Heart of Vengeance

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  “Good, good,” John said heartily and drank again. His temper appeared to have been forgotten. It was this secondary quality of John’s that would make him a king to be reckoned with. As the youngest of the brawling brood of Eleanore and Henry II, John had learned how to rein in his temper when needed.

  Satisfied, Savaric bid John goodnight and went to his bed to scheme his schemes in private.

  * * * * *

  Helena stood on the frame of her bed and rose onto the balls of her feet, balancing carefully. Stretched thus, she could just see over the lip of the high, narrow window above her bed. She saw a band of stars and nothing else, yet she heard small sounds in the night and felt the touch of a cold wind. The air and the sounds reminded her of the world beyond the walls and, obliquely, of her hopes, dreams and plans, all of which lay out there in that larger world waiting for her. She had forgotten them this evening. The black baron had, for a while, driven them from her mind.

  For nearly a year Helena had searched for the man responsible for her father’s death. The quest had occupied her every waking moment…until today. It wasn’t until she had lain down upon her bed and let her mind drift over the day’s events she had realized just how Dinan had distracted her. The realization disturbed her. It felt too close to betrayal to have forgotten her father so easily. She had tossed upon the bed unhappily until the small sounds of the slumbering town had coaxed her to the open window.

  Now Helena breathed in the air and renewed her private pledge to her quest and the people out there whom it would serve. Tomorrow, she would act upon that pledge. She would take food to the small villages that lay outside Oxford. The day after that she would do the same, and the day after that, until the Great Council was recessed and they were permitted to leave Oxford. Each day when she was not fulfilling her pledge, she would turn her mind to ways of coaxing Catherine and Hubert to York.

  Yes, tomorrow she had much to do. She would not allow herself to be distracted again.

  Chapter Five

  The castle to which the Great Council had been called contained a cavernous hall that easily held all the barons. In the early morning sun streaming through the high embrasures all along one wall, dust motes danced, stirred by the movements of dozens of angry noblemen.

  A recess had been called because the assemblage could not keep the peace long enough for Hubert Walter to continue his address. This alone would be enough to cause a sensation but there was more scandalous news to discuss—the king had called for more men.

  The barons swirled around the hall in waves of concern, moving from group to group, testing others’ opinions, gathering cohorts.

  In the midst of this restless sea were two islands of calm. Sitting on the only individual chair in the hall, up high on the dais, was Sir Hubert Walter. Walter’s face was lined with age and care, yet the eyes were bright. He sat like a young man, alert and ready to spring, as he observed the effect of his first message from the king.

  The second point of stillness in the room centered on a bench not far from the foot of the dais but there was no gentleness here. Stephen felt the tension in him coiled like a snake ready to strike. Yet he had too many victims to strike at, for he was at odds with every man but Hubert Walter himself. He longed for the release of action but fought the need. There were too many who would sleep better for seeing his blood spilled and would take advantage of the opening he allowed them if he gave in to his urge.

  He looked up at Hubert Walter, to see what the great man thought of this unanimous displeasure at the king’s command. Their gazes met. Walter inclined his head toward the door in an unmistakable “follow me” gesture.

  Stiff with anger, Stephen followed Walter to the door at the edge of the dais and slipped through to the passage outside. The older man laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.

  “You look like you could do with a drink. Come. I will speak with you.”

  * * * * *

  Walter handed Stephen a silver goblet filled with wine and poured a cupful for himself. “They don’t like it, do they?” he said. He did not seem disappointed.

  “No, they don’t.” Stephen’s fury lifted some at his frankness.

  Walter crossed to a chair with cushions and a tapestry seat, a more comfortable chair than the grand, austere piece he had used in the hall. He waved Stephen to the chair beside it and lowered himself into his own with the slowness of either old age or extreme exhaustion. Both, Stephen judged. He obediently sat.

  Walter sipped and then put his wine aside. He pushed the tips of his fingers together. “You did not join the council in their protest over Richard’s demands.”

  “No.”

  “Yet you owe the king nothing. Not even loyalty, many say.”

  “You consider my loyalty to the king surprising?”

  “Certainly. But it could be you simply spoil for war. A show of loyalty might earn you that much.”

  “You’re unusually frank, my lord.”

  “I am the King’s Justiciar. I run the country when the king is not here. One assumes he would not appoint a fool to the position.”

  Stephen’s anger was almost gone, dismissed by Walter’s refreshing directness. “I’ve never thought you a fool.”

  “You are not a fool either.” Walter leaned forward. “I will be even more frank, Dinan. Richard charged with me with the delivery of certain personal messages.”

  “He sent for me?” Stephen hated the eagerness in his voice. He sounded too much like the dog kept baying outside the door all night that then runs with a wagging tail to the first chink of light to show. But even hating himself did not take away the hope.

  “That is what you want? To go to war for a cause you do not believe in?” Walter asked.

  “I never said that! Richard has represented me falsely if that is the charge he holds against me. Is that what he believes?”

  Walter held up a hand. “Peace, Dinan. He has said many things of you but that was not one of them.”

  “Then you accuse me of such?”

  “I? No.”

