Heart of Vengeance

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  Savaric nodded. “I’ve heard whispers of an escape route leading under the river. Find the exit on the other side. Track them.”

  The knight lowered his gaze. “My lord, it is impossible.”

  “Why?”

  “My lord, the snow falls. Their tracks will be hidden.”

  As Savaric considered this bad news, one of John’s liveried pages hurried up the corridor. “My lord. His Grace, the Duke, demands your presence and an explanation immediately.”

  “Ahhhh…” Savaric sighed. He looked down at Catherine. “Why do you cling to him, woman? He is dead.”

  “He died because of my scheming. I am to blame,” Catherine whispered.

  “What you taste is the flavor of a mistake, Madame.” Savaric pushed at Hubert’s body with his boot. “It is the price you pay for playing with real chessmen.”

  * * * * *

  At the end of the passage Ranulf stood waiting patiently, a black shadow among other shadows beneath the dying tree. Stephen allowed himself a sigh of relief when he saw him there. Throughout the traverse of the passage he had worried that Savaric might anticipate their direction and be waiting for them to emerge.

  But only Ranulf greeted them. Stephen saw his hood was covered in a fine coating of snow. “Sire,” Ranulf murmured, moving forward to take Helena’s hand and help her up the stony embankment where the horses stood waiting. She gathered her skirts with the other hand and stepped up gracefully.

  Elen. A warrior in the guise of a woman. Stephen recalled the utter astonishment he’d felt when he realized she was actually fighting off men behind him. A second shield. Would they have reached safe haven if she had not proved so useful a fighter?

  “My lord,” Merriman spoke. Stephen forced himself to consider the more urgent matters at hand. Later he would allow himself the luxury of puzzling over Elen’s actions, for the mystery troubled him.

  Ranulf had horses saddled and waiting. “Four?” Stephen questioned.

  “My lord,” Merriman said again. “I beg your permission to accompany you.”

  Ranulf gave Elen a step up into the saddle. “He must come with us, my lord. It is not safe for him now.”

  Stephen studied the two dark shapes in front of him. The snow on Ranulf’s hood gave off a faint glow, even though the night was darkest black, unrelieved even by moonlight. Ranulf glanced at Merriman. Their complete accord with each other unsettled him.

  “What is this man to you?” Stephen demanded of Ranulf.

  “My lord?” Ranulf said blankly.

  “Who is he? The man extended uncommon service to me for no reason I can comprehend.”

  Merriman shook his head. “It is of no importance to you, my lord.”

  “I have soldiers behind me and nothing but the forest in front of me. I would like to know who it is I ride with into such an uncertain future.”

  Ranulf cleared his throat. “My lord, Merriman is my half-brother.”

  Stephen’s ire fell away. “Your brother?” he repeated, surprised.

  Merriman climbed into the saddle of one of the two remaining horses. “But do not let the relationship concern you, my lord,” he added. “What I have done, what I do, I do for the Lady Helena.” With a nod to Elen, Merriman kicked his horse into a walk.

  Elen gathered her reins and looked up at the night sky, thick with fat, soft flakes of snow. “Come, we must continue, lest our tracks not be adequately covered by the time John’s men find this place.”

  She spurred her horse after Merriman, leaving Ranulf and Stephen to follow.

  Their journey became a race for the great forest. Stephen allowed Elen to lead the way, for she knew these lands far better than he. She led them unerringly through the cold night, heading not for the closest spur of the forest but for an entrance she knew some miles farther on, where there were fewer people about who would notice them enter the woods.

  Just beyond midnight, according to the stars, they rode beneath the trees into the distilled blackness beneath their branches. Elen pressed on, deeper and deeper, heading for a destination known only to her.

  Three hours later, Stephen found himself warm and comfortable in front of a roaring fire Elen had set. She worked over his arm now, stitching it with needle and thread she had produced from the pack Cicely had thrust into her hand. Merriman and Ranulf were lumpy, black shapes on the leaf-covered ground on the other side of the fire, already deeply asleep.

