Heart of Vengeance

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  “Or is it,” he added, “you feel you have more opportunity to escape your fate between now and your appointed hour at the gallows?”

  Her gaze met his quickly and then slid away again.

  “You’ve courage, my lady,” he told her gently. Then, fighting against every male instinct, Stephen forced himself to let her go and stepped back.

  The woman who called herself Isobel straightened slowly, rubbing her wrist and watched him warily.

  He dropped the knife to the tabletop where it landed point first, quivering. “I suggest you clear away the evidence of your activities,” he said and pointed to the remains of the food on the table.

  “You are not having me arrested?”

  “It is of no consequence to me if Prince John’s man is deprived of his food. He has much of it. Enough to feed a less than welcome guest.” The last emerged with a bitterness he hadn’t suspected he held.

  Isobel frowned. “We haven’t been properly introduced. Your name, my lord?”

  “As you refuse to tell me yours, a proper exchange of names is out of the question, isn’t it?”

  “I have told you my name.”

  “Isobel of the enchanting eyes, yes.” He swept into a short bow. “Stephen of Dinan at your service, my lady.”

  “Stephen? Count of Dinan?” The emotion he had wanted to produce in her appeared at last. Alarm and horror washed over her. Isobel’s hand crept, not to her mouth but to her heart. “You are the black baron.” It was a whispered confirmation.

  Bone-deep weariness seeped through him. He had brought this upon himself, this unhappy flood of fear in her face. He had enjoyed the few moments when she had looked at him as an equal—no, as less than an equal. For a while she had actually found him a petty annoyance. Because he had wanted to make an impression on her, his actions had reduced her to the same wariness he saw in every face around him. Ah, the consequences of following one’s wants.

  “Yes, I am the dreaded black baron,” he admitted dryly.

  Isobel tugged her knife out of the table, slipped it into a small loop in her girdle and stood straight and tall in front of him. “You must forgive me, my lord. I mistook you for one of the count’s men. Perhaps it would be best if I leave.”

  “Perhaps it would be best,” he agreed.

  She swept past him, heading for the door.

  “Would you tell me your name?” he asked her. “What do I call you?”

  “You will never again need a name by which to call me.” Isobel turned back to face him. “My lord, you have treated me with kindness and I would give you my real name if I could. But I cannot.”

  “Why?”

  “Knowing who I am would be dangerous for you.”

  “For me?” He almost laughed. “I think you and I bestow the word ‘danger’ upon different things.”

  “Perhaps. I will have to be the judge of that, for as you have preserved my life this night, I will do the same for you.” She inclined her head, the acknowledgment of a peer. “Good night, my Lord Dinan.” And with a graceful sweep of her train, she left.

  Chapter Three

  Helena stepped into the hall. The blaze of light, the music and conversations jolted her thoughts from their hectic, frightened circle. How had she arrived here? She didn’t remember walking back to the hall.

  She made her way to her place by Lady Catherine, sat and clutched her goblet. It was full of mulled wine and still quite warm—had she only been gone such a small time?—and the warmth seeped into her hands. She realized she was shivering.

  “Are you well, Isobel?” Catherine asked. “You are quite pale.”

  “I am cold.”

  “Drink,” Catherine said. “The wine is excellent, which is a pleasant change from the meal.” The last she said in an undertone so none of the other diners heard her. That was typical of Catherine, who strove to show only her most pleasant demeanor, especially to the barons.

  While Catherine returned to her conversation with her husband, Helena obediently took a sip of her wine. It tasted thick, hot and unpalatable to her. She swallowed it with difficulty.

  Her gaze was drawn by movement at the back of the table. She focused on the Count of Dinan as he returned to his place. He really was a black baron, for not only did he wear black clothes, his hair was black and his eyes were all black too. She had noticed, when he leaned over her, the black eyes were bordered with thick, long lashes that would better suit a woman, yet they did not lend him an effeminate air. His square, determined jaw, his size, the broad shoulders and the way he carried himself, with the air of a restless soldier, overwhelmed any such graceful notes about him.

