afford an investigation into her activities.

  The risk was outweighed by the potential reward. The thought of that reward kept her moving steadily along the streets, made her step back out onto the road after each group of horses had passed.

  Ahead she saw a neat, two-storey stone building that fitted the description she had been given. Aaron the Jew’s house. A dim light flickered in the upper windows. The lower windows were dark.

  Helena pulled her cloak around her tightly and stepped across the street. With a last, quick check over her shoulder, she tapped at the door.

  Instantly, the door opened. A hand appeared around the edge and beckoned her inside. The owner of the hand was too shy—or too cautious—to show himself in full. She slipped inside, grateful to be off the streets and out of the public gaze. The evening air had been cool, but now warmth fanned her cheeks. A banked fire emitted a dull, red glow.

  “A moment, my lady,” came a murmur.

  She heard the door being shut and the bar lowered. For a moment she questioned the wisdom of allowing herself to be locked inside a room with strangers. Her blood pounded again. This folly capped her foolishness of traipsing the streets of Oxford and her better sense screamed a silent alarm.

  A single fact kept Helena standing where she was. The note that had led her here had been written by a most reliable man. The most reliable man Helena knew. She trusted him not to lead her astray.

  A flame flared briefly, then settled. A tallow had been lit. A long, sorrowful-looking face stared at her over the flame. Dark eyes and a full, long beard. Then he smiled, showing good white teeth and the impression of sorrow fled. “My lady, you are punctual.”

  Relief dispersed the worst of her fear. He had expected her, as had been arranged. “You are Aaron the Jew?”

  “And you are the Lady—”

  “No!” She held up her hand, silencing him. “There is no need for my name to be spoken. You know I am the one you expected for I have come at the appointed time.”

  He nodded, face grave once more. “Yes, you are correct. These precautions are necessary.”

  “I go by the name of Isobel.”

  “Isobel.” He inclined his head.

  “You have information about the Earl of Wessex?”

  “Not I. Another knows a thing about this.”

  “He is here?”

  “Yes, I am sheltering him for now. It is a favor, you understand?” Aaron’s accent created an odd inflexion in the words. “For him and for the man he serves.”

  “The king, you mean. The man he serves is the king.”

  He nodded. “We share that allegiance to the crown, he and I,” he explained.

  “And where is this man you shelter?”

  “Right ’ere, milady,” came a graveled voice by her shoulder.

  Helena whirled, fright spearing through her. She had failed to check behind her and cursed. She reached for her belt knife, plucked it quickly and raised it. The blade glinted in the poor light of the tallow.

  The second man was a stranger. By his dress and aroma, she judged him to be a serf. He raised his hands when he saw the knife. “I mean you no ’arm!” His teeth were black in the light.

  Helena lowered the knife, breathing hard. “Then you should not have approached me from behind.” She spoke harshly to disguise any tremble in her voice.

  The man lowered his eyes. “I am sorry, milady. I am not used to the ways of Normans.”

  She studied him more closely and noticed the tattered, mud-splattered clothes and the smell of animals and wood smoke about him. It spoke of nights spent in dubious shelter and days of hard travel. “You have run away from your village.”

  A brief flicker of fear passed across his face.

  “I do not intend to accuse you, or see you returned to your place,” she assured him. “What is your name?”

  He hesitated and then muttered, “Ralf.”

  “Tell me what you know, Ralf. Why did Lord Robert send you here?”

  “Robin said you were looking for anyone who knew about the death of the Earl of Wessex.”

  “And you know of this man’s death?”

  He shook his head. “Not I. But a man from my village, ’e spoke of it.”

  “Spoke of it?” Disappointment circled through her.
Robert’s note had stressed the importance of this serf’s information. Surely Robert would not have had her risk contact with the Jew and a runaway serf on gossip that had passed through at least two mouths?

  Ralf nodded. “’E told me the story, what ’e’d seen that night.”

  “Seen?” Helena repeated sharply and saw Aaron’s head lift, his attention pricked. “What did he see?”

  “’E saw his lordship—the earl, that is, and the others in the field. Standing around in a circle.”

