Heart of Vengeance

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  Helena let her gaze lift to focus on Stephen at the other end of the long table. His attention was firmly fixed on the cup and trencher in front of him.

  Please look! Helena begged him silently.

  He did not look.

  “Ah! The lady herself!” John said as Helena came to a halt by his side. He smiled and grasped her arm. “Savaric, see who I have arranged as your dinner companion!”

  “Dinner companion, sire?”

  Helena could not see the man who spoke with such disinterest. John pushed her around his tall oak chair so she faced Savaric.

  He sat on an individual stool, armless, backless but with richly carved legs. The man wore a formless garment that churchmen favored. But his was not a crisp, white, clean robe. It was a grayish yellow.

  While John called for another seat and the pages fussed about Helena, bringing plate, cup and food, Savaric stared at her curiously. The black centers of his eyes consumed all color. There was so little white visible at the edges his eyes appeared all black. Nothing showed in them. No emotion, no hint of his thoughts.

  “Sire, I thought I had dismissed my small notions regarding this woman,” Savaric said.

  Helena shivered. His voice! It sounded like a thousand nails rolling inside a tin kettle. What kind of experience had reached into this man’s voice itself to leave its mark?

  “Ah, but I was listening,” John crowed from behind her. “You cannot hide your interest from me, Savaric. The only woman for whom you have shown the slightest interest? She must be the one.” John sounded inordinately pleased with himself. “Sit, Isobel.” His hand was on her shoulder, pushing her onto the stool that had appeared beside Savaric’s.

  Helena sank onto the stretched leather seat.

  “I would have you treat this man favorably, Isobel of Brittany,” John said. “He has an odd look about him but he is a wise and true companion.”

  I rather doubt that. Helena stared at her plate. Anyone could see the man was only interested in his own affairs. Anyone but John, it appeared.

  “What do you think, Savaric? Is she still worthy of interest, this close up?”

  “I must think about that, sire.”

  “She’s a pretty one, I admit,” John continued. Had he not heard the disagreement in Savaric’s voice? “She comes with a fat dowry. A great swathe of Brittany and lands in Cornwall.”

  “Brittany?” A hand came around Helena’s chin. Helena’s face was wrenched sideways, for his inspection. “Well, well.” She stared into the black eyes, revulsion swelling in her as his long fingernails scraped lightly across her cheek and jaw. His fingers were hot and dry. If he did not release her very soon, she would gag.

  He was looking at her eyes. “She is a comely one, sire.” Savaric’s lips formed the words precisely.

  “Ha! I should have wagered you would not stay cold to her for long!”

  Savaric’s attention did not move from Helena. It was as if he had not heard John at all. “What did you say your name was, woman?”

  “Isobel.”

  He smiled. “Have you ever been to York, Isobel?”

  Fright tore through her. Who was he? What did he know? But nothing showed on his face.

  Helena looked past him, over to where Stephen sat. He was watching, leaning against the wall, cup in hand, as if he enjoyed the spectacle. He was not the only one. Most of the barons at the head table watched her, enjoying the birth of another successful match.

  Helena’s gaze drew back to Stephen. Tell me you see my plight! I call on you! Take me from this place. It was a silent cry for help.

  Savaric gave her head a shake. “You are not paying attention, woman.”

  Helena snapped her gaze back to his face. She breathed shallowly through her mouth to quell her rising gorge. “My lord?”

  “That’s better.” He let her chin go and returned his attention to his plate. The food on it was curiously arranged. He had started with a plate piled high and now ate with systematic thoroughness. Rather than eat a little from all he had selected, Savaric had cut a swathe through the middle and had totally cleared a precise half of the plate. Not a crumb was left on the empty side. It was as if no food had ever rested there.

  “Pour wine,” he demanded and pushed a huge tankard toward her.

  There was nothing he could do to her here in the dining hall and he would have to go through formal, protracted arrangements to get her alone. For the moment she was safe. She relaxed a little.

  Helena lifted her hand to call the page with the wine. She would pour his wine and obey his every whim…for now. For only as long as it took to be able to leave this room and his revolting presence.

  * * * * *

  As soon as John had finished his meal and called for the minstrels, Stephen put down his empty cup and abruptly left the room. The cup sat unattended for a moment, until the knight who had sat fearfully on Stephen’s right reached over and picked it up. It was still warm from Stephen’s grip. The man rubbed his thumb over the heavy metal. Four indentations marred the polished surface and there was a fifth on the other side of the cup.

  His companion on the other side of the table jerked his chin toward the cup, silently asking what had caught the man’s attention. He turned the cup so his neighbor could see the row of depressions.

  The second man shook his head. “No wonder they pay the bastard not to fight. Would you want those hands around your neck?”

  * * * * *

  Helena saw Stephen leave and panic rose. He was deserting her! But he was not the only one to depart. Dinner was over. Only those who wanted further entertainment, wine, or dancing remained.

  Catherine and Hubert too, had left. But Helena felt Stephen’s absence the most. It was like an empty ache in her heart. She needed to talk to him, to spill out her fears, her disgust, her horror at the sudden turn of her life. He was the only one who knew of her private identity. He would understand her need to avoid a situation like this.