  “Then you test me?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Why? Why?” Stephen found himself on his feet. “When am I to be rid of this accursed specter? I cannot move that it does not follow me, or travel before me like a crier spreading doom. I am treated like a leper wherever I go.”

  “You defied the king. This is the consequence of that…”

  “Foolishness?” he suggested, grimacing.

  “Yes,” Walter said flatly.

  His frankness drew all Stephen’s bitterness. The tension slipped from him in a tired sigh. He sat down, reached for the goblet and spoke into the wine. “I thought I was speaking to him as one friend to another, that night. We were that once. Friends.”

  “The King can never forget who he is.” Walter’s voice was gentle. “Nor can he put aside the duties of his crown. Not even for friendship. That is something Richard knows too well and you failed to remember.”

  “I’ve not forgotten since.”

  “No, I don’t suppose you have.”

  Stephen looked up, catching the tone of amusement. But Walter’s face was as bland as ever.

  “Richard’s message is not what I hope for, is it?”

  “If what you hope for is the call to arms, then no, it is not. Richard bade me tell you he does not want you to join him in Rouen.”

  Stephen rested his forearms on his knees wearily. The confirmation of his guess still burned, despite his anticipation. “He calls all the men of England to his side and tells me to stay away.”

  “Oh, he doesn’t expect they will join him.”

  “No?”

  “Those who do not go to Normandy will face a stiff price for their reluctance.”

  “Is that what this is about? Money? Again?”

  “This is about war,” Walter responded with a calm Stephen fleetingly admired. “Total war. Richard has victory almost in his grasp. He has drawn a string of alliances completely surrounding France
and is about to pull that string tight.”

  “Philip will be desperate.”

  “Hence the call to arms. Richard needs either men or money to buy men. Which, he doesn’t care.”

  “How much are we to contribute to his campaign?”

  “He wants no money from you, Dinan.”

  Another sigh slipped from Stephen like the last exhale of a dying man. “He has not forgiven me.”

  Walter’s hand came down on Stephen’s wrist, squeezed gently and was withdrawn. “Drink,” Walter coaxed. “I guarantee it is not poisoned.” Then he muttered quietly, “May Hugh rest with God.”

  Stephen jerked his head up. “Hugh le Puissant was poisoned? For certain?”

  Walter looked vexed. “I speak out of turn. Nothing is known for certain. But there are rumors and there is the convenient timing of his death—on the way to the king’s side with vital information about barons who may not be as loyal to Richard as he supposes.” Walter shrugged.

  “And you have taken on Hugh’s role as the King’s Chief Justiciar. You are a courageous one.”

  “I am careful not to make enemies as recklessly as he did.” Walter smiled. Behind the smile Stephen saw weariness.

  “Imparting news such as you have just given me must make your life a merry one indeed.”

  Walter’s smile broadened. “You have taken it with more equanimity than some,” he agreed, rising. “Come, drink up. You like the wine? It is from Bordeaux. They know something of the vine there. Take the flagon with you.”

  And Stephen found himself on his feet outside the chamber door with the nearly full flagon under his arm and Walter’s exhortations to drink up ringing in his ears.

  He looked down at the flask. Why not drink up? He’d no other purpose in this accursed place. With the Great Council in chaos, it would be days before they would be permitted to leave the town.

  Richard did not want him. He had specifically cut him from the pack and discarded him. A flagon of wine might help take the sting from the truth.

  * * * * *

  Helena’s demure exterior contained seething frustration.

  As she made her way down the long corridor to the obscure little room to which the servants had directed her, she reflected that whoever ordered the world had heard her pledge of the previous evening and had deliberately arranged for her day to be as frustrating as possible.

  She had risen with the sunrise, intending to fulfill her promise before the rest of the manor’s guests were about their business and would notice and question her. Then Catherine had come to her chamber, holding her temple, her eyes small slits of pain. “Isobel, I’m afraid I must trouble you.”

  “Is it a headache?” Helena asked, leaping to her feet.

  “Oh, yes!” Catherine gasped. “’Tis a curse from mixing last evening’s mulled wine with a restless night.”

  Helena helped the woman back to her bed and saw to Catherine’s immediate needs—shuttered windows, quiet, and cool, well-watered wine to soothe her dry throat. Catherine’s husband, Hubert, had already departed for the day, eager to exchange news with the members of the Great Council who had gathered at the castle already.

  Catherine’s state put Helena in a quandary. Catherine suffered debilitating headaches quite regularly but hid them from all but Hubert and Helena, who could not fail to notice her periodic ailment. Catherine had drawn Helena into her deception. Their usual ruse was to plead an overwhelming number of vaguely feminine tasks and then isolate themselves in Catherine’s chamber for the day to deal with the headaches.

  Helena looked at the woman lying under the furs and sighed. Perhaps she could adapt the customary tale to include only Catherine, which would leave her free to go about her business. But someone must deal with those who tapped at the chamber door and Catherine could not.

  Catherine reached out to Helena. “My dear, the tunics. I must finish them today. They are expected.”

