John snapped out his hand. “Give me that!” he said.
The messenger stepped forward cautiously and dropped the message with the unmistakable royal seal in John’s palm. He quickly shuffled out of the way. Savaric saw him glance at the door and smiled gloatingly. Escape was not possible until John gave him permission.
John broke the seal and unfolded the heavy letter. There were several sheets and he read with total absorption, his attention already caught by the messenger’s riveting announcement.
“My lord?” the messenger murmured.
John ignored him.
“Your Grace?” The messenger spoke louder.
John frowned, looking up from his letter. “Get out,” he said quietly.
The messenger scurried from the room, while John returned to his letter.
He barely got through the first sheet before he threw it aside. “The idiot intends to settle with Phillip.” With an impatient thrust he got to his feet, stalked to the window and looked out over Nottingham.
Savaric gave into the impulse for devilment. “The king, my lord?” he asked with false humility. “It seems a sensible solution. He is no closer to reaching a solution by fighting the French, despite the allies he has managed to assemble.”
John almost snarled his response. “Hubert Walter has convinced him England suffers while he continues to drain her resources for his armies. So Richard wants a quick ending.” His mouth turned down.
“You don’t believe him?”
“He’s spent thousands building that damn fortress of his. Years of work to defend Normandy against the French and now that he has his toy, he tires of the game. Walter just gave him an honorable way to end it all. Since when did Richard ever give a damn about England, save for how much money he could squeeze out of her?”
Savaric shrugged. “Why does this matter concern you, my lord? It is neither here nor there whether Richard fights France or finds peace.”
“If Richard gets his peace, then he will return to England. He’ll have to, at least for a while.” John thumped the wall next to him. “You want the king back here poking his nose into our affairs?”
Savaric remembered something the cursed Lady Catherine had said. If Richard were to return to England, he would return as the most powerful king in Europe. “He will be impossible to shift off the throne if he returns,” Savaric murmured.
John shot him a sharp examining glance. “I didn’t hear that,” he said blandly.
“No, my lord.”
“But you plainly think as I do,” John added, turning back to retrieve his cup. He drank deeply and sighed. “It would ill-suit both of us if Richard was to return.”
Savaric threaded his fingers together in his lap, suppressing a sudden fear prompted by an unwelcome thought. What if Richard was to return and the she-witch, Helena, brought her case before him? Savaric would be exposed. She had heard him speak English and knew he was not a Norman. Sweat broke out on Savaric’s forehead and he swallowed convulsively. If they investigated him…
He reached for the cup John had insisted he pour for himself and drank hastily, trying to clear his mouth of the sudden spill of acid fear.
While Richard remained in Normandy and Helena hid in that forest of hers, he was safe. But if ever the two were to meet, it would spell his doom. Savaric straightened and replaced his cup. He knew what his next plan must be. Helena could not live to tell Richard her tales.
Chapter Twenty
Helena woke to the familiar smell of her furs. On the other side of the curtain she heard the warming crackle and pop of the fire and the sounds of people rising, stretching, and preparing for another day. These were sounds and sights she was used to. The unfamiliar was the feel of another body next to hers and the heavy arm draped over her waist.
Helena twisted to look at Stephen. He appeared to be asleep, closed lids emphasizing the heavy lashes lying against the skin. But as she moved, the arm over her waist came to life and slid up her torso to capture a breast.
Helena froze as the hand stroked her, bringing the tip tightly to attention. A wave of enjoyment rolled through her. Stephen’s lips kissed the skin below her ear and his breath blew hot against her, sending a shiver of delight up her spine.
“Good morning,” he murmured.
Against her buttocks, Helena felt him stir to life and smiled to herself. She stretched like a cat, rubbed against him and heard his murmured approval.
Helena reached for her black dress atop a rocky projection just above her head and sat up as if she were prepared to dress.
“Elen?” Stephen sounded surprised.
She looked over her shoulder. Stephen sat up, looking ruffled and aggrieved. “What is it?” she asked innocently.
“Where are you going?”
“There is something I must discuss with Robert.”
“Robert!” The name burst from him indignantly.
Helena suppressed her smile and busily arranged the dress to slip over her head.
The garment was whipped away. She was turned and pushed back down onto the pallet. Stephen half lay on top of her, his frown a black one. Her hands were caught beneath his, immobilizing her almost completely.
“Woman, you cannot go from my bed to another man’s side without as much as a by-your-leave.” He growled it out but Helena saw a sparkle in his eyes, the light of mischief.
“I can do what I please,” she protested, trying to pull herself out of his grip.
He caught his breath as he watched her wriggle beneath him. Helena realized her nakedness and abandoned movements would ensure she be anything but free of his grip. In confirmation, she felt his hips move against hers, his arousal, hot and large.
“Elen…” It was a low groan.
The playfulness evaporated. Heavy need surged through her. She arched, offering herself to him. Stephen slipped inside her and Helena bowed back once more in profound pleasure.
She felt his hands on her back, his lips in her hair and his murmured encouragement as she strove with him for the joyful peak.
