Heart of Vengeance

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  No one could learn what he had learned in Ferndale and fail to see more clearly. All men should be taught this lesson. All the barons. The kings. Then perhaps things might change. He was just one man and an outlaw at that. There was so little he could do.

  Then Stephen looked around him, at Robert’s band of peasants and Robert himself. At Elen. They rested in a clearing bathed in bright sunshine, warming themselves. Yes, these people were doing something to help.

  Stephen smiled to himself. He had lost everything he possessed and had wandered, rudderless, until now. Now he had come full circle. Somewhere in the day that had just passed, as he had been walking and thinking, he had committed himself fully to this strange path Elen had shown him. Now he had direction, purpose.

  He had become one of them.

  The man closest to Stephen offered a flask of wine and Stephen grasped it willingly. He sought for the English words he wanted and said, “Thank you, friend.”

  The man’s eyes widened. Then he grinned and spoke too quickly for Stephen to follow. Stephen shook his head. “Too fast,” he said in French, lacking the English to explain.

  The others turned now, taking note of the man’s excitement. Robert lifted his chin and smiled. “He said, ‘You are welcome, silent one’.”

  Silent one. Yes, he had not spoken to any of them very much. A lack of English and his uneasiness with his new circumstances had ensured that. But not anymore.

  “They call him ‘the bear’,” Elen said, speaking for the first time that day. “I like that better than ‘silent one’.”

  The “they” she referred to could only be the barons. They had never called him any such thing. His only epithet was “the black baron” but that name would not sit easily with these people, for it would remind them of his station.

  The man next to him grinned and nodded. “The bear”, he said in English. He thumped Stephen on the arm. “It fits well.” He took the flask back, drank deeply and passed it on.

  Around them, men murmured. “The bear,” they said and lifted the flask toward him, toasting his new name.

  Stephen looked at Elen. She sat with her cloak wrapped around her, a small smile on her face. She had successfully imposed her own name for him upon the group and would forever after enjoy a private pleasure at their use of it.

  * * * * *

  They had walked for a time on the third day when several of the band, including Robert, tensed and slowed. Then they went on with their heads down, listening. Helena found herself also walking carefully. She glanced at Stephen. He too, listened, a frown puckering his forehead.

  Then Robert held up his hand and everyone halted obediently, even though they were only minutes away from the winter camp and the men were impatient to reach home. They remained still and silent, watching Robert. Helena felt tension crackle along her spine.

  Robert gave the flick of his fingers, which signaled they must scatter and hide. She looked to see that Stephen understood. He had already disappeared. Surprised, she sought her own hideaway, a small oak with a fat, distorted trunk shadowed by its taller cousins. She hugged the trunk and peered around it toward the spot they had just deserted.

  A hand touched her cheek in warning and a large, warm body pressed against her back, protecting it. Stephen had found her.

  They watched as a band of four men appeared amid the trees. They followed the faint trail that led to the camp, heads down. All of them led horses, which alone would pay handsomely. Their saddlebags also bulged.

  Abruptly, two of Robert’s men jumped onto the trail, bows bent. The group came to a surprised halt.

  “It’s a bit chilly for business in Sherwood,” one of the pair of archers growled in passable French.

  One of the smallest horsemen stepped in front of the others. “We seek Robert of Loxley. I was told he was near here. Do you know him?” The young, clear voice was familiar and Helena frowned, dredging her memory.

  “’Oo seeks him?”

  The small one lowered his hood. “William of Worcester.”

  William! Helena gasped her shock aloud. Knowing there was no danger for her, she stepped from the trees onto the trail, bringing her out behind the archers.

  “Lady Isobel.” William’s face sagged in relief.

  “My name is Helena of York,” Helena corrected him.

  “So I have learned.” He glanced over her shoulder. “You are Lord Loxley?”

  “Not I.” It was Stephen’s voice. He had followed her out, still shielding her back.

  “What brings you all the way here, William?” she asked the boy. “In the middle of winter? And alone?”

  “My father is dead,” he said shortly.

  Unhappiness touched her. “I am sorry,” she said. “He was a good man.”

  William nodded shortly. “Yes, he was a good man, while my mother chooses another course I will have naught to do with.”

  Her unhappiness deepened. “Catherine still seeks to find her own power?”

  “I don’t know. I have left her to Worcester and her own wicked games, as the actions she has already taken were too strong for my stomach. I will not countenance any more of them in my name.” William’s face flushed, the high cheekbones standing out in sharp relief. He spoke with childish bluntness, “She did wrong by you. It pleases me I should meet you once more and tell you that myself.”

  Helena was touched, her unhappiness lifting a little. “Thank you.” Honesty made her add, “You should know, however, that I did not act as honorably as I should, either. I posed as Isobel.”

  “Yes, I am aware of that. One day I will ask of you the full story, as the report I had on it seemed…tainted.” William shivered and looked around at the trees. “I came seeking Loxley. I had no idea I would find you here.”

  Helena smiled grimly. “This is a place where men and women without a future often find themselves.”

