Heart of Vengeance

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  Back to the enemy’s lair.

  * * * * *

  Though Stephen kept his gaze steadily ahead, he knew even as he passed them the people at the tables on either side leaned toward each other and whispered behind raised hands.

  If he had arrived at the correct hour, then he wouldn’t be walking the tables to his appointed place halfway through the feast and causing such a spectacle. It was only because of Hubert Walter’s summons of the Great Council on the morrow that he bothered being here at all. While carefully keeping his shoulders squared and straight, he mentally shrugged. What did he care that they whispered about him? He was used to it.

  Stephen slid into the seat left clear for him and nodded stiffly to his dinner companions. Without exception, they stared at him as if a cat had suddenly sat down among a covey of pigeons to share their crumbs. Nonchalantly, he served himself several slices of meat a sweating page offered him and called for the page with the wine pitcher with a simple flick of his fingers. The lad scurried over and poured red liquid into the cup beside Stephen’s platter.

  Stephen began to eat.

  Around him, the others also returned hesitantly to their meals, with many quick glances in his direction.

  Irritation pricked him. You’re accustomed to this, he told himself, which was quite true. Since his argument with Richard some years ago, he had been welcome nowhere except in the houses of Count John’s men, especially those who sought to recruit the rejected black baron to their ranks. So why do I grow more angry by the minute over this?

  Perhaps he was just tired of it all. Tired of the endless days, the jousts and tournaments empty of purpose and the silly political intrigues. The pointlessness of it all. He could not change it. He’d had proof of that tonight. He had dared to ask for accommodation with the Baron de Guerre, one of Richard’s men who had returned to England. De Guerre’s refusal had been shockingly frank.

  Even after all this time, it appeared he was still very much persona non grata. The knowledge rankled.

  But Stephen was still a king’s man. That could not be taken from him. Even though he had been rejected by the king, his loyalty was not for sale. Yet he must suffer the company of Count John’s barons, with their petty conniving and whispered conversations.

  With a barely controlled movement, Stephen thrust his platter away. His appetite had disappeared and his patience with it. He sat back and sipped the wine, letting his gaze wander over the jovial hall. He enjoyed the discomfort he caused whenever certain people happened to catch his glance and realize he was staring at them. A cat among pigeons, indeed.

  At the opposite end of the top table where Stephen had been placed sat two women. One of them he recognized. The Lady Catherine Fitzwarren, an ambitious woman whom Stephen had met several times before. Her husband Hubert, Lord of Worcester, had fallen under John’s domain when, at the beginning of his reign, Richard had gifted John with land. Hubert was an obedient, unhappy liege to John.

  There was another woman sitting beside Catherine. Surprised, Stephen realized the woman was staring at him. Staring with open, curious frankness completely devoid of fear or furtiveness.

  Their gazes met and locked. Her eyes were riveting and drew attention in a way Stephen had never experienced before. Even Richard, who had a commanding, authoritative stare, did not pull one’s gaze the way this strange woman’s eyes did. Was this power part of her personality, as was Richard’s, or was it her eyes alone?

  Stephen had a sudden urge to see those eyes from a much closer distance.

  Then, obviously remembering her place, the woman dropped her gaze and let the edge of her veil shield the clear, fine features and the sweet line of her jaw as she turned back to her meal.

  Stephen continued to study her, courtesy be damned. She must not know who he was. It had been remarkably refreshing to have been studied with simple curiosity, instead of the fear and morbid wonder he had grown used to.

  Stephen addressed the man on his left. “My good man, you look to be a knowledgeable sort. Can you name the gentle lady at the end of the table? The one beside the Lady Catherine.”

  The man jumped like a startled rabbit. When he realized Stephen did not threaten him, he relaxed enough to look toward the end of the table. He squinted.

  “That be the Lady Isobel. She’s companion to Lady Catherine.”

  “Isobel?” Stephen repeated, astonished. “Where does she come from? Are you sure you have the name right?”

  The man turned to his dinner companion. They conferred in whispers and then the man turned back to Stephen. “Yes, it’s the Lady Isobel. Of Brittany. The Lady Catherine is sponsoring her return to the court. She’s been in the abbey at Fontrevault since she was a child.”

  “The daughter of Baron de Buerres of Brittany?”

  The man checked with his companion. “Yes,” he confirmed. “Isobel de Buerres of Brittany.”

  Stephen nodded his thanks. His gaze pulled back to the woman called Isobel of Brittany. So the woman who stared at him so fearlessly was a fellow countryman.

  Or was she? For Stephen had played with Isobel of Brittany as a child. He would have remembered such an astonishing pair of eyes as those, even if he remembered nothing else.

  If she was not Isobel of Brittany, who was she?

  Chapter Two

  It was only because Stephen watched her that he noticed her leave. The woman who called herself Isobel had stayed at her place throughout the meal. The guests had eaten well and drunk heartily. Relaxed, their attention had been caught by the performers in the middle of the hall.

  Toward the end of the mummers’ performance, she stood and slipped through the door that gave access to the kitchen.

  Stephen wondered why she had chosen that direction. He glanced around him. He was being studiously ignored. He was not a comfortable dinner companion, but it would work to his purpose now.