  Helena looked at the large, wooden work chest that contained Catherine’s sewing implements and half-finished garments. Catherine’s unspoken assumption was more than clear. Helena must finish Hubert’s tunics.

  “I’m sorry to be such a bother.” Catherine’s face was tight with pain.

  Both her face and her words prodded Helena’s guilt. “Nonsense,” she said shortly and pulled the heavy work chest to the floor next to the most comfortable chair in the room.

  Helena tackled the sewing, determined to finish the tunics as quickly as possible so she might escape and be on her way. At first she thought she would be done quite early. As she completed seam after seam, she measured her progress against the slow creep of light across the floor of the room. By midafternoon, she knew she hoped in vain.

  She still had two large seams to complete when she came to the end of the thread. Helena searched the chest, feeling her patience simmer at the edges. Spools of unsuitable dark thread, pins, clips, tiny scissors, the accoutrements of a busy seamstress were all there. But no light thread.

  Helena dug her fingers into the bric-a-brac at the bottom of the box and yelped as her questing hand drove the points of a number of pins and needles into her fingers. With an impatient, silent curse, she picked up the nearly empty box and tipped the detritus at the bottom into the straw. Wooden spools clattered unmusically against the boards beneath. She stirred the pile with the toe of her shoe. No light thread.

  There was a tap at the chamber door. Helena hurried to answer the summons before the caller pushed the door aside and saw Catherine abed.

  “Yes? What is it?” Helena whispered through the crack.

  “You did not partake of the midday meal, my lady. We wondered…”

  It was the voice of the cook, the Saxon who had merrily helped her pilfer food the previous evening. Helena took a deep breath, calming her frustration. “Do not worry, Maud. We are busy. My lady’s husband has requested tasks of her that I assist her with.”

  “You do not wish to have a meal brought to you?”

  The idea of eating had not occurred to Helena. She had been too busy sewing, trying to outpace the day. Now Maud had mentioned food, her stomach churned painfully. “I will come to the kitchen. Soon. Would you be so kind as to prepare a small meal for me?”

  “It would be my pleasure,” Maud assured her. Helena heard the sweep of her skirts as she walked away. Then she remembered. “Wait! A moment, please!”

  Maud waited, her good-natured, ruddy face patient.

  “Thread. I—we need more white thread. Do you know where any is to be had?” Helena asked with little hope, for this was a bachelor household. But perhaps one of the serving women had thread squirreled away somewhere.

  Maud frowned. “Thread. Now there’s a notion! Not I. My hands are used to the feel of a cooking pot, not a needle.”

  “It was a narrow hope, anyway,” Helena reassured her. She moved back to the chamber door.

  “But wait! My lady, the spindle room! I’d forgotten.”

  “Spindle room?”

  “On the floor above, on the same passage as this, right at the very end. No one goes in there, m’lady. Probably haven’t since this lord won the house for himself.”

  “Thread will be there?” Helena asked, puzzled.

  “If thread is to be had anywhere in this house, that is where you’ll find it, like as not.”

  So Helena found herself traversing the corridor of the floor above hers in search of white thread, contemplating most of a day wasted in the service of her host’s wardrobe, when she had only just reaffirmed the importance of her own secret quest.

  The quiet corridors, bereft of the guests crowded into every spare chamber reminded Helena of the Great Council gathering at the castle. The reminder emphasized a world that had moved on while she stayed still. She pushed the door open with a savage thrust, so great was her resentment and strode inside.

  Two details struck her, bringing Helena to a shocked stillness.

  First, against the far wall stood a huge tapestry frame, upon whi
ch stretched an uncompleted piece of work. Those parts that bore stitches glowed with color and life. The frame overwhelmed the small room. That explained why, in a household where quarters were in such great demand, this room had not been utilized.

  The second detail was the least welcome of the two. On a fragile chair sat Stephen of Dinan, hand flung across the small table beside him, fingers curled around a metal cup. A wine flagon stood next to his elbow.

  In such an overwhelmingly feminine room, his large, masculine presence was twice a surprise.

  He looked at her steadily, as if her arrival had been no surprise at all. “You,” he said, his voice low.

  Helena clutched the door latch behind her for support. This man knew things about her. Having her secrets rest in his unpredictable hands gave her a bone-deep unease. It would be easier, far easier, to step back out of the room and walk away. If she stayed away and did not provoke him, he would not be stirred to share her secret with others.

  But it was a false comfort and Helena knew why it was so tempting. She was afraid. Her father had taught her how to deal with that sort of fear during their year in the forest. So she stepped farther into the room and shut the door, intending to face the demon fear.

  “You are supposed to be at the council gathering, are you not?” she asked.

  Stephen frowned and lifted the goblet. “My presence is not welcome there.”

  Helena studied him. He did not look drunk but drunkenness was often deceiving. There was a preciseness in his speech that betrayed careful control. Men often spoke more than they intended in this state. Perhaps, if she was careful, she could extract some truths from him.

  “I came here in search of thread.” She moved to the chest next to the glorious tapestry. It was a logical place for thread. There was a layer of dust on top of the chest. Closer to the tapestry frame Helena saw dust clinging to the fibers and threads and lying thick along the top of the frame.