  Helena shivered again. In those moments when he had held her against him, she had known he merely secured her body, holding her captive with one arm to leave the other free to deal with her knife hand. It was a typical fighting move, but held up against him, she had felt the iron-hard body beneath the velvet and wool robes and his size and mass had been overwhelming. He had bent her back, exposing her throat and rather than worry about the knife point so close to her mortal pulse, she had instead wondered if he might press his lips to her neck. She had felt such a weakness in her knees!

  This was the Count of Dinan. Nominally a King’s man but friend to no one. The black baron. The worst person to become suspicious of her. He knew she was not Isobel.

  Stephen sat back down on his bench. His shoulders bumped against his neighbors until they hastily hitched themselves farther away. He sat a good half-a-head taller than any man near him.

  Helena let out her breath. Why had he not gone straight to de Lancey and told him of the imposter among them? Why had he not taken Lady Catherine aside and informed her Isobel was not who she claimed to be? Why did he wait?

  A small hope dawned. Perhaps he did not intend to tell anyone she was not Isobel. Not only had he released her over the theft of the food, he also allowed her this masquerade. What had he said? What do I care if John’s man is deprived of his food?

  Stephen of Dinan was Richard’s man. Disgraced or not, his land still belonged to Richard. Perhaps his loyalty lay with the king too. Could that be possible? Could the man continue to remain loyal despite all the king had done to him?

  Helena watched him draw his cup close and drink deeply. He spoke to no one at the table. He stared at the littered tabletop while the others around him laughed and jested, or leapt up to join the dancing in the center of the hall.

  Was he angry at her duplicity? He was plainly furious.

  “I’d stay clear of that one, my dear,” Catherine said, startling Helena.

  “Which one?”

  “The count, there. Your eye was upon him.”

  Helena shrugged casually. “I would rather approach a bear. A bear would be more amenable company than he appears to be.”

  Catherine laughed. “And safer company too, I’d warrant.”

  “Why safer?”

  “Haven’t you heard? The man is a ferocious fighter.”

  “They say that of any crusader.”

  Catherine’s husband, Hubert, leaned forward so Helena could see him. “Not the way they speak of that one. He earns the majority of his income as prize money from jousts and tournaments.”

  “But he is landed. The income from there—rents, taxes…”

  “Even with the combined income from his lands, he still earns more from the tournaments.”

  Helena was dumbfounded. “Why have I not heard of this before? Why have I not met him? We have been to four tournaments since I arrived from Brittany. If he really does earn his money from jousts, he must have been at one of them.”

  Hubert moved closer, pressing Catherine between them. He lowered his voice. “It is rumored the man gets much of his money from knights and barons who pay him not to fight.”

  Helena glanced at their dinner companions sitting on the opposite side of the long table, unabashedly straining to hear. “Not to fight?” She spoke in an undertone. “Why would they pay him not to fight i
f it depletes the purse they hope to win?”

  Hubert shrugged. “Heaven knows, but Dinan’s ability with the sword is legendary. Whatever tournament he enters, he wins. Yet he hasn’t been in the lists for some time now.”

  “But why?” Helena repeated, at a loss to understand.

  “They pay him not to fight,” Catherine said, “because to them the money is not the most important gain. There is respect, reputation, the attention of powerful people.” Catherine glanced at the count where he sat drinking in stony silence. “That one has already lost the favor of the king. Winning is an empty victory leavened only by a fat purse. If he can gain that purse without competing…” Catherine shrugged and reached for her goblet with her long, thin hands. Helena saw they seemed almost translucent, the blue tracery of blood vessels vivid against the milky whiteness.

  “Can a man really be so weary of life he would accept such payments?” Helena asked. She did not hesitate to plumb the depths of Catherine’s knowledge. Her sponsor understood men and women. She was also an astute collector of gossip.

  “One has only to look at his clothes to see he is willing to have as little to do with the barons as possible.”

