Heart of Vengeance

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  The man offered to take him to the nearest inn, for food and a night’s lodgings. An agreement reached, the man let the horse walk while Savaric trotted along beside. When the sun was at its zenith the man rested under the shade of a tree and gave Savaric the food he carried. Savaric ate with total concentration. He ate everything the man had and drank the wine in his flask, though the taste made him gag. When he finished, his stomach ached and throbbed. He vomited up everything he had eaten. The man laughed and patted him on the back, calling him a fool. But the words meant nothing. The loss of the meal dismayed him.

  “There is plenty more where that came from,” the man had assured Savaric, reaching for him.

  “Where is that? Where does it come from?” Savaric wanted to be in that place.

  “There is a whole world out there of which you are in total ignorance, my dear sweet boy.” He pushed back Savaric’s lank, white hair gently. “I can show you.”

  Savaric throttled the man with the sash of the wine flask, watching the man’s face turn blue and his tongue pop out. Afterward, he stripped the man of his clothes and put them on. They were soft, warm and clean. Best of all, there was a fat purse of coins. Coins would buy food.

  The man had shown him the door to a larger world. He had shown Savaric it was sometimes better to wait for what one wanted.

  Everything else the man had wanted from Savaric left no impression on him. Even his first murder had not touched him. Only the loss of the food. But he had learned how to wait. He waited until he reached the next town and found an inn where they would supply all the food Savaric wanted, so long as his coins lasted.

  This time Savaric ate slowly, giving his stomach time to get used to the idea of plenty. He ignored the jeering and catcalls from the others in that place. He had no intention of letting them distract him from his food while they stole it from beneath his fingers, for that was the only reason he could think of for their insults. Besides, he had a knife now, resting comfortably against his thigh.

  Later, Savaric’s wants had changed but not his ability to ignore everything except those wants. Insult, jest, even cruelty, bumped against his colorless skin and penetrated no deeper. Later, when he moved in royal circles, the events around him might have distracted a man of lesser patience, but Savaric had merely moved quietly behind the scenes, correcting the course of his prime concerns. Waiting.

  Since becoming one of John’s favored and trusted advisors, he had drawn attention from some of the most powerful men in England and they had done their best to dislodge him. They had failed. Their passing had caused barely a ripple in Savaric’s concentration. Therefore, the girl’s avoidance of his gaze barely brushed his attention.

  Instead Savaric focused on her presence here in this room. He knew who she was. The eyes were unmistakable. What he now wanted to determine was if she was a threat to him. Did she know him?

  He had dealt with her once before, indirectly, and had considered the matter closed. Now she had reappeared. No one Savaric had dealt with before had ever returned. He had not killed them all as he had quickly realized there were better ways to clear the path for his wants—quieter ways that did not stir up more obstacles, but worked just as well.

  Yet here she was. Was she taunting him? Unease touched him. He couldn’t guess, for he had learned long ago that most men’s minds worked differently from his. The unease stirred another feeling Savaric could not identify. Then, by comparing it with reactions of men he had studied, he recognized it. Admiration. She had returned to the world from which he had carefully ejected her, defying risks other men might hesitate to challenge, and she was doing it with brazen bluff.

  This one was different, Savaric decided. This one would bear watching. He would not do anything now. Not yet. He would watch a while, for he sensed that this one, just like the man at the river, could teach him something that would make the acquisition of his wants go more smoothly.

  John tugged at his sleeve again. “Are you not eating, Savaric?”

  “In a while,” Savaric assured him, barely pulling his gaze away from the girl. In a while. He could wait. He was very good at waiting.

  Chapter Four

  Despite Ranulf’s protests, Stephen stayed at the unshuttered window. There was a late night breeze blowing in from the river, ladened with moisture. He smelled green growing things in the fresh scent and sniffed it appreciatively.

  “Is my lord ready to retire?” Ranulf’s old voice quavered.

  “No,” Stephen growled. Instantly, he regretted his shortness. He looked over his shoulder at Ranulf. “Later, perhaps. But you get some sleep. It’s likely to be a long day tomorrow.”

  “Aye. I’ve heard the Archbishop has news apt to cause a protest or two.”

  “They always say that if the Council is called on short notice. It’s just the speculations of men with little better to do.” He turned back to the window and sighed. The description fit him too—little to do and far too much time to do it in. Even tournaments, which had once been a barely adequate substitute for the crusades and all that had come after, had lost their challenge and excitement.

  For a while tonight he had thought the mysterious not-Isobel might provide some interest but her horror upon learning his identity disabused him of that hope. She saw him as others did—a pariah to avoid.

  Yet her face, with those incredible eyes and the steady jawline, kept floating into his mind, distracting him from his bad humor despite his intention to forget her.

  “The things I’ve heard were not rumors, my lord,” Ranulf said.

  Stephen turned to face him. Persistence from Ranulf was unusual. “What have you heard?”

  “The Archbishop’s chamberlain, sir, is a man of good repute.”

  “I’m sure he is,” Stephen agreed. He recognized this gambit and his interest quickened. First, Ranulf gave the evaluation of his source of information, so the news that followed could not be too quickly dismissed as idle gossip. “The chamberlain and I shared supper together, sir.”

