Heart of Vengeance

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  Around her, the band did not fall silent. They encouraged her with calls and cheers. For a moment Elen stood still, a tall woman in a disreputable black gown, hair loose, her entire body tensed with the power of the bow. She loosed the arrow and it flew, swift and sweet to hit its target. The rabbit went tumbling.

  There was a satisfied rumble from the men. The youngest of them ran off to collect the prize.

  Robert laughed. “I’d forgotten we’d Helena among us again,” he declared, to the derisive laughter of the others. They moved off again, beaters running ahead.

  Later that night around the campfire, where some of their catches of the day roasted, Helena and Robert sat with heads together, talking earnestly, faces grim. There was no flirtation there, no play. But they did not speak long, for Robert was constantly interrupted by others and was finally called away altogether. Elen remained by the fire.

  She looked up, searching for him but Stephen pulled back into the shadows, not ready to speak to this woman he did not know. He wanted time to think through all he had seen and learned these two days past.

  But another two days had unrolled while he tried to encompass the changes in his circumstances and this new Helena. Each day bought its own revelations. None were as large, nor were there as many as that first bewildering day but there were differences, nonetheless.

  ’Til at last he sat under the tree pretending not to feel the cold, while men and women danced about the fire in time to the cheerful music. The fact of their outlawed status did not seem to bother them as it did him. They did not seem to linger over those things lost to them as he did. Perhaps they had little to lose in the first place. But Robert…did he have no regrets? And what of Helena?

  The dancers around the fire came to a halt and heads turned to the edge of the glade, toward the path that led to the cavern. A silhouette stood there and as the dancers halted, the figure moved closer to the fire. Details evolved in the light.

  It was Helena but the Helena Stephen remembered best. His breath caught and his heart beat hard. She wore the green velvet gown she had worn that day by the river. What had she said? I used to wear green all the time, once. But this green had nothing to do with camouflage. The rich material glowed in the firelight, the embroidery at sleeve and neck glittered. Her hair was tied back into the two braids typical of Norman women and she wore a veil, the delicate green veil he had secreted away and used as a favor at the tourney. She was once again the regal Norman lady he had first met.

  Stephen cleared his throat as he sat up. It felt like someone had clenched a fist around his neck. His heart hammered.

  Helena paused at the edge of the firelight and turned to Robert to give a short curtsy. He bowed, the same courtly sweep he had given Stephen when they had been introduced. But this time the graceful gesture seemed appropriate when given to such a lady.

  The people around them chuckled and fell expectantly silent again.

  Helena turned, hand pushing the folds of her skirt out of the way with a gentle sweep. She looked at him and Stephen’s heart gave an almighty leap.

  Helena picked up her skirts again and with graceful, unerring steps, walked toward his tree. The people gave a combined crow of surprise and satisfaction when they realized her destination.

  When she reached him, Helena gave another short curtsy. “My lord,” she murmured, straightening. “Would you walk with me?”

  His breath escaped him in a gasp. “Helena…”

  “Please, Stephen,” she said softly, holding out her hand.

  Still he would have refused her but for one thing. He saw her swallow convulsively and realized, with shock, that she was afraid of what she did now. In all the days since their escape from York she had appeared to be afraid of nothing.

  Fear was something he understood only too well. He had relearned its taste these past few days.

  Stephen took Helena’s hand and rose to his feet. There was a concerted murmur of approval from the people around the fire. The music started and they turned back to their own merriment, leaving Stephen and Helena a privacy more complete than a locked room.

  Her hand was cold. He held it between his own for a moment, warming it. “Where do we walk?” he asked.

  “Only a little way from here,” she assured him.

  Helena led him into and moved through the trees edging the clearing.

  “You really are at home in the forest, just as you said, aren’t you?” he said.

  “I lived with these people for over a year. My father brought me here when he was outlawed.”

  “How did that happen? And why?”

  Helena sighed. “I don’t know for certain why it happened. Have you heard of the death of Hugh of Le Puissant, the King’s Justiciar?”

  Stephen nodded. “He died two years ago, when he was traveling from England to Rouen, to see the king.” He recalled Hubert Walter’s implication, in Oxford, that Hugh had been poisoned. “Your father was involved in that death?”

  Helena shook her head. “My father was loyal to Richard, just as you are. He was also a great friend of Hugh’s. They agreed on many things. They were of the same mind concerning Richard’s endless campaigning on the continent. They both worked tirelessly to hold the country together during his absence. My father was enormously pleased when Richard made Hugh his justiciar. They both knew it was the ideal position for Hugh to be able do his work.”

  “Then…” Stephen prompted. “How could a man like your father, if he was so loyal to Richard, become an outlaw?”

  “You think loyalty to Richard is such great protection?” Her tone was indignant. “Do you not call yourself a friend to Richard?”

  “Yes.” His anger stirred. How could she even ask that?

  “And are you not outlawed?” Helena asked, voice soft.

