Heart of Vengeance

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  “Yes, yes,” Catherine said, waving her hand impatiently.

  Savaric felt another small, secondary shock. She already knew this? “Where do you get your information, Lady Catherine?”

  “You would do well to cultivate all whom you meet instead of concentrating your effort only on those who would serve you best,” Catherine replied coolly. “But the matter is irrelevant.”

  “You wave the matter aside so easily. Is it that you know who Isobel really is?”

  Catherine grasped her cup again. Savaric noted with interest that the flesh on her hand seemed thin and frail, like the hand of a toothless, rounded old crone one might find in any village or town. She drank deeply, as if the wine was an elixir.

  “I am waiting,” Savaric said softly.

  “Then wait!” Catherine drank more, then, “First, an agreement.”

  “What do you have that could possibly interest me?”

  “I have John’s favor.”

  “I have that too—more than you.”

  “Yes but working together…” Catherine lifted a single brow.

  “If we are both working for the same faction, Lady Catherine, what could we possibly achieve working together that we would not achieve working alone?”

  “A certain security in ensuring each other’s wants are satisfied.” She lifted her hand. “Leave that for now. Let us discuss this faction we both find ourselves within.”

  “Let us, by all means,” Savaric agreed easily. Let the woman steer the conversation then. She would only reveal her purpose sooner by doing so.

  “Prince John has not yet been deemed the royal heir.”

  “It is only a matter of time.”

  “Perhaps. But there is Arthur, King Richard’s nephew, who the king says he will declare his royal heir.”

  Savaric sneered. “You truly think he will inherit the throne? A babe? When France stands at our borders?”

  “England has stood alone and without her king to guide her before now. But let us discuss France. Richard is poised to defeat Phillip. That too, is only a matter of time.”

  “Granted, if he does not drain England of its lifeblood in the process,” Savaric said sourly.

  “If Richard does subdue France and return to England to take up his crown in person, then he will become more firmly entrenched than ever he has been before. He will be the most powerful king in Western Europe.”

  Savaric felt a quickening of his interest. “Your words, lady, could be construed as treasonous.”

  Catherine appeared impatient. “Tell me you have not entertained these thoughts yourself. You and I both want John on the throne. It would suit our purposes if he gains the crown sooner rather than later. You cannot deny you would find it convenient if Richard were to die in Normandy fighting Phillip.”

  “I cannot deny it,” Savaric agreed. “All it would take is a stray arrow, or a careless misstep.”

  Catherine nodded. “Then we are of like minds. Good.”

  Savaric held back his sneer. Of like minds? The woman had nothing in common with him. But she roused his curiosity. Such ruthlessness was odd in a woman and she had a freshness of perspective that intrigued him. To encourage her to continue he nodded gravely.

  “The agreement,” Catherine continued. “I propose nothing more than that we work in concert, to ensure in whatever small ways we can that John reaches the throne.”

  “Then we have nothing to do,” Savaric pointed out. “He will be the next king.”

  “The picture is not as certain as you paint it. The stray arrow or inexplicable misstep is not only reserved for kings.”

  That gave Savaric pause. “True,” he said at last.

  “There are those who would prefer that John never sit on the throne.”

  “There is always opposition to a powerful man’s ambitions.” Savaric shrugged.

  “Then you agree with me that caution and planning are necessary.”

  She had him there. “I see your point,” he said.

  “So we have an agreement?” Catherine insisted.

  Savaric found himself smiling with genuine surprise. Oh, this woman was entertaining! She was a true oddity. It was worth agreeing with her just to share her company at a later date. “We have an agreement,” he said.

  Catherine settled back into her chair. “If I tell you who Isobel is, what will you give me in exchange?”

  “What is the price of your information?”

  “That you react to it only in the manner I prescribe.”

  Interesting. “It seems you have more plans in different places than just this one.”

  “But I have your agreement,” Catherine insisted.