  He rose and walked around the edge of the hall so he would not cross anyone’s line of sight and draw attention to himself, then stepped out into the night. As he did, he saw the woman’s veil and the train of her blue dress as she stepped into the kitchen. He slowed his pace, giving her time to begin her mysterious business. At the kitchen door, he paused to eavesdrop.

  She was speaking English fluently and, as far as Stephen could tell, flawlessly. He understood a little of what she said. During the endless days kicking his heels in one great hall after the next, he’d picked up odd words and phrases here and there. But he could not speak it—his tongue would not wrap around the strange vowels. He listened now—she spoke of food, villagers, caution. She also gave instructions on the sharing of parcels.

  Stephen lifted the flap of the door curtain and peeked in. She stood at the massive worktable, surrounded by two or three kitchen staff, a cook and, judging by their clothing, peasants who had just stepped in off the street. They were country folk. Standing in the middle of them she appeared a butterfly among weeds. She was taller than all of them—a slim, supple figure clothed in a blue gown that, in the fashion of the court these days, clung to every womanly curve. Her breasts were full and the hips beneath the trim waist flared gently. They were framed by a girdle of silver links that dipped to meet at the front, several of them hanging free in the center. Her wimple and veil were of the finest white cloth, matching the delicate perfection of her skin.

  Isobel rapidly bundled food into hanks of cloth and tied them off. There were already ten or so bundles on the table and a collection of food to one side—cooked meat, dried fruits, preserved and fresh vegetables and bread.

  The cook asked a question in a fearful tone. Stephen followed almost all of Isobel’s response. “They will not miss it. They already have full bellies.” She added a few words he could not follow but judging by the way the villagers laughed, it was anything but complimentary. Reassured, the cook handed the bundles to the villagers.

  Stephen finally understood. Isobel was stealing food and giving it to the peasants.

  His surprise pro
pelled him up the steps and into the kitchen before he knew he’d decided to confront her. They were so immersed in their activities they failed to notice him. “This is a pretty picture,” he said, coming up behind them.

  The villagers and the kitchen staff squawked and scattered like threatened chickens. He expected Isobel to do the same, for he had caught her in a crime that carried heavy penalties.

  But she whirled with surprising speed and he was astonished, for she held a knife in her hand and hefted it in a way only an experienced knife-fighter used.

  Stephen’s instincts recognized danger long before his mind realized it. In response, his body dropped into the loose, easy-jointed posture from which a man could move quickly in any direction, all before the knowledge that she was about to attack registered in his mind.

  Then she surprised him yet again by dropping the knife on the table behind her. Where had it come from? Stephen wondered. She didn’t have it in her hands or on the table when he had approached.

  “My lord, you startled me.”

  “Obviously. Your activities speak of secrecy, if being startled prompts a reaction such as yours.”

  She glanced over his shoulder at the villagers and spoke a few words.

  “What did you say?” he demanded. Damn but she made him feel like an ignorant fool!

  “I told them to go about their business. This is none of their concern.”

  They filed through the storage room to the outer doorway on the other side. She had taken them safely out of his way. Out of the way…and with the food.

  Helena watched him calmly. Her eyes really were an exotic shade. The dark blue of the sky late of a summer eve and they had a black circle around them. Quite the most unusual eyes.

  “What do you intend to do with me, my lord?” she asked. She had only to lift her chin a little to look him squarely in the eye.

  A tightness grew in Stephen’s belly, the old pleasurable ache. This woman! She was like a fresh sea breeze, refreshing and restoring his soul, stirring his senses awake. “You speak French as a Breton does,” he said.

  “I am from Brittany.”

  “So I have been told.”

  His tone must have puzzled her, for her eyes narrowed. “My lord?”

  She was cautious, this one, and brave. She must know he had caught her fairly but she did not shrink from him or throw herself at his mercy.

  “Who are you?” Stephen demanded and cursed himself. He didn’t want the truth just yet. It was more interesting to wonder and let the infinite possibilities entertain him.

  “I am Isobel, daughter of William, Baron de Buerres—”

  “Of Brittany,” he finished for her.

  She nodded.

  “Why do you not fear me?”

  “Should I?”

  “I have caught you stealing food.”

  A shadow crossed her face too fast for him to determine what it was but he was left with a feeling of irritation. “My lord, the food goes to mouths far hungrier than ever the barons in the hall have experienced. I have taken very little. In truth, it will not be missed.”

  “Why do you do this?”

  “They are starving, my lord.”

  “They are always starving. It is a protest that never fails when one deals with them.”

  “It is a protest that never fails because it is a complaint that is never remedied.” Now the emotion in those wondrous eyes was clear. Anger. It vibrated through her.

  “Why do you care for these people so?” he asked, puzzled.

  Abruptly, her anger disappeared. It did not fall away, or ease. No, it was more like she had withdrawn it. In one short breath she had pummeled it into submission.

  Again, the question whispered in his mind. Who is this woman who speaks fluent English? Who cares for peasants and steals food for them? Who stares at me as if I was a normal man and not a god-forsaken freak? Who is this woman who challenges me with anger when she is the guilty one?