  Stephen stared at the rich darkness of Elen’s hair, at the way it shone in the firelight when she bowed her head to check her work and snip the thread with her teeth. He considered again the competent way she had brought them all to shelter and had made a fire with a proficiency undiminished by the damp conditions or the lateness of the night.

  Elen straightened and for a brief moment her gaze met his, then slid away. “Does the wound need a poultice?” she asked, staring at her lap.

  Stephen lifted her chin. “What is it?” he asked. “What makes you look away from me?”

  Elen’s glorious eyes centered on him. He saw her draw a deep breath. For courage? “My lord—”

  “You called me Stephen before.”

  She sighed. “Stephen. I look away because guilt prompts me to it. You would not be here if it were not for me.”

  “You contrived to send me away once. I returned of my own volition.”

  Her eyes widened.

  He nodded, confirming her guess. “Yes, Elen, did you think I would not realize why you chose such a moment to reveal yourself to me?”

  Her gaze dropped again but only briefly this time. Helena lifted her chin and Stephen was startled to see tears gather in her eyes. “Would you have returned, if you had known it would bring you to this forest?”

  Would he? Stephen frowned, for her words echoed those spoken by Merriman at the inn. Merriman had warned him that Elen walked a strange road and he had dismissed the warning. Just as he had dismissed Elen’s assurances that knowing her identity would put him jeopardy.

  “It seems I am doomed to suffer consequences of my own judgment, Elen, not yours.”

  Stephen’s words did not seem to reassure her. On the contrary, the tears in her eyes spilled down her cheeks. Concern filled him. He reached for Elen but she pulled away and held him at bay with lifted hands and a shake of her head. The movement sent her tears flying.

  “In truth, I prefer to think of you in your rightful place,” she said, her voice low. “The place you would choose if you were able. You take pride in your lands, your castles. It tells you who you are.”

  Stephen stared at her. “Elen, you truly puzzle me. What is this…?”

  “You do not see it yet, do you?” she whispered. “You are outlawed, Stephen. All that once was yours is no longer. By riding with me, you have forfeited all.”

  It was a shocking truth, for she had correctly guessed he had not anticipated it. Stephen let the knowledge roll through him, tasting it, exploring the depths of it.

  Elen drew back even farther, nodding. “Yes, you see it now,” she said sadly.

  Outlaw. He, Stephen of Dinan, was now outside the law. Even in the deepest abyss of his anger, King Richard had not threatened to bring such a fate upon him that Elen had given him, unasked.

  Elen watched him, tears flowing freely.

  He would have liked to have taken her into his arms and given her reason to forget her sadness but he could not. He rose and walked away from the firelight and from Elen, leaving her alone.

  Part III

  The Great Forest

  Chapter Eighteen

  Savaric stood at the embrasure watching Lady Catherine Fitzwarren’s somber procession leave York. In the midst of the entourage was the cart that carried Fitzwarren’s body in a hastily built casket.

  Savaric suppressed his smile of satisfaction. It would not do to reveal he found Hubert’s death the most convenient factor of the whole sordid affair. At the very least it rid him of the unpredictable Catherine. She could not get him involved in more o
f her ill-conceived schemes when she was tucked behind the thick walls of Worcester castle, mourning her husband.

  John appeared next to him and peered past Savaric’s arm. He sighed. “God speed,” he murmured, before turning back to the table where Savaric had laid his map. Savaric crossed to the other side.

  John stared at the map, frowning. “Tell me again,” he demanded.

  Savaric pointed to the forest. “They’re in there, somewhere. All of them. We could find no tracks but that’s where her father took her after Richard turned them out of here.”

  John shot Savaric a glance filled with irritation. “Yes and how long did you know she was the outlawed daughter of Wessex before you saw fit to tell me, hmmm?”

  Savaric deftly slid the parchment around to give John a better view, drawing his attention back to the map. “I have spoken to some of the local peasants. There is a band of men in the forest—thieves, cutthroats, outlaws of all description, led by—”

  “Yes, yes, I have heard reports of this band before. The sheriffs are constantly demanding I clean them out. Well, if Isobel—Helena—did head for the forest, then she’s likely found them by now. Found both the outlaws and a quick death.” His frown deepened. “Or a slower one I would not wish upon her.”