  “Indeed,” Savaric replied dryly.

  She sat back and rubbed her temple again, then drained her cup of its contents.

  “I am curious, my lady. Tell me why you are going to such extraordinary lengths to ensure the succession.”

  Catherine frowned. “You do not need to know that.”

  “I am making it a part of our agreement. I would as soon know what drives you. If circumstances were to change, I might find myself unexpectedly bereft of support. I would find that most inconvenient.”

  “If I were a man, you would not accuse me of the potential for going back on my word,” Catherine said bitterly.

  “True. A man would run me through with his sword at the mere suggestion of it. But you are not a man.” He smiled. “Come, tell me your reasons for doing this.”

  Catherine licked her lips. “I want John on the throne because he will fully support my only remaining son’s inheritance and his place at court, when he is of age. John will not drag him into wars and strife, as Richard has done with the others.”

  “But you are such an effective strategist, my lady. You could oversee that transition yourself, when the time comes.”

  Catherine shook her head. “I am dying. I have known it for some time now. I will not see the next winter.”

  Savaric nodded. “So you seek to secure your son’s place before you pass on.”

  “Yes.”

  She was nothing like him! She went to extraordinary lengths for another person. She herself stood to gain nothing from this! Disappointment touched Savaric. Catherine was not nearly as formidable as he had thought. Her altruism was her weakness. Savaric would be able to manipulate her like a puppet.

  “Very well then, my lady. Tell me who Isobel really is. And tell me who her lover is.”

  “That was not part of our agreement.”

  “I have decided it is. You want my cooperation, yes?”

  He saw a sudden flash of bitter knowledge in Catherine’s eyes. She had realized the bargain was no bargain at all. Good. It would become monotonous if she proved too gullible.

  “Tell me,” he repeated.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The inn to which Merriman had directed them sat at the foot of the castle’s curtain wall. From the grimy window, Stephen could see the upper floors of the castle itself, over the top of the wall. Helena was there, behind one of those narrow windows.

  The inn was dirty, mean and disreputable. The customers it attracted were the same—ill-dressed, closed-mouthed and inclined to anger.

  Ranulf glanced around the main room before shutting the stained and ragged curtain across the private alcove to which the innkeeper had led them. “They cater to a rough trade here, my lord.”

  “Merriman has used this inn as a meeting place before, for he named it readily enough last night,” Stephen pointed out. “I wonder who it is he meets here?”

  Ranulf shuddered. “People who would not mix without remark among more comely folk.”

  “Yes, but who? I would give much to know that answer.” He poured Ranulf a cup of the poor wine they had been served. “He’s late.”

  “Merriman will be here, sir. He does not break his word easily.”

  “He did not give his word.”

  “He swore to me he would help you.”

  “He gave you
his sworn oath? That is quite a bond you have with a man I’d never heard of until yesterday.”

  Ranulf peered into his cup, staring at the wine.

  Stephen relented. “I should not probe.”

  “Sir.” It was a subtle acknowledgment.

  “Too many times your friendships and odd bonds have served. Forgive me.”

  Ranulf smiled. “There is nothing to forgive, my lord.”

  “I am…uneasy,” Stephen confessed.

  “That you are, my lord.”

  Stephen sighed and ran a hand through his hair impatiently. “Where is he?”

  Merriman did not appear until the sun was low and sending a subdued golden yellow through the filthy little window. He slipped behind the curtain, barely stirring the fabric and nodded at Stephen. “My lord.” He rubbed his hands. “It smells like snow is on the way.”

  “How does the Lady Helena fare?” Stephen asked, unable to face the requisite polite exchanges.

  “Better than the lords believe, but still she suffers.”

  “They have not beaten her again?”

  “Dame Cicely exaggerated her injuries to ensure they would not.”

  “Why does she insist on staying in that accursed place?”

  “It is her home, my lord,” Merriman replied steadily.

