Heart of Vengeance

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  Isobel lay unmoving except for the slow, even rise of her chest. It was the only sign that she lived. Did she even hear him? The lack of any sort of reaction from her stirred Savaric’s ire. He would ensure she heard him!

  He reached for the open neck of her bed gown and with one easy, swift tug of the knife, ripped it from neck to navel. The tattered material fell apart, revealing white, smooth skin, so pale it resembled his own. Her breasts were full, pink-tipped peaks.

  “You are a beauty worth having in one’s bed,” Savaric said and for a moment even believed his words. She was toothsome, without doubt. He could not resist the urge to run his fingertips the length of her torso. The skin was hot to touch and surprisingly soft. The softness tempted him to continue the caress but he withdrew his hands reluctantly.

  “Soon.” he whispered. “Soon I will have you like this, with your eyes open, looking at me when I touch you so.” Savaric was astonished to hear his voice tremble, for the sight of any woman’s body had long failed to touch him. But he could not deny that the feel of her skin was pleasurable. Regretfully, he rose and left the curtained bed.

  Cicely hovered in the middle of the room, wringing her hands.

  “I will delay no longer,” Savaric told Cicely and thrust the tallow at her. “Get that woman on her feet and to the great hall tomorrow evening, or I will know where to rest the blame for her absence.”

  “Yes, my lord,” the woman murmured.

  Savaric strode from the room and along the corridor leading to the second floor. The hall there was reserved for the ladies’ dormitory. Where the passage turned a sharp corner, the serving woman Maryanne stood waiting for him, just out of sight of anyone in the hall itself.

  Savaric pulled several coins from his purse and handed them to her. “As soon as he comes to her aid, I want word.”

  “Yes, my lord.” She dropped a hasty curtsy. Savaric brushed past her, into the warmth and light of the hall, feeling again the tug of regret for what would never be.

  * * * * *

  Only when she heard the door close did Helena allow herself to move. She rolled to the edge of the bed, gathering the torn edges of her gown together in one hand and thrusting the covers away with the other. She rose and looked around wildly. There was a swift swell of foulness in her mouth.

  “A laver!” she cried to Cicely, as her stomach rumbled ominously.

  Cicely thrust the bowl toward Helena, slopping water on the floor.

  She grasped it, leaned over it and vomited.

  “My lady, your back!” Cicely cried.

  Helena hung over the bowl, waiting for the last of the deep retches to pass. She felt Cicely’s hands in her hair, pulling it aside to better see her back.

  “Dear lord!” Cicely murmured. “The blood is everywhere! What did he do to you?”

  “He is not responsible for that.” Helena sank to her knees in the rushes and pushed the laver away wearily. “Although it gave him pause and allowed him to believe I was too weak to rise.”

  “You did this, my lady? To yourself?” Cicely’s horror vibrated through her voice.

  Helena pushed her hair from her face with a shaky hand. Cold gnawed at her bones. “It was simply a matter of reopening the wounds.”

  “But so much blood!”

  The gown felt cold and sticky now, despite the hot, heavy throbbing of her back. Helena struggled with the gown, trying to take it off. Cicely assisted and together they removed the offensive garment. Cicely clucked her tongue. “Dear, dear. We’ll need to wash them down.”

  Helena stayed seated on the rushes while Cicely scurried about, pouring water and bathing her back. The touch of the water stung. Helena knew she had been more zealous in reopening the wounds than was necessary or wise and she directed Cicely in the preparation of the compound of exotic herbs Stephen had given her. Cicely placed the compresses over the wounds and bound them with bandages.

  Cicely held up the ruined, stained gown. “It’s fit for naught but the fire, my lady.”

  “Then to the fire it goes. I know of no more suitable place for it.” Helena went to the chest by the window and withdrew the dark green velvet gown and her kirtle. “I’ll wear day clothes for now. I won’t be resting in the bed again.” She glanced at the draped curtains that hid the bed and shivered. She could still feel Savaric’s hands on her, the revolting fingernails scraping across her skin with a light, irritating touch that sent quivers of repulsion up and down her spine.