* * * * *
Catherine was glad to be home in a remote, uncaring way. The numbness that had gripped her since leaving York did not lift even when the familiar walls of Worcester castle loomed through the mist.
The cart that carried Hubert’s body had become bogged in mud three times during the day. The consistent, cold rain had turned the road into a quagmire. But while others cursed and complained, she had barely noticed the delays and discomfort. The one cheering thought that had driven her through the long day had been the knowledge she would soon be home and would see William again. William was all she had left now.
In the bailey, while the troopers lifted the casket down, preparing to carry their master to the family chapel, Catherine dismounted and walked slowly inside, heading for the hall. She sent word for William to attend her immediately and stood warming herself by the fire until he appeared.
William was a long time arriving. Catherine became concerned when he did not rush into the room to greet her. As time moved on, she wondered where he might have been when word reached him that she was home. The servants would not dare break the news of his father’s death to him! Surely not.
Finally, just when she was considering going to look for her son herself, he appeared in the archway that led to the stairs, a slim boy of fourteen with his father’s eyes. For a moment her pleasure at seeing him took all her attention. Then she noticed the tunic he wore. The numbness she had suffered evaporated with shocking abruptness, for it was the distinctive white tunic with the black cross that his older brother John had worn when he’d left with Hubert for the Crusades.
“William?” she called and spread her hands, hoping he would rush into her arms.
But instead William walked stiffly to the fire.
A dozen questions formed in Catherine’s mind but overriding them all was swiftly forming anger. For it was clear William knew of his father’s death. “William, my dear son. I swear you have gro
wn that extra finger-width I thought you might while I was gone.”
“That is no concern of yours, madam,” William growled and turned to face her.
“What?” Catherine stared at him, astonishment competing with her anger. Then she realized what drove him. “William, I’m sorry you found out this way. Who told you? I will have them flogged until they scream for mercy.”
There were hectic slashes of color in his cheeks but his eyes did not waver. “No one here has informed me of my father’s death. Savaric of York did me that service, which saves me from hearing it from your whorish lips.”
Catherine’s mouth fell open while her mind went utterly blank. What had he said? Had he just spoken such alien, shocking words, or had she merely imagined it?
William reached inside his tunic and removed an opened letter, which he flung onto the chair behind him. “You conspired against Isobel. You schemed to serve that disloyal Plantagenet whelp and you are the reason my father lies dead.”
“No! You do not understand what happened there, William. Savaric…” She took a deep breath and thrust aside the fury the name unleashed in her. “Savaric presents an incomplete picture. The woman you knew as Isobel—”
“You had her beaten. Did you insist on flogging her until she screamed for mercy…Mother?”
Catherine gasped, shock this time touching her with icy fingers. At the back of her head she felt the warning signs of a swiftly building headache. She ignored it, grasping instead for some steadiness. She was William’s mother, yes. It was a mother’s role to educate her children when necessary.
She drew herself up and spoke sternly. “William, I understand that the news of your father’s death has unbalanced you a little, arriving as it has in a letter from a stranger. That is why you speak this way. But I am your mother—”
“You are not my mother,” he said flatly. “Not anymore.”
“William! That is enough!”
He nodded. “More than enough,” he agreed with chilling, adult quietness. Catherine noticed then that he wore his father’s sword at his hip. His hand gripped the hilt tightly, turning the knuckles white. She gave a little moan. He would not draw it, would he?
William shook his head. “Savaric has done me a kindness,” he said. “You are the stranger here. You have done unspeakable acts. I should have you flogged.”
When had he grown up? He seemed suddenly very tall and old. It was something in his eyes. Catherine licked her lips. “You will not listen while I tell you the truth of this affair?” she asked, pleading as one adult to another, for she saw that the child she had left behind had gone now. Somewhere inside her, mourning began.
“I do not trust you to speak the truth,” William said. “I cannot have you beaten as you deserve. I cannot act as you have. But neither can I bear the sight of you.” He waved a hand around the hall. “This was your home before it was mine. Have it and be welcome.”
Catherine realized that when Hubert died, William inherited all Hubert had owned. Now he was giving her the castle.
“What do you mean by this? You are gifting me with Worcester?”
“I am getting rid of a place that turns my stomach,” he said flatly. “I turn my back on it with no regrets.”
“Turn your back?” Panic flared in her. “William, you cannot leave!”
“Yes, I can,” he said, with the same even, unemotional tone. “I depart within the hour.”
“No! William, you cannot. For pity’s sake, you cannot leave me.” Catherine was racked with violent trembling. All that she had worked for, all her plans, had crumbled around her. “I did it all for you!” she cried. “I worked for you!”
He looked her in the eye. “You cannot claim your actions were done in my name. I repudiate those acts. I repudiate you.” He bowed, the minimal bob one used for a formal enemy and walked back toward the stairs with the same, stiff gait as before.
She fell to her knees. “William, please!”
He did not look back.
When he was gone Catherine clutched her head and screamed.