  Helena’s heart beat hard again. It was not fear but dawning excitement that drove it. This was the closest she had come to proving the Earl of Wessex hadn’t died of exposure in a lonely field. This was an indication there had been others there, just as she had always maintained. “He saw the earl die?” she asked the man.

  “’E said ’e saw murder being done.”

  Helena drew in a sharp breath. “He said that? Murder?”

  “Aye.”

  “Who was there? Who was standing in that circle?”

  Ralf shrugged. “‘E didn’t say, m’lady.”

  “What did he say? Precisely?” Her excitement added an unintentional snap to her voice.

  Ralf shrugged, moving uneasily. “I just came ’ere because ’is lordship said I should. ’E didn’t say anything about ’aving ta remember things.”

  “Please try to remember,” Helena coaxed him. “I ask not just for my sake. A whole village struggles under the burden of this earl’s death.”

  “The mulct?” Ralf asked.

  “Yes, the fine for the murder of a Norman by an undisclosed Saxon.”

  Ralf snorted. “The earl wasn’t Norman!”

  “Exactly. Yet the village whose field he was found in was fined.”

  “Aye and I reckon ’is murderers weren’t Saxon, neither. Most barons are Norman.”

  “They were barons?”

  “That’s what the man told me.”

  Helena took a deep breath, suppressing the new surge of excitement. She must keep a clear head. Barons. This was confirmation of what she had always suspected and had claimed too, in carefully chosen company. “Who is this man you speak of?” she asked, trying to gentle her voice.

  But Ralf’s expression closed over. A mute, mulish look settled on his face. Helena knew from hard experience she would gain nothing more from him.

  “Please,” she added gently.

  Aaron spoke for the first time during the interview. “This villager you speak of. He is a wanted man, yes?”

  A brief surprise, followed by a flicker of fear, crossed Ralf’s face. He had no experience in hiding feelings. The sullen silence was merely a learned response, a defense against over-demanding lords.

  “He is wanted for poaching,” Helena guessed.

  Ralf’s gaze dropped.

  “I am only interested in talking to him, to find out more about the earl’s death,” Helena assured him. “Even if he did not know the barons, there would have been shields and devices I might recognize, if only I am given the chance to talk to him.”

  Ralf shook his head. “My lady, Normans like you speak of duty but you act for your own interests.”

  Normans like you. Helena longed to cry out the truth but that would weaken the only defense she had—secrecy. Even if she trusted Ralf not to betray her, it would still be one more person who knew the truth. Every extra person who shared her secret added to the risk of the truth slipping out. She knew, better than many men, how quickly a man would betray even his own king if the incentive was strong enough.

  Aaron stirred. “The Lady Isobel can be trusted in all things. Didn’t Sir Robert direct you to her? Would he guide you awry?”

  “I trust Robin,” Ralf said reluctantly.

  “Did he not tell you to cooperate with the lady?”

  “Aye but the name she wants belongs to someone else. It’s not my place to give it away.”

  “Would you tell me the name of your village then? That, at least, is yours to share.”

  “I’ll share it willingly but it won’t do you much good, milady. ’E’s gone by now.”

  “Then we are truly at an impasse,” Helena said with a sigh.

  “You are done with me then?” Ralf asked hopefully.

  Helena nodded. “I am grateful to you for telling me what you could, Ralf. Thank you.”

  “I did as Robin asked.” He reached inside his jerkin and pulled out a piece of parchment. “’E said to give you this. It says you’re to give me two marks.”

  Helena took the roughly folded note and opened it. It was dirty from handling and the parchment was cracked along the fold lines but Robert’s writing was clear enough.

  “Could you lift the light a little?” Helena murmured. Aaron raised the tallow so its light fell on the page.

  “My Lady Helena,” it began. Helena frowned. Although Ralf could not read, it was possible for the note to fall into the hands of more literate people. “Pay Ralf the two marks I promised him. He will need it to reach Normandy, where I have arranged shelter for him. Do not concern yourself with extracting Ralf’s companion’s name, for I have already begun a search for the man. I sent Ralf to you as an inducement. You must arrange to travel to York. You will achieve nothing more of your quest until you do.” The signature below was an aristocratic flourish. Loxley.