  Hurriedly, Helena dressed.

  “Not rest there again? My lady plans to leave this place?”

  “I don’t know.” She slipped the gown over her head and struggled with the laces. The movement of her arms sent stinging lancets through her back. “I should have received word a day ago at least. Robert would not leave me waiting here this long without cause.”

  “Then what will you do, my lady?” Cicely asked.

  “She will come with me, away from this place.” It was Stephen’s voice.

  Helena turned, even as Cicely gave a smothered shriek. Stephen stood at the door, in deep shadows.

  “How long have you been here?” she demanded, her heart thundering in her chest.

  “Long enough to hear you have not received the sign you await. Long enough to know you can no longer afford to stay here. It is time to leave, Helena.” Stephen stepped into the light cast by the fireplace and moved toward her with the long, easy stride of a warrior.

  “I did not expect to see you again,” she whispered.

  Stephen stopped before her, his cloak swirling around him, stirring the hem of her gown. His eyes, the black, impenetrable eyes, stared at her. “I know,” Stephen said gently.

  Helena’s eyes stung with unasked tears and she blinked them away. “You would force me from here?”

  “I would see you away to safety, Elen. As I once promised you, I am here when you need me.”

  “I did not call.”

  He laid his hand against her breast, so the heel of it rested over her heart. “In here, yes, you did.”

  Helena could find no answer, for she knew Stephen spoke truly. In her heart she had wanted him to seek her out. “In truth, I am glad you are here,” she whispered.

  Stephen took her in his arms. They were warm and strong around her. The strong sense of protection it gave her was immeasurable. Always, when she needed help, Stephen had been there for her. It had been a long time since someone cared for her welfare in this way.

  Then his lips sought hers, warm and insistent. The sense of safe haven fell away, pushed aside by the swiftly building current of pleasure. She let herself be drawn into its surge, only realizing then what she had forgotten for a while. They had a bond between them none could gainsay—not Savaric, nor even John with his scheming demands. She had been a fool to dismiss that bond’s power. How could she have forgotten this…force between them?

  When at last he lifted his mouth from hers, Helena’s breath was ragged and hurried and the light in the room seemed much too bright.

  “Gather some things. Clothes, whatever possessions you have in this room you wish to take with you,” Stephen said. “And hurry. Merriman stands guard at the secret gate but I dare not leave it open too long.”

  Helena knew she would go with him this time, without argument or hesitation. Her future lay with him. “Cicely, my fur-lined cloak and my girdle…and the heavy shoes.”

  Cicely emerged from her dark corner. She threw open the lid of the chest and rummaged. “But where will you be going to, my lord?” she asked over her shoulder. “How will I know where you are?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Stephen said. “It is enough for now to escape this place with our lives.”

  “I know where we should go,” Helena said. She wound her girdle about her waist twice and knotted it. She then bent, put on her shoes and laced them quickly.

  “Where?” Cicely asked.

  Helena straightened and looked at Stephen, prepared for argument. “Into the great forest.”


  He studied her for a moment, frowning and then nodded and surprised her with a smile. “Yes, that is the most appropriate place for you, isn’t it?” Then the frown returned. “But we must hurry, for if I am discovered here…” The words were barely out of his mouth when a thunderous banging echoed on the door of the chamber.

  “Open up! In the name of the king, open this door!”

  Stephen whirled and Helena heard the low rasp of his sword being pulled from its scabbard. “Too late,” he said, his voice barely audible above the thundering and shouting on the other side of the door. He looked at Helena over his shoulder. “Is there another way from this room?”

  She shook her head. “We are on the bailey side of the keep here. Even if there were a way out, we would simply find ourselves in the bailey.”

  “Which would put us in the middle of John’s encamped men.”

  “Lady Helena!” came the call.

  “Savaric,” she whispered.