  “His clothes? What of them?”

  “He wears only black. That is why he is called the black baron.”

  “I thought he was called that because of his mood,” Helena confessed. In Norman French, le baron noir sounded whimsical, more suited to the romantic tales of courtly love that Queen Eleanore adored. But to Helena, accustomed to speaking and thinking in English, the black baron was a far more foreboding title—and well-suited to the bear who scowled at the other end of their table. “Why does he wear black?”

  “He began to wear black after the king’s repudiation. It silently emphasized the king’s own expensive vanity. You’ve heard of the ridiculous amount the king spent on his regalia when he was recrowned after the Emperor released him?”

  “Why would the count want to point out the king’s spendthrift ways?”

  “No one knows.” Catherine’s lack of knowledge seemed to annoy her, for the corner of her mouth turned down, deepening the tiny lines there.

  “No one knows why he has fallen from the king’s favor? I find that difficult to believe. If a man dares to cross Richard, the king usually denounces him from the highest steeple.”

  “They were closer than brothers, once,” Hubert said.

  Catherine nodded. “Perhaps that is the reason for the king’s silence on this matter—and Stephen’s too.”

  “No one has ever dared ask Stephen,” Hubert added.

  “Make way for the prince! Make way!”

  The music came to a stop with a sour note. The room fell to a flat, still silence.

  “Make way for Prince John!” the crier declared.

  There was a murmur from the main doors. Several people passed through. Then the short, dark-haired John appeared, surrounded by his entourage.

  Helena had met John before. Tournaments had been the cause of two of their meetings. Yet with every meeting, she was surprised by how young and intelligent he appeared to be. Both qualities were at odds with his tarnished reputation. Even King Richard treated his little brother with thinly disguised condescension, slathered with amusement.

  Yet it was John, not Richard, who had come to the rescue of his mother, Eleanore, when she had been trapped by the French. And it was John to whom the disgruntled barons turned when they received no satisfaction from Richard. Given Richard’s apparent inability to conceive or name an heir, it was John who would most likely succeed his brother on the throne. For all those reasons, Helena was always wary of underestimating John’s power, or the man himself.

  Yet it was the man behind John who caught her eye this time. He was as fair as John was dark and almost a head taller. Yet he was as thin as Catherine. He walked extremely close to the prince and bent to whisper in his ear as John made his way to the top of the table where the high chair had stood empty all night. The man had the oddest skin—very, very white, yet his eyes were rimmed in pink. The entourage swept around the end of the head table on Helena’s side. As they passed, the man put his hand reassuringly on John’s shoulder. The man’s fingernails were long, white talons.

  The outgrowth of a corrupted soul, her grandmother would have said, even though it was a charge she’d only whispered against women. No honest work was done with fingers disabled that way. What would her grandmother have made of such nails on a man? On this strange, colorless man?

  John sat and the rest of the guests sat too. He waved toward the musicians, who started up their music once more. Pages hurried to bring food to John’s place. Helena felt a twinge of concern. She hadn’t expected such a late dinner guest. Would someone notice the shortfall now?

  She glanced at Stephen again and was alarmed to see him stand and walk the length of the table to John’s side. Dear Lord, he intended to inform the prince himself of her duplicity! She clutched at her goblet, feeling the ornate decorations on the thick stem bite into her fingers. Stephen bent and spoke into John’s ear. He paused while the prince considered his words and nodded, then straightened and walked the length of the room to the doors John had just passed through.

  Helena let out a ragged breath. What had Stephen said to John? He had walked past her with no acknowledgment. He had not so much as glanced at her.

  Helena turned to sit squarely at the table, prepared to forget all about le baron noir. He had gone, probably for good, as the Great Council began tomorrow. The meeting was unlikely to stretch for longer than the day. If Stephen did avoid tournaments and only emerged for Great Council meetings, it would be many months before their paths might cross again. Hubert was a Marcher lord and had his hands full suppressing the Welsh. He didn’t emerge from his castle with any more frequency than Stephen.