  William sighed. “Yes, I suppose they do.”

  “Worcester, eh? You’re a long way from home.” It was Robert’s voice and he stepped out onto the path quite close to William and his men. The three instantly stepped closer to William, who lifted his hand, signaling they should restrain themselves. He nodded to Robert.

  “You must be Lord Loxley.”

  “I am just Robert here. As you are just William.”

  “I understand.” William indicated the three men around him. “These men are loyal to me and chose to serve me of their own free will. I would like you to find a place for them too.”

  Robert looked them over. “There’s always room for a willing hand.”

  William touched one of the bulging saddle bags. “I am familiar with your reputation…Robin. What we have, you are welcome to.”

  Robert’s grin broadened. “Then you are doubly welcome, lad. Come, there is a fire ahead and food and warmth.”

  * * * * *

  Stephen searched for Elen. When they had reached the main camp, she had slipped away unseen and he could not find her in any of the usual places.

  Finally, unwillingly, he asked Robert, who straightened from an examination of William’s saddlebags to consider the question. “The death of Peter will have touched her deeply,” Robert judged.

  “More than you know,” Stephen replied. “Her life, everything, rested on solving the riddle of her father’s death. That possibility has been taken from her now.”

  Robert considered a moment longer. “The stream. She will be there, no doubt.”

  “How do I find it?”

  * * * * *

  Helena shivered and wrapped her cloak more firmly around her. It was snowing. The strip of sky over the stream was iron gray and so low it seemed to touch the trees on either side, dropping its soft, cold burden with silent majesty.

  She had come here as she always did, for it was one place away from Robert’s busy camp where she could find peace and be alone. This time, though, the peace was not as soothing as she had hoped and she was lonely rather than alone. She had come seeking a private time to
mourn the death of her hopes, to acquaint herself fully with her failure to find her father’s killer, but the release was denied. Her thoughts were centered instead upon Stephen.

  Helena ached for him. It had been six days since they had been truly together. Now that it was no longer necessary to maintain a distant, efficient role in front of Robert’s men, she found her mind returning to those memories of her private pocket in the cavern, where Stephen had initiated her into the wonderful mysteries of lovemaking.

  She remembered his lips and hands on her flesh, making her body sing with tension and delight. Her body responded even now, stimulated by mere memories.

  “Elen.”

  Her name was spoken softly from behind her, a gentle caress from a lover’s lips.

  Helena closed her eyes and sighed, the exhalation emerging unsteadily. “You came,” she whispered. “How did you know I needed you?”

  “Love knows these things instinctively,” he said and his hand touched her shoulder.

  Love. The word whispered through her and she realized that he spoke of the bond they shared. She would never be alone again. No wonder her attempt to be alone here had failed.

  Stephen picked Helena up and sat on the flat rock where she had been seated. He put her on his lap. “I know why you came here.”

  She dared to look at him for the first time, knowing he would see the truth of her soul written on her face. She could not hide it now.

  Snowflakes rested on his dark hair. Stephen’s gaze was steady and she saw that he too, had lowered the shield on his feelings. He had come to her to help her, to protect and aid her, as he had ever since she had seen him staring at her across the long table in Oxford.

  “We have traveled far from the unhappy roads we walked in Oxford, have we not?” Stephen asked, echoing her thoughts.

  “Far indeed,” she whispered.

  He cupped her cheek and his hand was warm, soft. “Elen, you know the death of Peter tolls the end of your quest?”

  Tears stung her eyes. He merely spoke the truth but still it was a hot, sharp pain. Mutely, she nodded. Then she felt the tears build in her, pushing their way to the surface from the deep well she had kept covered since they had left Ferndale. Stephen had unlocked it with a simple acknowledgement of the truth. A sob pulled at her and she covered her mouth, trying to contain it.

  Stephen kissed her temple and drew her to him, letting her head rest against his shoulder. “Weep, my sweet warrior,” he murmured. “Weep for the death of your hopes. I will keep you safe while you do.”

  She felt his cloak settle around her, an added layer of warm and a dark shield against the day. Stephen’s soft words coaxed open her soul and she wept.

  * * * * *

  Snow muffled the landscape in its white blanket and for many days it seemed the world had ceased to exist, except for Robert’s people. Only the hardiest of them insisted on staying outside while the snow had its grip on them. For most, their world contracted to only the cavern, with quick dashes outside to the cooking fires and privies.

  So, too, did Helena and Stephen narrow the confines of their world to the cavern and Helena’s private quarters. They spent many hours entwined together, under the furs, exploring and learning each other’s bodies. Helena’s education was a rapid one. She was a willing student.

  But soon the snow began to melt as the sharp temperatures eased and the world around them stretched and yawned, waking.

  On the morning the sun first reappeared, there was a general exodus from the cavern as people welcomed the day. Helena heard the joy in their voices. She blinked sleepily, unable to think of a good reason to rise and join them, no matter how nice the day. There were too many reasons to stay right where she was.