  Stephen’s anger evaporated. “I see. You make your point well. Go on.”

  Helena took a deep breath, her chest rising, making the flesh gleam in the uncertain moonlight. “My father protected me. He refused to share with me the information Hugh and he had discovered. But I kept my ears open. I knew they were investigating certain acts of barons in the realm. Acts of treason. Then, one day in 1195, Hugh’s messenger arrived in York, his horse lathered, his clothes muddied, reeling with exhaustion. He’d ridden without stopping, carrying information it was vital my father receive. Unfortunately, he arrived on market day, wearing Durham colors and every serf and cot-holder in York saw him received into the castle.”

  Stephen already saw where Helena’s tale was headed. “His arrival involved your father in Hugh’s machinations.”

  “Hugh had already left for Rouen to inform the king. The information he carried, the same information he conveyed to my father, could only have been proof of his suspicions. Nothing but proof would have sent him from his cathedral in such a storm, to risk a winter crossing of the channel.”

  “To attempt such a hazardous crossing could only have alerted his enemies.” Stephen frowned. “Why didn’t he send someone else? A simple messenger would not have sent up such an alarm.”

  “I believe, now, Hugh thought the mission far too critical to risk a messenger who could be turned aside or delayed.”

  “Speed could have been bought with a hefty purse.” Stephen shrugged.

  “But it would not have bought a fair hearing at the other end,” Helena countered. “You know yourself, Stephen, how badly Richard deals with unwelcome news. A simple messenger would not have been able to insist he consider the information properly. Hugh, as a companion of Richard’s, had to deliver the news himself.”

  Stephen considered this for a moment. “You have had many months to think this through,” he said. “You have had time to guess the reasons why each man did what he did. Finish your tale.”

  “Hugh died on the way to Rouen. Although the king does not say it, many others speak of poison. My father had reports of his death. It was, by all accounts, a long and painful one.”

  “The matter could not be dr
opped, as long as your father held the same information, the same proof, Hugh carried.”

  “My father knew that. He was afraid. For the first time in my life I had seen my father’s courage falter. He became a man possessed, working day and night to find the person who had killed Hugh. He had to find that man before he dealt with my father.” Helena dropped her head. “Yet he failed.”

  “What happened?” Stephen coaxed.

  “The king received a letter that the anonymous messenger claimed had been intercepted on its journey to France. The letter was apparently from my father to one of King Phillip’s favored courtiers. It was full of veiled suggestions that peace might yet be found if certain key figures were dealt with.”

  Stephen shook his head in reluctant admiration. “That’s a subtle piece of business. No outright declarations of treason, no names. Yet there’s enough there to make Richard think he was the target. In all your time masquerading as Isobel, Helena, did you get to see that letter?”

  “No, but I spoke to a page who served Richard the night it was delivered. An English boy with no French but a musical ear. He was able to replicate some of the sounds they made, enough for me to piece it together. There were also barons in the room who used English so the king would not understand their conversations. The letter was flawless, a match for my father’s handwriting in every respect. Richard burned it that night, after declaring my father’s life forfeit. He sent the barons from the room at a dead run, with orders to bring my father’s head to him on a platter.”

  “Richard has ever been afraid of unseen enemies. The implied threat to his life would have overcome any friendship he held with your father. He acted swiftly…and predictably. That is what this enemy counted on,” Stephen finished. “And so your father escaped to the great forest, rather than face his sentence.”

  “My father and I, both, for he would not leave me in the uncertain hands of wardens. That was how I was outlawed myself. I consorted with criminals.”

  “Then you are innocent?”

  Helena reached a huge old oak tree and turned to rest her back against the bark. “I was innocent then. But I cannot lie to you, Stephen. I earned my status after that. I had no choice. We had no choice.”

  “Then you have stolen?”

  “Yes.”

  “And killed?”

  There was a clearing in the canopy and Stephen saw Helena clearly, bathed in moonlight. A shadow passed across her face. “No, I have not killed,” she said. Her voice was very low. “There has been no need to.”

  Yet. The word hung between them, unspoken.

  Stephen found another tree to lean against, where he was able to study Helena. “So…” he murmured.

  The silence between them was complete and for an endless time it stretched. Stephen remembered the last time Helena had worn that dress—by the river in Oxford, the day he had dressed her arm. He remembered easing apart the ties. Tension curled tighter at the base of his spine. Did she know what she was doing to him, wearing that dress now? Yes, he decided. Then he remembered something else from that day that seemed so long ago. He recalled his conclusion that Helena would wait for him to decide their fate, to take action. Did she wait for him now?

  She watched him, chest rising quickly, white flesh glowing in the moonlight. She waits, Stephen decided. But as much as he longed to cross the small distance between them, to slide his hands around her trim waist and taste that delicate skin, he could not.

  “Tell me of the time you were in that place,” Helena said. “The sand.”

  “The desert,” he murmured.

