Heart of Vengeance

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  John didn’t bother to look up from the chessboard he studied. “Give her time. She will come around.”

  Hubert shook his head. “Forgive me, Your Grace but I think you are wrong. You don’t know Isobel as well as I have come to understand her over the last year. She has her own mind. Force isn’t going to change it. It just makes her dig her heels in, so to speak.”

  John looked up then. “What will move her?”

  Hubert sighed. “I don’t know.”

  “Come, if you do understand her so well, you must have an idea what sort of appeal will work with her.”

  “He said he knew her better than you, Your Grace,” Savaric pointed out. “That doesn’t mean he has any insight. I rather suspect no one comprehends the Lady Isobel nearly as well as they think they do.”

  John picked up the black queen. “Except you, aye, Savaric?”

  “I believe I can appeal to her better senses, given a little privacy.”

  John nodded. “Do it. Let’s get this tiresome business over with. I don’t want to deal with a recalcitrant woman during the tournament tomorrow. See she’s there, Savaric. There and dressed befitting her station.”

  Hubert lifted his finger. “Then you’d best lay off the beating for now, if you want her standing on her own two feet.”

  “Yes. Tell Catherine to leave her be for now.”

  Savaric was amused to see Hubert sigh. The small, round man never had trouble running Saracens through with his sword. Why did a simple flogging move him so? He got to his feet. “I’ll speak to Isobel now.”

  * * * * *

  When she lifted her head, Helena saw dust motes dancing in front of her, just above the raw wood flooring, spiraling about in the late afternoon sun. This close to the floor she saw the motes were moved by wisps of air from the floor below this one, filtering through chinks and cracks in the floorboards.

  Slowly, Helena tried to push herself up, propping her body up with her hands, but the flexing of her back sent shivery, hot and cold spikes of agony through her. She dropped back to the floor, cupping her head on her arms. Weak tears gathered and dropped onto the sleeve of her kirtle. Helena paid little heed to them. She had already beggared herself in worse ways throughout the day of beatings. She had pleaded, whimpered and screamed for Catherine to stop. She had cowered in the corner and howled aloud her agony and pain. Once, just once, she had tried to turn on Catherine. She had thought that if she could just catch hold of the strap…

  But the end of the belt had snapped across Helena’s face the instant she launched herself at Catherine. An amethyst had bitten into her cheek, leaving a long scratch on the cheekbone. The blow had driven her backward and she had not tried to defend herself again.

  Nor had she given in. She could not give in. It was as simple as that. Helena wished she could make them understand they could not change her mind, so all this might cease.

  There were footsteps outside the door and a clunk as the handle dropped. The footsteps entered, the door closed. The steps crossed to where she lay near the far wall. There was a long silence.

  “The Lady Catherine wields a wicked belt. You’ll have scars to remember this foolishness by.”

  Savaric. Helena didn’t bother hiding the shudder that went through her. She saw the dirty white robe fall about Savaric’s boots as he crouched down beside her. His voice was low. “They think whipping you will change your mind. They are wrong.”

  Helena stayed silent.

  “I know why you will not give them your agreement.”

  No! He could not know! She held her breath. He was merely bluffing.

  “I know the secrets you hide, Lady Isobel.”

  Helena turned her head to look at him. She moved slowly, for the belt had reached as high as her neck. “I have no secrets.”

  “Everyone has secrets. Some are more important than others but everyone has them. Yours, now. How important are they, I wonder?”

  He only suspected, then. Helena wilted with relief. Suspicion she could deal with. The truth in the wrong hands was another matter entirely.

  “There was a portrait in the great hall when I first came here, did you know that?” Savaric asked casually and Helena caught her breath. She turned her face away so Savaric would not see her unease.

  “Yes, a lovely portrait of a lovely woman. I took it down the day I arrived. I did not need reminders of the previous owners of this place. In fact, I burned it, which on reflection was rather thoughtless of me. Her eyes were very unusual, I remember. Very like your eyes, Lady Isobel. But, of course, it could not be you in that portrait, because you are from Brittany.”

  Savaric did know. He simply lacked evidence. If he had not burned the picture, he would have that evidence. Because he had destroyed it and as long as she disputed him, he could not support his claim.

  Helena felt Savaric’s long fingernails in her hair, pushing it away from her face. “Let us settle things now and never speak of them again. I don’t care who you are, or who you claim to be. I don’t particularly care to marry you either, but John wishes it and so it shall be. It is important to me I fulfill his wishes. You can keep your secret to yourself, madam. You can take it to your grave for all I care.”

  “If I marry you,” she said bitterly.

  “If you marry me. Otherwise, I will make sure your secret is no longer a secret.”

  Helena closed her eyes. Could she afford to out-bluff him? He had no evidence. Yet she felt sure he would be able to create the proof he needed, if it came to that. “Why is it so important I marry you?” she asked.

  “That, woman, is my secret. Do we have an agreement?”

  An agreement was impossible. No matter the price, she had to refuse him and refuse him in a way that would prevent him from revealing her false identity. Helena licked her lips. “I cannot think!” She deliberately made her voice croak. “I must think about this, yet I cannot.” She coughed. “You must give me time to accustom myself to this…blackmail.”