  “In the name of the king I demand you give yourself over to my custody! Both you and your companion.”

  Stephen walked quietly to the door and tested his shoulder against it. “They have a fair weight upon it.” He spoke in an undertone. “Even if they have called on every man available, they cannot squeeze more than four at a time into that corridor. Not armed men.” He moved back to Helena and took her hand. His expression was remote, as if his thoughts were far away. “We will have to fight it out, Elen.”

  “You could give yourself up,” she said. “You have done no wrong beyond dalliance with a maiden. You could call for the king’s leniency, explain you did not know who I am—”

  “Hush,” Stephen said, hand resting against her cheek. “Do you think I could stand by and watch them arrest you?” He shook his head. “No, Elen. I’m afraid we are in this together.”

  Helena pulled out her knife. “Then I am ready.”

  Stephen stooped to place a single kiss on her lips—hot, heavy and with implied promise. Even though his words were grave and his expression graver, Helena thought she saw a merry light in his eyes. He stepped back and unfastened his cloak and wound it around his left forearm.

  A temporary shield, she realized.

  Stephen glanced at her. “Ready?”

  Helena took the dark cloak Cicely held out for her and flung it about her shoulders. Cicely gave her a bulging leather pack. “Take this, my lady. The contents will sustain you when most needed.”

  Helena nodded her thanks and slung the strings over her shoulder. She glanced at Stephen. “I am ready,” she lied, for in truth, fear had her by the throat and threatened to steal all the strength from her legs. The hammering on the door had intensified. The sound was frightening when one knew that angry, armed men called for her arrest.

  Stephen must have seen the truth in her face, for he gripped her forearm. “The fear is greatest, now, before it begins.”

  “I know,” Helena responded.

  One brow lifted. “Yes, I rather thought you might.” He gestured to the door. “I will lean against the door and keep it closed. You lift the bar and step back so you will be clear when it opens. Understand?”

  Helena nodded, moved to the barrier and placed her hand beneath the bar, ready to lift it the moment Stephen indicated he was ready. He settled his left shoulder against the beams. “Now,” he said shortly.

  Helena pulled back the bar and jumped out of the way, knowing speed was critical. As soon as she was clear, Stephen sprang back and brought his sword up, just as armed men boiled into the room with screaming battle cries and roars.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The only view of the fighting Catherine had from her spectator’s point was a collection of tunic-covered backs. Between knights, she glimpsed leather bindings and wooden frames on the inside of shields. There were a dozen men and they completely blocked the corridor.

  Despite her limited view, Catherine knew when the door to the chamber opened, for the knights surged forward like a single body in motion. From the front came exultant battle cries and the sound of sword against shield, sword against sword.

  Behind her, the women huddled in the far corner of the dormitory whimpered.

  Catherine strained to see over the heads of the knights. She saw spear points waving like denuded trees but that was all. It was vexing. It was her careful arrangements and plans that had brought them to this point and she could play no part in its ending.

  Frustrated, Catherine dropped her gaze and concentrated on listening. There was a scream from the chamber that made her jump and was echoed by the women in the dormitory. The serving woman, Cicely, without doubt.

  Against twelve armed knights, her husband and even the Lord Savaric with a shield and sword, the errant pair in the chamber stood no chance. It did not surprise her, however, that they chose to fight to the last rather than meekly surrender.

  Secure in her certainty, Catherine was chilled with shock when the knights before her stumbled back down the corridor. They were giving way!

  No! This could not be! Stephen winning against a dozen men? Impossible.

  Catherine remembered the icy turret room when Isobel lay on the floor, back flayed open and body too weak to rise. There had been a moment when Catherine had lowered her girdle to give her arm respite and recover her breath. During that moment she saw that Isobel watched her. Defiance was gone, if it had ever been there. Perhaps for the first time, Catherine recognized what resided inside the woman—a silent, implacable will.