  “Yes, the desert. How did you come to be there?”

  Could he tell her of this? Yes, it was time. Stephen sighed. “I was captured by Saracens and made a slave,” he told her.

  He heard her gasp clearly, even though her face did not change. “How? Why?” Helena demanded.

  “I grew careless in the last days of fighting. We were defeated. Richard negotiated a truce but we barely saw the gates of the Holy City. We were falling back, trying to reach the ships and fighting skirmishes all the way…” Stephen hesitated. He had grown used to not speaking of these things for fear of offending delicate sensibilities.

  This is Elen, he reminded himself. Elen, the fierce fighter. She would know of these things.

  “In the days when the fighting was thickest, Richard was constantly threatened by men the Saracens called assassins. Do you know that word?”

  Helena shook her head.

  “These assassins were men working alone. They would come close to their victim, perhaps posing as beggars, or simple folk. When they were close enough, they would turn on their unsuspecting victim and kill him.”

  “Without declaring themselves?” Her voice held muted outrage.

  “Often.” He watched her frown and longed to smooth the small furrow away with his fingers. “In part, that is why the false letter from your father so enraged Richard. He has lived for years with the threat of sudden death. It is not a burden that grows lighter with the passing of time.”

  “The man who wrote that letter must have known of Richard’s fear of these assassins,” Helena surmised.

  “Indeed. He has played Richard like a harp.”

  “These assassins. They captured you?”

  “Richard asked me to study them, to try to protect him, for he was their favorite target. I spent many days trying to learn more about them, for I thought it a worthy task if it preserved the king’s life.”

  “It was worthy,” Helena declared.

  “The work took me into strange places. Right into the enemy’s towns and homes.” He shifted uncomfortably. He had never spoken of this to another person and the confession did not come easily. “I must have worried the leader of the assassins, for they arranged for my capture when my guard was down, just as they do with their victims. But rather than kill me, they declared they would show me more than I could ever wish to know about their people.”

  “They enslaved you?”

  He cleared his throat of the sudden constriction. “I was taken far away from the Holy City, into the east, into lands more desolate than I’d ever thought possible.”

  “These deserts that you told me of.”

  “That is when I learned how to survive in those places, for I was forced to live as they did, to learn their ways.” Stephen paused. Could he tell her the rest?

  Helena sensed his hesitation. She prompted him softly. “Did they let you go?”

  “After three years, as near as I have been able to reckon it, I escaped.”

  “How?”

  “I killed a man.” He closed his eyes, the memory flashing brightly into his mind, the smell of fear and blood still as fresh as the day it had happened. “It was not an honorable, clean fight on the battlefield, Elen. I took him from behind, using the assassins’ own tactics against them.”

  She was silent for a moment and then said, “You did what you had to. I have known that place you were in.”

  Against his expectations, she understood. Stephen drew a deep breath. “I walked all the way back to the Holy City and crossed those deserts I told you of. It took me many days and for most of them I did not think I would survive.”

  “But you did survive.”

  “I only did so because I became like one of the creatures that live there. I joined their ranks.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I imitated them. The animals there understand how to preserve moisture. They rest during the day, travel only at night. They take water wherever they find it. They take food wherever they can too. They drink the blood of their prey…for the moisture.”

  Helena’s hand crept to her breast. “Did you…”

  “Yes,” Stephen said harshly, unable to spare her that final truth. “When I knew I would not live another day unless I did so.”

  A full day had passed before Stephen had taken that atrocious action, courage battling against a weakness of spirit that whispered it would be easier t
o let death take him. Even now he remembered the seductive voice of death.

  Helena swallowed, her throat moving. “Many a man would have chosen death rather than commit such a desperate act. Why did you do it?”

  He grimaced. “For Richard,” he said shortly. “I knew he had need of me. So many of his knights had been slaughtered by the Saracens.”

  “Oh, Stephen…”

  He stood, straightening convulsively. “I found a ship bound for Spain and stowed away. Once there, I walked to Brittany, working for food where I could. Finally I reached friends who knew me and got me to Dinan. I heard how Richard had been captured and held hostage. I learned he was now back in England, raising even more money for his war against the French.”

  “You went to him,” Helena guessed.

  “Yes, like a fool I rushed to England—but not to fight.”

  “No?”

  A deep sigh pushed out of him. “The desert made me see things in a different way. Richard was already being criticized for taking England into war so shortly after the Crusade had left the country drained. I went to him. I thought I could tell him this and he would understand.”

  “He didn’t,” Helena said flatly.

  Stephen recalled the moment Richard had turned on him. The king had swept the table bare of platter, cup and maps with a roar of anger, blue eyes snapping with fury. “You dare suggest England creep away from Phillip like a whipped dog? To simply give away all the lands the French have stolen from us?”

  “No, he didn’t understand at all,” Stephen told Helena. “I made the mistake of presenting my arguments in terms a man would understand, not terms a king understands.”