  “You know him well?”

  “We lived in the same town as children, sir. Our paths cross from time to time but not as often, of late.” Not since you were sent back to England in disgrace. The unspoken words hung there between them.

  “Go on,” Stephen said.

  “He mentioned, sir, the Archbishop rode straight from the king’s side at that fancy new castle of his outside Rouen, straight to England to call the Council.”

  “For what?”

  “For war, sir.”

  “We’ve been at war with the French for years,” Stephen snapped. Years he had wasted sitting in England, playing at knighthood, while Richard scrambled across Europe, shoring up allegiances. While Stephen had done nothing, Richard had reestablished the borders King Philip of France had dared step across while Richard was a prisoner of the Holy Roman Empire.

  “Yes, sir,” Ranulf agreed smoothly. “That’s the king’s problem, sir. Seems he needs more men.”

  Excitement flared in Stephen. “More? How many more?”

  “He’s calling for every lord who holds lands in Normandy, or Normandy’s continental allies.”

  That included Stephen.

  Stephen didn’t ask if the information was accurate. Ranulf wouldn’t have brought it to his attention in this way unless he was absolutely sure. So, Hubert Walter was recruiting for Richard’s campaign again. It sounded like nothing short of total war this time. Stephen tried to suppress his smile. “We might be going to war, Ranulf. You and your chamberlain friend will be able to cross paths again.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Ranulf stepped back from the bed he had turned down and picked up one of the candlesticks on the chest next to it. “I trust my lord will sleep well now?”

  Stephen chuckled. “If the possibilities of the morrow do not keep me tossing, then I will indeed sleep well.”

  “Good night, my lord.” Ranulf shuffled out of the room.

  Stephen returned to the window and breathed deeply. To f
ight again! To be recalled to Richard’s side. Was this a sign Richard had forgiven him? It didn’t matter, for he could fight just as well in the back ranks as he could at the spearhead. Finally, he could see an end to these empty days.

  An image formed in his mind of her blue eyes, half-lidded when he’d held the knife against her throat. He frowned, annoyed at the persistence of the image. She’d said she would never see him again. It seemed she was right. He felt a dollop of regret. It would have been interesting to uncover her secrets.

  A single thought followed him down into sleep. Would she really have tried to kill me?

  * * * * *

  Catherine was very tired after the feast and requested Helena help her with her evening toilet. Helena, giddy with relief and the knowledge she was still free to pursue her quest, leapt to aid the woman who unwittingly helped her.

  She loosened Catherine’s braids and brushed the golden hair till it shone. There were many faded strands among the gold. It was a reminder that Catherine was not as young as she seemed. Lately Helena had noticed her advanced age more and more, like tonight when she had seen the frail thinness of Catherine’s hands.

  Catherine sat still while she worked, saying little and sipping at the herb-infused concoction she favored at nights. “My dear, I would offer you some advice. Would you listen to an old woman like me?” she asked as Helena finished.

  “You’re not old!”

  “I am old enough to have seen a great deal more of man’s works than you,” Catherine assured her. “I’m so old I know without doubt that men’s affairs work in patterns, for I have seen them repeated over and over.”

  “There is a pattern you want to tell me about?”

  “There is one whose roots I have watched planted in the last few years. I would not like to see you caught in them.”

  Helena put the comb down. “And that is?”

  “Stephen of Dinan.” Catherine swiveled to face her. “He is not in the king’s favor, child.”

  “Nor mine.”

  Catherine smiled. It was not her usual, splendid expression but a soft, wise, curving of the lips. “Perhaps. You asked me to sponsor your return to society. I would be remiss if I didn’t warn you. It isn’t wise to attract attention from the wrong man, Isobel.”

  “Dinan is the wrong man?”

  “He is marked for an unhappy future. A man doesn’t bear the king’s disapproval without a price.”

  “Does he not pay that price already?”

  “A part of it, perhaps. I have seen kings come and go but these devil’s spawn of Eleanore’s…they carry ill-will for a man beyond the reasonable, and they are capricious!” Her faded blue eyes focused inward. “Henry was bad enough, heaven knows, but his sons…” She shivered and lifted her gaze to Helena. “I’m not a harper, I’m afraid. I lack the skill of clear expression.”

  “On the contrary. You make yourself very clear.” She spoke truly. Catherine’s worried frown, the inward stare and shiver, had spoken more eloquently than a thousand words.

  “I have grown fond of you, Isobel. I’d like to see you settled with a suitable husband. Perhaps we are remiss in our sponsorship in that regard. I should speak to Hubert about finding you a good match.”

  No! Don’t! Helena wanted to cry out but smothered the protest. Catherine was merely being a concerned and responsible counsellor, for there was a wordless understanding that came with such a sponsorship—to help Isobel find a husband, as the real Isobel lacked parents or a court-appointed ward.

  However, a husband was the last thing Helena wanted. Married, she would not be able to move with any freedom. A husband would not tolerate her having her own plans. She would have to fall in with his plans. A husband would immediately discover she was not Isobel, for the dowry of which he would expect to take possession belonged to the real Isobel.