  She drew another breath. “You have yet to tell me what you intend to do with me, my lord.”

  “You have yet to tell me why you do not fear me.”

  “I fail to understand why I should.”

  Her indifference galled him. He stepped closer. There was barely a hand’s span between them. Stephen wanted to see something in her eyes that would tell him he had made an impression on her. This close, however, he smelled her scent—a light, feminine scent that brought to mind a memory-sense of the softness of a woman’s flesh, the taste of kisses, of lips against his.

  Stephen’s heart thudded and his body thrummed with tension. His thoughts shifted, scattered. He should step away from her but to do so would signal his weakness. “Everyone fears me,” he said, forcing himself to string the words together. They emerged harsh and dry. “Why do you not?”

  “Do you intend me harm?” She did not sway from him and she could not step back, for the table was at her back. Instead she tilted her chin so she could look him in the eye.

  “I could rip your heart from your body.”

  Her expression did not change but did he merely imagine the rapid rise of her chest beneath her bodice?

  “A boast most crusaders can fulfill,” she agreed, her voice low. Controlled. “And you have the mark of the crusader about you. Yet you have forgotten I am armed. Could you take my heart when I am ready to defend myself?”

  Stephen felt the prick of a blade at his side, at the exact place where she had only to push and the knife would slide between bones to the death point. Anger spurted but it was smothered by a fresh well of excitement. Long dormant feelings stirred in the dark reservoir of his soul, rolling over as if prodded from sleep. Their movement gave off a wave of energy.

  Stephen snatched at her wrist and caught it in his hand. “You would do well to fear me, my lady. Even if I choose not to take your heart, I could take all meaning from your life. All I have to do is call for the guards. They will arrest you. You will be put on trial and your punishment carried out.”

  “Call them.” Yes, her breath grew short. The full lips, shaded a delicate pink, parted a little.

  “They do not cut off your hand for stealing here. They hang you. Before you are quite dead they cut you down and stretch you between four galloping horses. And when you are sure you will die if you are given more pain, they slice you open and then spread your insides out for all to see.”

  Her face was a blank shield but she took another long breath. Drawing courage? “You do not frighten me, my lord. I have been threatened with worse and lived to tell the tale.”

  Of all the astonishing things she had said and done, this was the most surprising. She was a young woman, undoubtedly a maiden. What could she possibly know of the harsh life at which she hinted? Yet she was experienced with the knife. He would wager she had drawn blood with it at least once.

  Her skin was like alabaster and just as hard and cold. Everything he said had struck against that impenetrable shield and slid away, leaving no impression. Stephen yearned to crack that façade, to see her respond to him as a real person.

  He pulled her up against him, wrapped his arm around her waist and used his body to hold her fast. His left hand was occupied in keeping her knife hand away from him. He wanted her immobile so he could watch her face. He did not want to miss the smallest change in her expression.

  The impact of that slim, soft body against his was like the goad of a whip. Stephen’s whole body tightened in response. Even his heart seemed to pause to take stock. He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, to concentrate. Above all, he would not show this woman the effect she had upon him—not when she appeared so indifferent.

  “I know you are not the real Isobel,” he whispered, his voice thick.

  There! He saw the tiniest catch of her breath, a widening of the nostrils, as if she had gasped. Did her lips part in shock?

  “You jest, my lord.” Her voice did not waiver. “Of course I am Isobel. Who else would I be? The Lady Catherine sponsored my return to th
e court at my request. I wrote to her from the abbey at Fontrevault—”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know who you really are. Not yet. But you are not Isobel. Your accent is almost flawless but it isn’t perfect. I am a native of Brittany too, Lady Isobel. We played together as children. Do you remember me?”

  Now he saw emotion. It wasn’t quite fear. Not yet. “That was a long time ago,” she countered.

  “Not long enough for me to forget eyes like yours. You are not Isobel. All that remains to be answered is who you really are and why you are masquerading as a Norman noblewoman.”

  The telltale quiver of her jawbone at the edge of her wimple betrayed her. “You have no proof. I have references, letters bearing witness—”

  “I am sure they are all quite genuine too. I don’t know who you are but I do know you would be thorough in that regard.”

  “I am Isobel of Brittany.”

  “You are a liar and a thief.”

  “One who had your life at the end of her knife a short while ago and let you live.”

  “Ah, yes, that…” Stephen gave her wrist a strong wrench and the knife fell from her useless fingers. He plucked it from midair with the same hand. He reached under the back of her veil with the other to grasp the two thick braids and pulled her head back, exposing her chin. He rested the knifepoint against her throat and pushed back the fine material of the wimple. Her throat beneath felt slim and warm. “Shall I save you from the hangman’s noose?” he whispered. “One quick thrust is all that is necessary.”

  The woman’s heart thundered. Stephen felt the reverberations against his body, yet she spoke calmly. “Call the guards. I would rather take my risk with the hangman.”

  Who is this woman? he wondered yet again. The need to know her real identity was almost an ache in him. “Have you really faced a fate so terrible you do not fear quartering?” he asked.

  Her gaze dropped and Stephen guessed what she was thinking.