  Catherine had realized then she would not break Isobel by beating her. Neither would Isobel meekly submit to armed men. The man she had chosen as a lover would only match her in spirit.

  The warriors scattered into the dormitory at the end of the corridor, lurching from Dinan’s onslaught and for the first time Catherine could see ahead. What she saw she knew would remain with her in the days to come, for it was the most astonishing, the most frightening thing she had ever seen.

  Stephen of Dinan, the black bear, pushed his way forward, fighting for passage through the corridor. His black tunic was slashed and torn. He had wrapped his cloak around his left forearm and it too, had jagged tatters, fluttering in the air as he thrust his arm forward against the hacking blades. There was a rent in the arm of his tunic and blood beneath. He wore no chain mail, for he had been caught unprepared. His head was bare of helmet and for the first time Catherine saw the face of a man in the midst of battle. His eyes were narrowed, glinting. His face was expressionless, for Dinan could not afford the luxury of expression. He parried thrusts mostly with his sword, protecting his left arm as much as possible. Determined thrusts that would slip past his left side, however, he instantly blocked with the padded arm.

  As Stephen steadily drew closer to where Catherine hugged the cold stone wall, she saw why.

  Isobel stood behind him. She did not cling to him, using him as a shield, however. Her back was against his and she moved steadily with him as he progressed forward. She had her knife out, the extra-long knife Catherine had always thought so odd an implement for a woman to use at the table and she held it like a man ready to fight.

  More astonishing still, she was fighting. As Catherine stared, Isobel reached out with her left hand to catch a descending wrist and she bared her back by stepping forward to thrust at the exposed underarm. The knight dropped and Isobel reversed quickly so her back was once more against Dinan’s.

  The implacable will Catherine had glimpsed in the turret two days before was now visible for all to see. Isobel’s face was as blank and her eyes as fierce as Dinan’s.

  We made a terrible mistake, Catherine realized.

  “Dinan!” came a roar from the chamber doorway. From between the wounded knights milling in Dinan’s trail, Hubert pushed forward, his sword high above his head. His temple and half his face were covered in blood, giving him a demented air.

  Fright seized Catherine. “No!” she cried but her voice was lost beneath the crash of weapons and cries of men gripped by the
fever of battle. Catherine watched, limbs leaden, as Isobel’s head lifted to sight Hubert.

  The young woman turned and snapped, “Stephen, behind!” The two turned like dancers about a May pole so Stephen faced Hubert’s more dangerous attack.

  “No…” Catherine whispered as Hubert leapt at Dinan, for she knew her husband stood no chance against the more desperate man. She watched, voiceless, as their swords came together, crossing close to the hilts. For a moment they stood face to face.

  Then Dinan shoved, sending Hubert staggering backward a few short steps until he recovered and leapt again. This time his sword did not crash against Dinan’s. Instead Hubert met the point of Dinan’s sword with his chest and stiffened as the metal pushed through his body.

  Dinan pulled out his sword and the two turned again, still making their way down the corridor, leaving wounded and dying men in their wake, passing Catherine without looking at her.

  Catherine crept to her husband’s body, knelt beside him and cradled his head in her lap. She shed a few bitter tears but most of them stayed within her, trapped inside the hard, aching mass in her chest.

  The fighting reached the dormitory and the women screamed in earnest.

  “Do not let them reach the stairs!” came a cry.

  “Too late!” Abruptly, the sound of the fighting faded. They had made the stairs.

  Yet still Catherine stayed with her husband, even as the wounded knights around her were helped away. She knew she must consider the future of her son now but could not, for the burden of guilt lay upon her.

  Time passed unnoticed.

  A bloody shield dropped to the floor at her side. Catherine looked up then. Savaric stood over her. There was a cut over his eye which had bled and turned his robe into a scarlet mockery.

  A knight pounded down the corridor, spurs clinking and scraping against the boards. He snapped off a salute. “My lord, they’ve escaped through the dungeons. There was a man waiting there. One of yours. The one they call Merriman.”