  No, she could not afford to get herself a husband! Yet she could not speak of her reluctance to Catherine, lest she unravel the tale she had spun as Isobel of Brittany.

  Helena twice opened her mouth to speak and closed it again, her thoughts too scattered to draw a sentence together. She had not expected this.

  Catherine tilted her head, plainly expecting gratitude or pleasure. Helena gathered her wits. “You have surprised me with the depth of your concern,” she said truthfully. “Thank you, Lady Catherine.”

  Catherine nodded once, graciously. “Would you excuse me, Isobel? I plan to retire at once.”

  “I have kept you from your bed.” Helena gathered up the comb and ties and placed them in Catherine’s traveling chest. “I will leave at once. The hour is late.”

  “Late enough to feel we are the only two not already abed and dreaming,” Catherine agreed.

  * * * * *

  Savaric spread his hands in mild protest. “The hour grows late, sire. Shall we continue this discussion tomorrow?”

  “That’s all you learned?” John repeated. “I gave you over fifty marks. You said you needed that much to pry open reluctant mouths and all you discovered is that Hubert Walter might have news about the war?”

  Savaric blinked. He recalled walking to the castle forecourt, passing out coins and asking a few questions of some of the court followers without whom Hubert Walter seemed unable to travel. That had been shortly after John had finished eating, when most of the feasters had left the hall. But although it had been a short time ago, he was only able to vaguely recall the answers he had received, the faces of the people he had questioned. Whatever news Walter brought from the king, it held no importance for him. He had merely acted out the role John had assigned him, while his mind was busy with his own affairs.

  He realized John stared impatiently at him and an answer was required. He picked a response from the several he knew would appease the man.

  “I guarantee, sire, no one but Hubert Walter himself is any wiser than you as to what is going to happen on the morrow. All to be had are rumors and I have given you the most reliable of these.”

  No one is wiser than you. Savaric watched the words work on John like a salve. The future king of England relaxed into his chair and reached for the great cup that always traveled with him. At this time of night it would be filled with mead, the poor man’s wine and John’s favorite bedtime tipple.

  John’s paranoia attended to, Savaric returned to his main concern. There were answers John could give him but first he had to phrase the questions correctly. After so many years of listening and watching men talking and acting, he had learned how to string words together in a way that hid his real purpose.

  Savaric gathered together the words that would cover his purpose tonight. “That young beauty at the end of the table, sire. The young mince with the comely eyes?” These were the phrases of a country squire, the bluff, hale-well-met fellow that drew much laughter and ribald humor and no suspicion.

  John looked surprised, as if he had been dragged away from his own thoughts. “Isobel? What of her?”

  Savaric lowered his head, as if to hide a blush. He felt the superficial behavior of a simple man settle over him like a warm, protective blanket.

  John laughed. “Savaric! You, man? You have an interest in this woman?”

  “I merely ask her antecedents, sire.” He kept his eyes downcast.

  “Oh, they’re beyond question. She comes from one of the best families of Brittany. They’ve been loyal to Normandy for centuries.” He frowned. “Why this sudden curiosity in a woman when for years there has been none? Do you hide something from me? Some truth about her family that affects our plans?”

  Savaric felt a spurt of irritation. That single-mindedness of John’s was so monotonous! Always he managed to bring a subject back to him, his ambitions. He saw relationships where none existed, drew conclusions from the fall of a grain of sand that foretold the death of the world!

  “I demand you tell me!” John hammered his cup on the table, slopping the thin mead over his wrist. “Tell me now!”

  “I can tell you nothing you do no
t already know!” Savaric snapped back. “Not everyone in your world plots against you!”

  John’s nostrils flared. There was an angry glint in his eye Savaric recognized. He had overstepped the wide boundaries of familiarity John allowed.

  “I have had men executed for less, I warn you, Savaric.”

  Savaric pushed back his own anger. “My deepest apologies for my ire, my lord. These are trying times.”

  John considered him, his own face flushed, anger pulsing at his temple. It was in moments like these Savaric saw the Plantagenet blood most clearly in him. It had shown Savaric what others failed to see—that John was deeply underestimated by the barons and by King Richard most of all. The clenched jaw, the stare that missed nothing. This was a man who had just enough self-interest to serve an incredible ambition. Unlike the rest of England that pinned their hopes upon the barren marriage of Richard and Berengaria of Spain to produce the desired heir, Savaric had no doubt John would one day be the King of England. On that day, whoever had served faithfully by his side would be well rewarded.

  And just as suddenly, the guise of the future king was gone. In its place sat a tired, ill-used man who had traveled far. He put down his cup. “It’s late,” he said, echoing Savaric’s earlier words. “Time to sleep.”

  Savaric nodded. It would be better to leave the subject of Isobel alone for now. At least until after the Great Council had been disbanded and John relaxed enough for information to be drawn from him without resistance. “If one can sleep in this moist air.”

  “You’ve been spoiled by that resplendent northern stronghold of yours. Have you found it as profitable as it appeared?”

  Savaric thought of a certain portrait that once hung over the fire pit of the main hall, the portrait of a young woman with startling blue eyes. “It has been profitable beyond my expectations,” he replied truthfully.