  “I can afford to be generous,” Savaric replied evenly. “Tomorrow is the tournament. I want you in the great hall the day after, proclaiming to John with utter sincerity your willingness to marry me. If you do not, you will be before John answering accusations of duplicity and possibly even treachery, depending on what truth emerges. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes,” Helena whispered.

  “Then I leave you to ruminate on your future.”

  Helena heard the door shut but didn’t look up. Instead she indulged in a few more weak, self-pitying tears. An investigation into her identity? She couldn’t let it come to that. Any investigation would produce the truth and she would be accused of far more than simple duplicity. With John so close at hand, her trial would be swift and merciless.

  Helena had less than a day to find a way out of the tight corner and she didn’t have the strength to lift herself off the floor.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Stand up!” Catherine hissed, prodding Helena’s side. “They’re calling for you.”

  Helena hauled herself up from the chair and suppressed a gasp as she straightened.

  Lining the tourney grounds were peasants, villagers, freemen and serfs, gathered on the fields by the river for a day of spectacle and merriment. As the maiden of the day in whose name the tourney had been called, she must officiate. They were calling for her in rusty French and all of them called for Isobel.

  “Wave,” Catherine commanded from behind her.

  Helena waved weakly. She had to concentrate to remain on her feet. For a moment the world seemed to recede from her and noise beat at her ears. Then everything righted itself and she swallowed dryly. Nausea gripped her stomach.

  “Sit,” Catherine snapped.

  Helena dropped her hand and sat down gratefully. Her chair was one of the tall dining chairs from the great hall, carried out of the city all the way to the tourney field. She was glad she had a chair with a back to it. She knew she could not remain on a stool or bench for long and s
he had seen enough tourneys to know they could easily last for hours.

  Helena had been hauled out of the freezing turret room just past dawn and dumped into a large trough of lukewarm water. The touch of the water on her back had made her cry out but Catherine stood over the women who washed her, supervising their every movement. From their faces it was plain they feared Catherine and would not neglect their duties, even to spare Helena’s back.

  The filthy kirtle was cut away and flung into the fire and Helena was washed from toe to tip. Then she was helped from the bath and dried. The women dressed her in a fresh kirtle, one of superior material and cut that felt soft against her skin. Any rough material would have been unbearable. Helena was then given a handful of bread and water with which to wash it down. She could only nibble at the meal, for even the small effort required in walking to the room and getting in and out of the bath had utterly drained her. While she ate, the women brushed her hair, drying it in front of the fire.

  Throughout the preparations, Catherine lectured Helena on her duty to her sponsors, to the king and to her family. As they dressed Helena in a beautiful gown of the finest cream-colored linen, Catherine finished her diatribe with a warning. “You will cooperate in all that is asked of you today. You will smile, speak pleasantly when addressed and to all and sundry you will give the impression you are having the most wonderful time. If you do not, it is not simply my belt you will contend with. John himself has demanded this of you. You will bring the wrath of the next King of England upon you.”

  With enormous effort, Helena nodded. She did not have the will to disobey. It was too much to think beyond putting one foot in front of the other.

  Between Catherine and the women, they dressed and prepared Helena for her role in the day’s proceedings. As maiden of the day, she wore no wimple and her hair was left free. A circlet of bronze was placed on her head and hair from the front of her head was looped up over the metal. Into the back, where the locks were tied together, a handful of late blooming flowers was pinned.

  Helena might have reveled in the wonderful clothes and her appearance under other circumstances but today she was simply glad not to have to bother with a wimple, which she had always found uncomfortable, or a veil, which would have made her back and shoulders unbearably hot.

  They had not forced her to sit upon a horse. She was glad they had foreseen her inability to control one. Instead, a wagon had been strung with flowers and wreaths of holly. Helena had ridden in it to the tourney grounds with a trail of city folk behind her, calling out their greetings.

  Now she sat gratefully in the warming rays of sunshine, resting and recovering her strength while the knights and barons listed for the contest arranged themselves in front of her and John, who sat next to her.

  There was an astonishingly large number of them. Too many for Helena to identify every shield and device. Where had they all come from? John had arrived with his usual retinue and Hubert had many knights and minor barons who answered to him. There were also the men to whom Savaric was liege lord and those who held lands within Yorkshire. But that did not account for this vast number.

  John clapped his hands when he saw the fine array of men and horses. He stood and took Helena’s hand. She pushed herself up with her free hand. “This great attendance is an honor indeed and I thank you!” John said to the assembled warriors. “Of course, with such a good attendance, hostage coins will be plentiful, so those of you who win today will have more than my gratitude to comfort you!”

  There was a smattering of laughter.

  “Fight well, fight honorably and may God watch over you and reward your valor!” John returned to his seat, leaving Helena at the barrier.

  The competitors split into two groups of roughly equivalent numbers. One group rode to the far end of the long field and the other made its way to the end closest to the gallery.

  They turned and faced each other, their horses snorting and pawing the ground, moving restlessly.

  Helena was handed a large white kerchief. She lifted her arm high, holding it aloft. In the weak breeze running off the river, the kerchief floated. Behind their shielding masks and helmets, the eyes of every warrior were upon her.