* * * * *
Helena found Robert supervising arrow-making. He had a dozen willing helpers, for the work could be done around the fire and the day had a deep, midwinter bite to it. Helena wrapped herself warmly in the fur-lined cloak and sat next to him on the big log he used as a bench.
He instructed a lad in the proper way to bind fletching and Helena waited patiently. She had waited for an opportunity such as this since they had arrived at the camp. Today was an ideal chance—the cold kept all but the most hardy of Robert’s band in the cavern.
Helena felt hands on her shoulders and warm lips brushed her cheek, close by her ear. She smiled as Stephen stepped over the log and sat beside her. His hand lingered on her shoulder, fingers brushing her neck, sending little tremors through her.
“You did not lie when you said you must speak to Robert,” he said.
“No, although in truth I did not intend to speak to him at the moment I told you of my need.”
Merriment danced in his eyes. “I know.”
She laughed, keeping the sound low so she did not interrupt Robert’s lesson. They fell silent, listening to him. After a moment Stephen murmured, “Even here, the task of passing on wisdom does not fail, does it?”
“Here, the task is even more important,” Helena answered. She fell silent, enjoying the warmth of his body next to hers.
After a time, Robert sent the boy off to try his hand at making arrows and turned to face Helena with a smile. “I think I have managed to teach him not to bind the feathers on backward this time.”
Helena felt her cheeks burn, for that had been the mistake she had made when she had been learning the craft. She glanced at Stephen and saw he watched her curiously, a glimmer of surprise on his face. Of course, such skills as arrow-making sat ill on a woman.
Helena calmed herself and turned back to Robert. “You said to get myself to York and you would send word. I heard nothing from you even though I obeyed your instructions.”
Robert nodded. “For that you have my apologies, my lady. I did send word but the messenger met with Nottingham’s men and now resides in the belly of that cursed castle. I did not learn of his fate until we moved here, to the north camp.”
Helena inclined her head. “I guessed something had gone awry. You have plans to release him?”
“Yes.” Robert grinned. “Always.”
“Do you need my assistance?”
“Thank you but no, my lady. I have assistance from within the castle itself. It will be an easy affair.”
Stephen cleared his throat. “You speak of releasing prisoners with deceptive casualness.”
Robert’s smile did not fade. “The man’s only crime was stealing bread. Only a Norman overlord would consider that worthy of imprisonment.”
Stephen’s eyes narrowed. “You are Saxon,” he said thoughtfully.
Robert’s smile faded this time. “No, I am Norman, but do not let my heritage deceive you. I am not blind like so many Normans.”
Stephen looked at Helena. “Robert is the man you awaited word from in York?”
“Yes.”
“So if he had reached you as he promised, you would have been able to leave York and not suffered through a beating and worse?”
Robert jumped to his feet, even as Helena drew breath to protest. But Stephen rose too, facing Robert. Stephen was the taller, by a fraction, but Robert vibrated with anger.
“Can you deny that your failure left Elen in danger?” Stephen asked quietly.
Robert dropped his gaze. “No, I cannot deny that,” he admitted. “Although it was not an intentional lapse.”
“I do not accuse you. I merely make the bounds of my concerns clear to you.”
“I understand,” Robert said, with a short nod. He glanced at Helena. “I would do no less,” he added and sat down again. This time there was a perceptible space between them.
Helena frowned. It seemed there had been
an entire unspoken conversation aired in front of her and she had missed it.
“My lady?” Robert asked, prompting her.
She let the matter go and turned to her first concern once more. “What would your messenger have told me, had he won through?”
Stephen returned to his seat and Helena welcomed the return of his warmth to her shoulder and hip. It was a silent form of reassurance.
Robert picked up a log and dropped it into the fire. “We’ve had the devil’s own luck trying to find your man. He must be deathly afraid of the fate his knowledge will bring upon him, for he does not remain in one place long enough for my scouts to reach him.”
“You still search, though?”
He smiled but this time it was more a sour grimace. “I gave you my word I would find him.” Helena caught his quick glance at Stephen. “My lady, you know I feel as strongly as you that this matter must be resolved.”
Helena nodded. “Yes, I know, Robert. I have not doubted you. It is my father who was murdered, however. I cannot let the matter rest.”
“You still intend to avenge yourself, Elen?” Stephen asked.
She turned to him, seeing the concern in his face. “Everything I have done—everything—was to further this cause.”
He shook his head. “You know how useless I consider revenge to be.”
Robert spoke up. “There is more to the matter than simply the Lady Helena’s wish for blood, Dinan. You would be wise to withhold judgment until you are acquainted with all of it.”
“What else could there possibly be?” Stephen demanded. “Elen’s father is dead and she wishes to find his murderer and kill him.”
Helena winced at this bald airing of her intentions. Robert nodded. “True. But you fail to mention the reasons for her vengeance.”
“What else could drive the need for revenge but a flawed heart?”
Helena gasped. Is that what Stephen believed of her? That her heart was flawed? Unhappiness flooded her at the thought.
Heart of Vengeance Page 22