  “Not since the king took her father’s title and confiscated his estates. The castle belongs to Lord Savaric now. What does she gain by lingering in the lair of that man?”

  “She waits for word.”

  Stephen frowned. “What word? From whom?”

  Merriman looked away. “I cannot say, my lord,” he replied stiffly.

  Stephen studied him, mind racing. His suspicions had been justified. Helena had revealed her true identity as a ploy to make him leave her at the castle.

  “They have beaten her, starved her and are forcing her to marry a man whose very touch makes her ill, yet she braves it all to await word from some mysterious man. I assume this man is helping her find her father’s murderer?”

  Merriman stared at the scarred tabletop.

  “Such dedication is almost foolish,” Stephen muttered.

  Merriman’s head lifted at that. “My Lady Helena is no fool! She seeks only to provide for those who cannot provide for themselves. You have no right to judge her!”

  He held out his hand. “Peace, old man. I mean no offense.”

  Merriman brushed his cloak out and straightened his shoulders. “If there is nothing else?”

  “Just one more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “I want you to lead me back into the castle tonight.”

  “No, my lord!” Ranulf cried.

  “I cannot risk it again,” Merriman added. “It would put my lady in too much danger.”

  “She is already in danger of her life,” Stephen said softly. “You can be sure that if I discovered she is not Isobel of Brittany, then others will also have their suspicions—especially here in York where there are too many people privy to the truth.”

  Merriman shook his head. “It is too chancy, my lord.”

  “I was not expressing a request.”

  “But my lord,” Ranulf added, “why would you want to return?”

  Merriman nodded. “Yes, why would you wish to return to a place you were so relieved to be rid of last night? You could not escape from there fast enough to suit you.”

  Stephen frowned. “I have allowed you much latitude in your dealings with me, Merriman. I warn you.”

  Ranulf intervened with a torrent of English, which Merriman replied to quietly and ended with a resigned shrug. Both of them turned to look at Stephen curiously.

  Astonishingly, Merriman smiled. “I will lead you into the castle again, my lord.”

  “What did you tell him?” Stephen demanded.

  “I said there was no accounting for the minds of men who have been touched by the troubadour’s madness.”

  Stephen shook his head. He had acquired a tenuous grasp of English during his time in Britain and knew that no mention of troubadours, or their madness—love—had passed their lips.

  “Ranulf is lying because he fears you would be angry at his indiscretion,” Merriman said.

  “Which was?”

  “He said you would go mad if you did not see her. That you and my lady are destined to be together, no matter how you pull away from each other.”

  Even though the idea was new to him, put in such a way, Stephen felt the truth of it in his bones. “I cannot dispute that.”

  “You must do this?” Merriman asked. “The Lady Helena has traveled a strange path. You may not like the places it takes you.”

  “They could be no worse than the places I have seen.”

  Merriman’s face grew grave. “Even death, my lord?”

  “Death I have seen in plenty. Who has not, these days?”

  “Aye, indeed.”

  “I must do this, Merriman,” Stephen added.

  Merriman sighed. “So you must.”

  * * * * *

  Only when the passage lamps had been snuffed and the castle settled down for the night did Helena allow herself to relax. She had stayed in the majestic bed all day, allowing Cicely to fuss around her. Cicely lied without blushing whenever someone inquired after Helena’s health.

  “The lady is prostrate and likely to remain so for as long as she is disturbed by your comings and goings!” Cicely told Maryanne, one of the surprising inquirers.

  Indeed, most of the visitors were unexpected. Those who were expected did not appear. She fully anticipated Catherine to sail into the chamber some time during the day but she did not.

  The one caller whose presence Helena most dreaded did not arrive either. Savaric had demanded she appear in the great hall this evening, to declare her willingness to marry him before the assembled household. She had felt herself grow more tense as the hour of the evening meal drew closer but there were no peremptory demands for her attendance in the hall, no protests at her absence. Nothing.