  Irritation shot through Savaric and he breathed deeply to suppress it. “Your Grace, by all accounts she was an active member of this band. I rather doubt death of any description would be her fate. Let me take some men and hunt them down—”

  “You will do nothing,” John said flatly. “Do you hear, Savaric? Do nothing. Say nothing. That is my order.”

  “My lord?” He was puzzled.

  “I am more interested in finding out why the Lady Helena spent over a year posing as Isobel.”

  Savaric’s irritation spurted again. “Why would you want to know that, my lord?”

  “She obviously wanted something. No one goes to the effort she did for a passing fancy. I want to know what she wanted before I make any decisions.” John straightened, lifting his cup, which let the map roll up with a snap. “No, Savaric, I want you to leave her be for now.”

  Savaric’s irritation congealed to cold anger. It appeared John would not cooperate at all. He tried one last time. “My lord, how can you discover her purpose while she hides in the forest?”

  John smiled. “Leave that to me.”

  * * * * *

  Helena was planning something that took more courage than she had ever needed, yet it did not involve fending off enemies, or the subversive collection of information. Her life was not at stake and no lord would cry for her skin.

  She merely intended to help a man. She looked up from the campfire to glance at Stephen again. He sat under a tree, far apart from the rest of Robert’s raiders, taking no part in the merriment of the evening. Someone had acquired a drum and pipe and the best musicians among them were keeping everyone’s feet tapping with their lively tunes. Everyone but Stephen.

  Helena stirred the coals closest to her with a stick, her mind busy. It had been three days since Robert had found them, four since they had escaped York. Since then Stephen had become a remote, silent ghost, lingering on the edges of the camp, unwilling to speak to anyone, including Helena. He ate only enough to prevent starvation and he ate as if each mouthful were a foul, black stew.

  She had tried to speak to him. Once. That once told her she would not help him that way, for Stephen’s responses had been chillingly polite and superficial.

  Helena sighed and stared down at her hands, wondering how she could manage to help him when he seemed to be so far away from her. She spread her fingers across the rough, poorly dyed wool of her borrowed dress, feeling the material scratch her fingertips and palms. She focused on the fabric as an idea occurred to her and her lips opened in surprise. Would it work?

  Her heart beat heavily and hurriedly with excitement…and maybe a large dollop of fear. Once she put this plan into action, there would be no going back.

  Helena glanced once more at the black, still figure sitting in the moon shadows at the base of the tree. His very stillness and silence decided her. Swiftly, she got to her feet and headed for the cave where Robert’s band lived through the worst of the winter.

  * * * * *

  Stephen watched Elen walk away from the fire. He twirled the twig in his fingers and pretended he was not cold. He let his mind return to the subject he had brooded over for the last three days.

  When Stephen had realized Elen was actually fighting behind him, that was the beginning of his disorientation, he decided. For after that, event after puzzling event swiftly piled upon each other, leaving him with the feeling he had fallen into this world backward.

  Elen had quickly taken charge of their small party. She had led them into the forest and set up camp with an expertise that flummoxed him. She had stitched his arm with the disinterested care of the most seasoned campaigner on the battlefield.

  The next morning she had snared a rabbit with minimum fuss and they had broken their fast with a hot meal. This was the most unexpected and welcome of events when one considered they were outlaws on the run. Yet their designation had not seemed to worry Elen. She had behaved for all the world as if she were comfortably ensconced in her own castle hall.

  Shortly after eating they had moved deeper into the forest, heading south. Elen insisted they walk their horses rather than ride. It seemed she had a purpose for her insistence, for she spent long moments with her head down, listening.

  It was close to the nooning when she lifted her head suddenly and looked around her with a surprised, pleased expression. She had held up a hand for them all to halt and called out, “It is I, Helena! We bring no enemies with us!”

  The forest was silent about her. Stephen stared at her, surprised. Did she really expect an answer to the statement she had shouted at the trees?