  Hubert’s reclusive habits also made Robert’s imperative suggestion that she get herself to York much more difficult to fulfill. How could she coax Hubert-by-the-fire to travel to cold, old York? Catherine was not a problem. She adored traveling to new places, full of different people to study and discuss. Helena fell to devising and discarding different schemes to bring about this small miracle, which, in the worry about Dinan’s plans for her, she had quite forgotten.

  A while later a page stopped by Helena, offering more wine. She glanced toward Prince John to see if he had finished his meal, as no one could be excused from the feast until he had gone. She saw the pale man was sitting by his side. Worse, the man stared at her.

  Stephen had stared at her too but this man’s gaze was nothing like his. Cold, clammy fingers walked down her spine. She shivered violently.

  “I do hope you are not becoming ill, after all,” Catherine murmured.

  Helena sipped her wine in response to Catherine’s gentle urging, barely hearing her voice.

  * * * * *

  Savaric bent to John’s ear again. “That young one at the end of the table, sire. Do you know her?”

  “Why, yes. Isobel. Fitzwarren has the charge of her. She’s recently returned to court.”

  “Ah.” Savaric considered the woman again. Isobel, was it? Naturally she could not go by her real name. Not here.

  John tugged on his sleeve. “What’s your interest in her, Savaric? Should I find out more about her?”

  And scare her into flight with your heavy-handed investigation? “No, my lord. It was a passing interest. She is comely, that one.”

  His worry satisfied, John went back to his meal. It had been simple to divert his attention. Merely reassure him she was no threat to his ambitions and he lost interest. Savaric considered the top of John’s head and marveled yet again at the single-mindedness that drove his clever mind. Well, it worked to his purpose, for now.

  He studied the girl. She was deep in thought, studiously avoiding his gaze. The avoidance didn’t offend him. It didn’t touch him at all. Nothing ever touched him.

  The earliest memories Savaric had were ones of hunger and incessa
nt work. While the family next door to his had born twelve children and only three had lived, his mother had born fourteen. She was of sturdy peasant stock and, combined with his father’s keen intelligence, they had contrived to keep eleven of their children alive. It was unheard of and their family was a source of wonder even in the village where they belonged but never for individual merit. They were always considered en masse—a body of people coagulated by blood ties and novelty.

  Here they come, Peter the stockherd’s family.

  Fancy, so many of them!

  It’s odd, isn’t it?

  I wonder what makes them so different?

  God marked them out, that’s why.

  God? It ain’t natural, to my way of thinking.

  And so the talk went. They would be looked at askance, that lumbering body of twenty-six legs and thirteen rumbling bellies. Even he, with his strange coloring and odd eyes, drew no attention among them.

  With so many to feed and so little food to go around, Savaric had learned early to fend for himself. Scheming to win more food for oneself was part of the fabric of normal life. It was a lesson Savaric had mastered at six years old when he’d woken in the dead of the night to find his mother stealing the bread scraps he had squirreled away beneath the pallet he shared with two of his brothers.

  There was no room for kindness in such a family. Savaric became inured to the blows and bawled insults designed to drive off competition around the stewpot. He soon learned to disengage from anything except the sharpest challenge to his wants. Until he had turned twelve and run away, his only want had been food.

  In the next valley he’d found a stream and washed off the stink of the only home he’d known. A man, a baron, had found him there and ridden away with his clothes. Savaric had chased him, for the rotten cloth was all he possessed. The man dropped the clothes into Savaric’s reaching hands and talked to him as he dressed. Was he hungry? Well, of course. Tired? One slept when one needed to. When he was not sleeping, he worked.

  There were other questions. Savaric saw the man was trying to discover if he was a runaway serf, accountable to another lord. Savaric lied—not for protection, but because for the first time in his existence he was curious. What did this man want of him? He did want something. That was very plain. Yet he was not taking the most direct path to what he desired. He waited. Why wait? That was the question that puzzled Savaric.