  Perhaps he had heard of her disability and had spared her for this one day. It seemed the only reasonable explanation. As a result, as the castle quieted down, the tight coils of tension in Helena’s stomach gradually eased. She risked sitting up in the bed, wondering if it would be safe to venture beyond the thick curtains drawn about the bed, to request a meal and something to drink. It was the depth of her hunger that measured her recovery. After a day of playing the invalid, Helena was ravenous.

  She was just reaching for the curtains when the chamber door was thrust open, slamming against the wall behind with a thick blow that seemed to reach through to the roots of the castle itself.

  “My Lord Savaric!” Cicely gasped.

  Helena shrank back from the curtains. He was here!

  “Give me that tallow,” Savaric snarled.

  “But, my lord! You cannot disturb the lady. She is ill.”

  “I guarantee she is not too ill to speak to me.”

  “Here, I will light you a fresh tallow,” Cicely said. “This one has begun to smoke too much.” It was patently a ploy to give Helena time.

  Helena bit her lip. Savaric was going to have it out with her here and now. She knew she did not look nearly ill enough to match Cicely’s claims.

  Helena looked at the thick curtains surrounding the bed. What to do? At any moment he would pull them aside. Think, she demanded of herself. How could she convince Savaric she was too ill to attend him in the great hall? At all costs she had to avoid that confrontation, at least for one more day.

  Moving more by instinct than with the power of a well-considered decision, Helena pulled her robe up and reached up along her back with her fingertips, feeling the scabs and tender ridges of the cuts and scrapes. She dug in her nails.

  * * * * *

  Savaric grabbed the newly lit tallow from Cicely’s hand, ignoring her hiss of pain as a drop of the hot wax fell onto her wrist. He strode to the bed and pulled the curtain aside. “My lady, we had an ag
reement—”

  The little witch lay quite still beneath the coverlet.

  Savaric lifted the candle higher, letting the light fall on Isobel’s face. Her eyes were closed. He was astonished by her pallor. If he hadn’t been told of her adventures of the previous night, he might well suppose she was as ill as Cicely claimed. There was a quick way to settle the matter, however.

  Savaric pushed at Isobel’s shoulder and turned her over to see her back. “Such minor scratches do not annul your part of the…”

  Isobel’s gown was a sodden, limp, rag of blood, clinging to her flesh. The sheet beneath showed a bloody outline where she had lain.

  “God’s teeth!” Savaric hissed. He let her drop back to the bed. Her head rolled limply to one side and the whisper of a moan slipped from her. Her eyelids lifted to show a sliver of the remarkable blue beneath. Her eyes rolled slowly from side to side. That was not a good sign, Savaric knew.

  He stared down at her, frustration and disbelief battling for domination. How could this thing have entertained a lover the previous evening? It was impossible, unless she was bluffing. But one could not dispute the bloody mess she lay in.

  Savaric settled the tallow in his left hand and sat on the edge of the bed. “You think to fool me with this charade?” He pulled out his dagger, and caught the tip under the edge of the neck of her gown. The blade was sharp. With a quick series of jerks, he ripped the gown down to her waist, laying her back bare.

  He stared at the evidence of Catherine’s handiwork. It was no great wonder Isobel had fainted at the tournament. Even now, after a day of rest, the wounds still seeped fresh blood. He could see the outline of the square amethysts on Catherine’s belt forming as bruises on the woman’s back, too.

  Savaric scrambled to pull his thoughts together. He shoved at her shoulder, rolling her onto her back, covering up the bloody spot on the sheet once more. Her head moved without resistance and again doubt touched him but he ignored it.

  He pitched his voice so the serving woman would not hear and gasped Isobel’s chin. “I will have my way, woman,” he told her. “I can be patient, if necessary. It is something I have learned, patience. But you will come to me in the great hall. You will pronounce your willingness to marry me. Entertain no doubts that this will come to pass.”