  Stephen slept with his body wrapped around hers, his long length matching her curled form. But even as she contemplated leaving the warmth of the pallet, he stirred and moved against her, his big hand sliding over her stomach to cup her hip. He pressed her against him. She felt his arousal and smiled to herself, even as her blood stirred.

  Stephen slid inside her and Helena arched back, accepting him with a deep, inarticulate joy that only seemed more intense with each repetition of the moment. Her shoulders pushed against his chest and his arm slid under her head, pillowing it, while his hand held her hips steady against the small thrusts and quivers that spoke of his already mounting pleasure.

  It incited her own excitement and Helena clutched at his hand on her hip, feeling herself move with tight little spasms, excitement soaring.

  Stephen groaned, the sound rumbling against her back and his thrusts deepened. They moved together, finding the rhythm that pleased them the most, reaching for the peak of pleasure, climbing the swift, sharp ascent with single-minded intensity to achieve the summit together. Helena’s climax pulled through her and locked her body to Stephen’s, as his own became a tight bow against her. She felt his hand lift from her hip to slide over hers, fingers weaving together, even as the deep tremors racked him and his breath locked in his chest.

  For a long time they lay together, bodies recovering, the tide of want receding and leaving them fragile, trembling husks.

  Stephen stirred and brushed loose locks of hair from Helena’s face and neck. He kissed her under the corner of her jaw. “Elen, do you remember what I told you of the desert?”

  “All of it.” The tales would forever haunt her. “I remember it most strongly when you are acting as the Lord Dinan.”

  “Why then?”

  “Because then you are most unlike what I imagine to be the man who walked through the desert.”

  “And here? In the forest?”

  “You are closer to that man. I sense him, just beneath the surface.”

  “That man has found a place at last.”

  “I knew you would understand what I tried to show you in Ferndale.” She felt the sadness of her failure there touch her again and by Stephen’s caress of her cheek, she knew he guessed her thoughts.

  “It is not just to help these people that gives me a place here.” His hand smoothed her hair again. “Do you remember I spoke of the thoughts that plagued me toward the end? The thoughts of giving up, of lying down and sleeping?”

  “Of dying? Yes.” She tried to face him but his hand caught her shoulder and held her in place.

  “No, do not turn around. I can speak of it more easily this way.”

  Helena nestled back into the cocoon of his body. “I am listening,” she assured him quietly.

  “I said once that the desert was with me and it seemed closer when you were near.” He sighed. “Elen, it is you who gives me purpose. I could walk that desert a dozen times over and the death thoughts would not touch me, for I would have every reason to return from that desert…to you.”

  Helena’s heart thudded. She remained silent, sensing there was more. He bared his soul to her with words that cost enormous effort to speak aloud.

  “You have reawakened what was best of that time, the wonder of that place. I find it in you. In your eyes, in the color of your skin, in every curve. Your fierceness as a fighter and your relentlessness. Beauty and hard reality, all in one.” There was silence and then he added, voice low and harsh with control, “I never expected to find these things here.”

  Helena closed her eyes against the joy and deep contentment Stephen’s words built in her. She could not speak now even if her life depended upon her voice, for the only words she could think to say were inadequate, poor cousins to Stephen’s murmured truths.

  “Elen, I gave you an oath.” Stephen’s hand lifted, not to his heart but hers. “I promised that I would do anything in my power to find a way for us to marry. I wish now I had not given that oath, for you may think it is simply my bond as a knight and soldier that brings me to this and it is not.” His own heart hammered against her shoulder, betraying his calm tone. “There is nothing to prevent us marrying now, although I would not have believed the solution had you foretold it the night I gave that oath. Those
whose retribution I feared no longer have any power over me. They have done their worst and I am beyond their reach now. As for you…” He sighed. “I thought your fate a black one once, but your own quest is no longer.” Stephen’s lips touched her cheek, the dark hair brushing her temple with a soft sweep. “Marry me,” he murmured, his head hovering over hers.

  Helena turned to look at Stephen. His eyes were steady upon her and nothing of the effort taken to speak so frankly showed on his face. Except she saw his jaw clench and the skin ripple.

  “Do you truly fear I might refuse you?” she asked.

  “I have nothing to offer you but more of this life you fight so hard to correct,” and he looked around at the rough cavern walls.

  “While I bring no dowry with my hand,” she added.

  Stephen considered this. “It seems we are free of more than lands and titles, Elen. Why do you not partake of the freedom every villager naturally bears? They are free to marry whom they choose.”

  Helena barely hesitated. There was a recklessness that came with such freedom of choice and it made her heady. “Then I choose you,” she said, “and let the world be damned if it opposes me.”

  * * * * *

  Robert knew where an old holy man lived a hermit’s life, guarding an old shrine half a day’s ride away and sent a horse and rider to fetch him.

  At the announcement of her wedding on the morrow, the women coalesced around Helena. They began frantic preparations for endless rituals, customs they insisted were utterly essential if the marriage was not to begin under the cloud of bad omens.

  They might not have been familiar with the extended formalities of a baron’s wedding preparations but their faith and superstitions provided many of the same complications.