  Helena let the kerchief go.

  With war cries and roars, alarming in their ferociousness, the combatants kicked their horses into a charge. The ground rumbled under the many hooves and the audience screamed their delight, anticipating the first thunderous clash of the opposing fighters. That moment was considered one of the most exciting spectacles of the day and was eagerly awaited.

  But Helena could not remain standing to watch it. She stumbled back to her seat and fell into it just as the deafening volley sounded and the spectators roared. John frowned at her. “Sit up and act like you’re enjoying it!” he snapped. “Do not fail to behave appropriately again, I warn you!”

  Helena sat up groggily, for a high-pitched buzzing sounded in her ears and stole most of her concentration. But once she was upright, she found she could pretend an interest just by turning her head toward the main cluster of fighting.

  Helena had seen perhaps a dozen tournaments in her lifetime. Almost all had been organized as this one was. The competitors, after the initial clash, were free to fight among themselves. The last one to remain unhorsed was declared the winner and received the prize purse from the maiden of the day.

  But there were other ways of earning coins that did not require such an incredible combination of luck, skill and endurance. One could unhorse fighters and take them “hostage”, by taking them to assigned areas in the fighting field where they must remain for a set period of time before reentering the foray. Each hostage had to pay for his freedom. Scribes in each hostage area kept tallies throughout the day for final reckoning later.

  A warrior was forced to retire if he was unhorsed too many times, or injured beyond his ability to continue fighting. He could also choose to retire from the field. After several hours of continuous fighting, many men did so choose to retire rather than face the men remaining in the field, for these were the strongest of the list.

  The fighting went on, often as far as a mile or more away from the gallery. Messengers brought updates on the progress of the fighters, especially those considered favorites among the spectators.

  Throughout the event, pages and servants brought wine, food and whatever comforts the assembled nobility demanded.

  Helena refused all that was offered to her except water. The day was not hot, despite a clear sky and radiant sun but her thirst seemed unquenchable. She did not dare eat any food. The sight of it made her stomach clamp tight.

  After an hour of fighting, a little less than half the field remained.

  “Someone must be in fine form to have eliminated so many so quickly,” John commented, chin on fist. “It will be a fast fight today.” He seemed pleased, nevertheless.

  Helena was pleased too. The quicker she could escape this place and take to her bed, the better. That is, if she were allowed the comfort of her bed. She mustn’t forget that Savaric demanded an answer from her by the morrow. But thinking about it was too much effort, just as she had told Savaric. It was far easier to sit and let the world pass her by unheeded.

  A little later, a knight wearing chain mail and a heavy leather jerkin, helmet under his arm, approached them on the other side of the barrier.

  “How goes it, Bruce?” John asked.

  The knight leaned against the barrier and grinned. The other side of his face was covered in blood. Helena shivered.

  “It goes hard,” Bruce replied and spat. “John of Carlisle, now, he’s cutting a swathe through us all.”

  “John of Carlisle? The man must be in his dotage by now.”

  “Well, he’s found himself the fountain of youth, Your Grace. The bastard knocked me off my horse three times before I called pax. I had to. He was charging me again. And he took me hostage every time. I owe him every coin I’ve earned today.” Despite his words, Bruce seemed cheerful eno
ugh.

  “I’m sure you’ve done well,” John said. “Go get yourself some rest and sustenance, Bruce. I thank you for the report.”

  “Your Grace,” Bruce said, touching his forehead. He wandered away.

  John sat back in his chair thoughtfully. “Carlisle, hmm?” he murmured, studying the field.

  Helena easily recalled the shield markings for Carlisle—a stag and a hound, rampant, a crenellated wall below them, representing Hadrian’s Wall. She was able to remember it because the hound looked so vicious and she had been afraid of dogs as a child.

  The number of men withdrawing from the field slowed and the better combatants remaining had to spend longer fighting each other to eliminate or capture the other. Now the tournament became a true spectacle, for the audience could study and discuss technique and tactics. For the competitors, the truly hard work had begun.

  It soon became apparent that John of Carlisle had indeed found the strength and stamina of youth, for he dominated the field. Helena quickly had him picked out—an all-black destrier and the round shield she remembered. Carlisle was dressed in russet brown, with the badge of the stag on his chest, his chain mail hauberk burnished and bright. The helmet, like many on the field, was the full-round type that protected the fighter’s face and neck.

  John too, watched him. When Carlisle made a particularly difficult thrust at an opponent, leaning across his horse to reach past the man’s shield, John pursed his lips in a silent whistle. “That’s not Carlisle. I’d stake my life on it.”

  Helena glanced at him. John, like all the royal family, actively fought in battle. Who better to recognize another man’s fighting style?

  Helena returned her attention to Carlisle. Who was it, then, that masqueraded behind another’s shield? It wasn’t unheard of for a knight to take another man’s colors into a tournament. His competitors might underestimate him and thus give him an advantage. But such an event was always considered a jest, mostly for the amusement of the spectators.

  It became clear Carlisle was going to win the competition handsomely. The last opponents retired. The victor rode down the long field, heading for the gallery.