  Stephen might have some idea how she could achieve the impossible. How to refuse the match with Savaric without bringing the wrath of a Plantagenet down upon her.

  Helena stood up abruptly, even as John talked to the baron on his right. She turned in his direction. “You will excuse me, Your Highness?”

  “You tire of our company so soon, my lady?”

  “I tire, yes but your company has been such an unexpected boon, I-I must consider it a while.” It was the truth, after all.

  John nodded, relenting. “Yes, yes, I imagine you have a great deal to think about. Consider well, Isobel. I will speak to you soon.”

  “Thank you, Your Highness.” Helena gave a short curtsy and hurried to the door, knocking her stool out of the way with her knee as she went.

  She did not say goodnight to Savaric and knew the omission would probably anger him. Let him be angry. She would deal with it later. Perhaps he would find her rudeness so little to his taste he would reconsider the match. It was a slim hope.

  All Helena could think about was finding Stephen. But where? She had no idea where his room might be. This house was a huge, sprawling and oddly laid out building.

  The spindle room.

  Helena hurried there, trying to avoid notice. She had no excuse for being on this level and there were too many people still up and about. It would be a while before the house settled down into the silence of deep night.

  But the spindle room was empty. There were streaks in the dust on the floor. Footsteps. The boards around the dainty chair by the window were clean. Her skirts would have done that.

  Helena stood in the middle of the room and thought hard. Where might she find him? He would not simply retire for the night.

  The river. The thought came to her, swift and certain. He was at the river. Helena hurried back to her chamber and dug from her chest the darkest dress she possessed, a charcoal-gray, heavy winter gown with a high neck. She dressed swiftly, donned her long black cloak and discarded the white wimple and veil altogether. The cloak had
a hood and would hide her lack of head attire.

  She crept to the kitchen. It was still warm from the evening’s cooking but deserted now and badly lit. The kitchen staff’s punishing routine had ended with the scouring of the evening’s dishes. Afterward, they had all but crawled to their pallets and beds to sleep.

  Helena slipped into the pantry and lifted the bar across the outside door. She stepped into the damp night air and took a deep breath. The first obstacle had been safely negotiated.

  To be caught outside at night, unescorted, would raise all sorts of questions and concerns. Because of the Great Council and the household upheaval that travel to Oxford had created, Helena had not been as closely monitored as she would have been in Worcester. Most of the men were involved in the council and the women were scattered across the town in several different households. Helena had her bedchamber to herself here, whereas in Worcester, two maidservants slept on pallets on the floor by her bed.

  But if she was caught outside the house, or worse, outside the town, her freedom would be swiftly and mercilessly curtailed and her every step dogged by unwanted escorts.

  So Helena dodged from shadow to shadow cautiously.

  She made the town wall. It rose high and forbidding but Helena had listened to villagers’ gossip and knew a little of their ways. Patiently, she walked along the wall and presently she found the sign she looked for.

  The trapdoor was almost invisible, so cunningly had it been crafted. Part of the original wooden palisade had been cut to form a man-sized hole and then hinged with heavy leather and rehung. The only sign of the door was the wooden latch. The latch allowed people on the inside of the wall to open the door. This barred strangers from access to the town by other than the town gates and the guards there, but citizens of Oxford were able to slip out without accounting for themselves.

  Helena lifted the latch on the small door, pushed the hatch open and let herself out. She let the door shut and heard the latch drop down into its cradle with a wooden thunk. There would be no returning that way, although Helena barely gave thought to her return. For now, all she craved was to find Stephen.

  Chapter Nine

  She heard the river before she saw it. The slow gurgle and murmur of the water alerted her and then her eyes, used to the deeper black among the trees, picked out the brighter twinkle of starlight on the water’s surface.

  Helena had long since discarded the last vestige of her Norman status. She had stripped her hair of its bindings and braids. Now it rippled in the breeze made by her passage.

  Her first fright had passed. The still, black night, the cool air and the quietness of the forest had soothed her. But growing with every minute was a bone-deep fear, for once she had calmed she realized the more complicated and far-reaching consequences of John’s matchmaking.

  She held the fear inside, bound by the hope that Stephen would be at the river. Once she had spoken to him she would know what to do, she would think of a solution. It became a litany that tapped out the rhythm of her steps—at the river, at the river, at the river.

  Helena came to the brink of the water and paused, breathing hard. She glanced up and down the bank, looking for a hard, man-sized shadow among the rough-edged silhouettes of trees. She saw the gnarled oak she had slept beneath two days prior. The comfortable spot beneath its branches was unoccupied.

  There was no moon and there were no sounds other than the whisper of the forest. The wind sang a high, lonely song in the leafless branches. Helena shivered. He was not here. She had been a fool to think he might be.

  Then she heard the heavy, soft thud of a step, deep in the trees. Her heart lifted. Stephen! But sudden caution flooded her. Stephen might not be the only man abroad this night. There were those who preferred to work beneath a dark sky. They did not take kindly to observation and she stood at the edge of the water, clearly outlined against reflected starlight.

  Helena pulled out her knife and slipped back to the security of her oak tree to wait.