  Abruptly, from all sides, stepped dozens of raggedly dressed men, all armed to the teeth and nearly all carrying drawn longbows. A tall fellow, with gypsy-black, curly hair and gleaming teeth behind a full beard, lowered his bow and laughed.

  “Well met, Helena!”

  She smiled. “Robert!”

  He crossed to her, while all around them arrows were unnocked and swords lowered. “Well met, indeed,” he murmured, taking her hand and bowing over it with the perfect grace of a well-trained courtier. The bow and the kiss he placed on her hand was another odd shock to Stephen. That they knew each other was plain. But who was this Robert?

  Over the next three days, Stephen learned who Robert was in exhausting detail, for it seemed this band of thieves had a mission in life—to help poor folk.

  Even more surprisingly, for reasons unknown, they looked at Elen with awe-inspiring respect. It took a little time for Stephen to appreciate the degree of regard given her, for it was a rough, offhand respect. But he saw the first hints of it quickly.

  Robert’s band had brought them to their winter quarters, a large, airy cave in a densely forested vale. Shortly after their arrival, Elen had disappeared, only to reappear after a few minutes dressed in a simple, badly woven, black gown, her hair loose of its braids. The shocking transformation earned her a round of applause from those nearby, which she acknowledged with a quick curtsy.

  As if these stunning revelations were not enough, later that day a small group of men had arranged to go hunting. Robert had casually included Elen among that party, handing her one of the long bows and a quiver of arrows as if they had always belonged to her.

  Elen had turned to him. “Will you come with us, Stephen?” she asked softly.

  He cast about for an answer, trying to drive aside his confusion and grasp for sense.

  “What is it?” Elen asked him, her face shadowed with concern.

  “Your dress. They honor you for putting aside your station in life.”

  Elen’s mouth rounded and her eyes widened but she shook her head. “No, you misunderstand,” she said, quickly.

  The leader, Robert, ap
proached them and rested his hands on the top of his bow. “There is a problem, Helena?”

  Elen’s lips thinned and then she appeared to make a decision. “Robert, may I introduce to you Stephen, Earl of Northumbria, Count of Dinan.”

  Robert straightened and swept into a full formal bow, the tip of his bow scratching a long furrow in the ground behind him. “Greetings, Dinan. A pleasure, I’m sure.”

  Elen turned to Stephen. “Stephen, allow me to introduce to you Robert, the Earl of Loxley.”

  Stephen’s shock was profound. “Earl?” he spluttered, studying once more this rough, burly stranger who looked more like a strolling troubadour than a belted earl.

  Robert grinned. “Earl,” he repeated gravely. He winked at Elen before wandering away, chatting jovially with the ruffians that made up his group.

  “Robin!” came a call from across the glade. Robert jerked his chin in acknowledgement and went to answer the hail.

  “Robin Hood?” Stephen breathed. “Loxley is Robin Hood?”

  Elen winced. “The name is somewhat colorful but the reputation that comes with it is deserved.”

  Stephen had thought himself at the limit of his surprise but there was still a final shock to deal with.

  Unable to let Elen go off alone with the hunting group, Stephen followed their trail and was the astonished witness to Elen bringing down her prey with the long bow.

  The rabbit had been flushed out of hiding by the beaters and had leapt off into the trees, running for its life, while Robert’s men and Elen stood arguing about who was going to shoot such small, unworthy prey.

  “Besides, none of you could touch the creature with an arrow!” Robert declared, crossing his arms.

  There was a loud protest at that but no one made to unsling their bow except Elen, who quietly nocked an arrow.

  Stephen knew a little about the long bows. He had tried them once or twice, out of curiosity only, for a horseman could not use anything but a crossbow. The strength required to pull the bow taut had surprised him at the time but the power of the bow was undeniable. He watched Elen take up the sideways stance, lift the bow and pull at the same time. It was a practiced sweep. As the arrow point lifted into position, the bowstring was tight, ready to fire. She tracked the rabbit, now quite a distance away, disappearing in and out of the trees. His white winter coat was like a beacon, drawing the eye.