  You must arrange to travel to York. Fulfilling that task was harder than the scribing of it. Helena must first think of an excuse and then convince the Lady Catherine of the value of going to York, to say nothing of finding a way to influence Lady Catherine’s husband.

  Ralf cleared his throat and Helena realized both he and Aaron waited for her to finish reading the note. She had been staring sightlessly at it while her mind raced.

  Helena reached for her purse and removed two marks. Ralf’s dirty fingers curled around them quickly when she placed them in his open hand. “Go carefully, Ralf,” she told him. “This is a rich trove for a man who cannot fend for himself the way a knight or baron could.”

  “I will.”

  “Go back upstairs,” Aaron told him. “I will let Lady Isobel out first. You may leave when it is fully dark.”

  “The town gates will be shut,” Helena pointed out.

  “Just as they were when Ralf found his way here,” Aaron told her with gentle tact.

  Helena smiled ruefully. “You must forgive my inquisitiveness.”

  Aaron waved his hand, dismissing her apology. “Go back upstairs, Ralf,” he told him. “I wish to talk to the lady before she leaves.”

  Ralf nodded and moved back across the room to the stairs, climbed them to the second floor and disappeared into the shadows candlelight could not dismiss.

  Aaron moved toward the door. “Will you be able to find Ralf’s man?” he asked.

  Helena thought of Robert’s note. “If there is a way to find him, he will be found.” She pulled her hood up again and wrapped her cloak around her tightly, preparing to step out into the night.

  Aaron opened the door but as Helena prepared to enter the street, she was halted by an arm thrust in front of her.

  “Wait,” he said shortly but his word was almost lost in the loud clatter of many horses and the rhythmic clash of armor and weaponry. A large host cantered along the street. Helena stepped back quickly, for they took up the entire width of the street.

  She looked for a shield and identifying colors, for all the riders wore the new full visors. Her gaze was drawn to a rider near the front of the pack. He sat upon a tall, black destrier and carried a shield with a griffin rampant and inversed crowns on a black background. That was all she saw before the party swept past her.

  “Do you recognize the shield?” she asked Aaron.

  “Indeed. The griffin is very distinctive. That is Stephen, Count of Dinan, Earl of Northumbria.”

  “The black baron?”

  “Yes, that is he.” Aaron watched the horses traveling up the street and shook his head. “That man is marked for a miserable future.”
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  “He did wrong by the king,” Helena said stiffly.

  Aaron glanced at her and Helena recognized with a little shock that his expression held pity. “Perhaps he did do wrong but Richard is not above holding that small wrong over Stephen for as long as it suits him.”

  Helena felt her cheeks burn from mortification at being corrected by this man. He had less access to the royal court and the barons than she, yet seemed to understand more. Indignant irritation prickled her. “Who are you to speak of the king’s faults in this way?”

  “Me? I am no one, but my people have enjoyed the king’s protection for many years now. His protection failed us once. It could always fail again. It is prudent to understand the man who shields us.”

  Helena nodded. Yes, it made sense to know Richard well. The failure that Aaron spoke of had resulted in the murder of hundreds of Jews by mobs rampaging the length of England.

  “You are seeking to learn more about your father, are you not?” Aaron asked.

  Helena’s heart jumped and her pulse with it. “How did you know the Earl of Wessex was my father?”

  Aaron spread his hands. “You are passionate in your search for answers. Such devotion is not found in a servant and you are too young to be a wife who cares enough to learn the truth.”

  “You knew my father?”

  “Yes, I knew your father. He came to me on matters of money sometimes. A kindly man. A good man. I wish you well in your quest, my lady.”

  “Thank you.”

  He looked out onto the street. “It is safe now.”

  Helena stepped into the night air and hurried in the same direction as the Count of Dinan’s group.

  Full dark shrouded all. The street was illuminated only by the light from small windows of the houses on either side. There were many pockets of darkness, which Helena used to her advantage on the way back to the grand townhouse where she was lodged. Their host, Peter de Lancey, knight, baron and Count John’s man, entertained a collection of King Richard’s political opponents at a feast for Saint Nicholas’ Day. That collection included her mistress and sponsor, Lady Catherine Fitzwarren.