  The steps came closer. It was a man, for only a man would step so heavily. He was headed for the river. Then, abruptly, the sound stopped.

  Helena lifted her knife higher. The silence lasted for a lifetime.

  “Put away your knife, ’Elen.”

  Helena stepped away from the tree, lowering her knife. “Show yourself.”

  Stephen stepped out from the deep shadows. He too, had cloaked himself against prying eyes and the cold. Only his face was visible in the starlight and his hands when he pushed the edge of his cloak aside. “I do not fancy a slit throat for lack of announcing myself,” he said. “For I am twice familiar with your penchant for wielding that knife of yours.”

  “Stephen!” Helena dropped the knife and rushed to him. Without thought she threw herself against him, so relieved was she to see him. His arms came around her without protest. He was big and warm and his arms about her gave her a sense of comfort and protection. Helen wrapped her arms about his neck and clung fiercely. “You came! You came!” She rested her cheek against his shoulder and heard the sound of his heartbeat, loud against her ear.

  His hands curled through her hair, winding it around his fingers. He gently pulled her head back until she was looking up at him.

  “’Elen,” Stephen whispered, with a voice so tight with unspoken feelings Helena knew at once he held himself in control.

  “Yes,” she said, simply.

  It was all the answer he needed, for Stephen lowered his head until his lips touched hers. It was a simple, almost chaste kiss but Helena felt her lips open beneath his. A sigh escaped her.

  It was a sigh of understanding. This was the way things should be, this was the way fate intended her life should go. She knew by the thundering of her heart and the sweetness of Stephen’s kiss that it should be so. It felt right to be held in his arms.

  “Yes,” she breathed again.

  Stephen’s lips pressed more firmly His hands loosened their grip in her hair and one slid down her back, holding her tightly against him. His tongue probed her mouth, startling Helena for a moment. Then the sense of rightness spoke and she found herself enjoying it. More than enjoying it. A sensation built, a slow, sweet ache in the center of her body, deep down in her belly.

  Helena clung to Stephen for more than simple comfort. Her whole body throbbed and sang with a tension she had never experienced before but thought she knew. This was what the women around the campfire had whispered of, those nights when their menfolk had gone away. This delicious, exciting feeling had provoked their smiles and self-conscious laughter, the arch jesting and merriment.

  For this, Helena knew she had waited for fate to deliver Stephen to her.

  But he pulled away. Helena gripped his cloak, suddenly afraid he might leave.

  Stephen’s hands covered hers and squeezed them gently. “Do not fear. I only wish to move away from here. It is too open. Too many use the river as an easily followed path at night.”

  Stephen handed Helena her knife and she put it back in the sheath hanging from her belt. Stephen took her hand in his. “Come.”

  He led her back into the forest. They walked on well-rotted leaf litter, steps muffled to almost total silence. It was warm among the boles and very still.

  Stephen found a ring of trees surrounding a dell, some standing tall, others fallen and hollow. Other people had found the place a convenient resting spot as well, for when they reached the shallow bottom they found the remains of old cooking fires, the surrounding stones blackened and charred but many days cold. It was a warning that others wandered the forest.

  Stephen kicked at the stones. “I think we can risk a fire, if there is wood to be had.”

  Helena leaned down to run her hands over a black shape at her feet. She lifted it. “Here’s some. Whoever was here last left his supply behind.”

  “Would that he left a flint too. It has been some time since I was forced to coax a fire from less cooperative sources. ’Elen, take my hand. There is a large stone here
.” His hand found hers in the dark and he led her to the stony seat. He moved about the dell, collecting wood, arranging it. There were small sounds as he started a fire.

  Helena sat listening to him move about, enjoying these few moments of peace. For the moment her worries were pushed from her mind. She basked in the glow of the knowledge Stephen had come to her, unsummoned, just when she needed him most.

  Finally a flame flickered to life. Stephen fed it steadily and built it into a small, cheering fire. Its warmth was welcome but its light more so.

  Helena abandoned her cold, stone perch and crept to Stephen’s side. She sat on the trampled earth there.

  “I knew you would come to the river,” she ventured.

  He nodded, staring at the flame.

  “Savaric…” she began.

  Stephen took a deep breath, shoulders and chest lifting.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “He is not the best match for you, ’Elen.” The mild words did not match his reaction.

  “He revolts me,” Helena confessed. “His eyes are empty, there’s nothing there when you look at him and his touch…” She hugged her hands to her stomach. “God above, to be married to him! I could not bear it.”

  “You would not be alone in that.” Stephen’s voice was low, strained.

  “But John is making the arrangements! Savaric does not dispute it! I cannot marry him. John thinks he is giving Savaric Isobel of Brittany, along with all her lands. What if he married me…what then? He would try to lay claim to lands he believed were rightfully his.” Helena shivered and spoke her worst fear. “They would discover I am not who I say I am and all would be lost.”

  Stephen pulled Helena against him in silent comfort. His lips caressed her temple. “You look to me for an answer when I have none to give,” he said. “I am a poor companion.”

  Helena pulled away from Stephen just enough to look at him. “You could marry me.”

  He closed his eyes, as if in great pain.