Heart of Vengeance

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  Even though it was an open secret that Helena had shared her bed with Stephen, the women insisted Stephen and Helena sleep apart the night before the wedding to maintain at least an illusion of chastity. Their preparations kept Stephen at a distance throughout the morning and after the noon hour a hunting party took him into the forest to search for meat for the wedding feast.

  Helena managed to escape the most persistent of the women around sunset and crept through the busy camp until she found Stephen working over their catches, supervising the preparation of the carcasses.

  He glanced at her sharply, then took her hand and led her into the trees while men jeered and hinted of improprieties.

  * * * * *

  Stephen drew Elen behind one of the larger trees and kissed her, selfishly taking what he had most wished for throughout the long day. Elen fell pliantly against him, her body almost melting into his arms, setting ablaze the fever that never seemed to entirely leave him. She seemed as desperately hungry for his touch as he was for hers, her hands moving over him restlessly, fanning the flames higher.

  It was with tortured reluctance that Stephen pulled away from Elen. He compensated by drinking in the image of her face and cupped it in his hand. “What ails you, sweet one? You look unhappy. Is it that you regret your decision to marry me?”

  “No!” Elen gripped the material of his shirt tightly, as if he might try to leave without her. “But I thought marriage would let us be together. It has done nothing but keep you from me.”

  “The rituals have to be observed, Elen, if the world is to believe we are properly married. Have patience. It will be over soon.” The reassurance sounded hollow, for he too, had chaffed at the ridiculous restrictions.

  “I had not thought before that all this formality might keep the couple apart.”

  He laughed. “The couple that marries generally has no desire to be together in the first place. We defy everything we have been taught. It is the way of things and those ways will continue to dog us, for a while.”

  Elen sighed and looked at her feet. “I just want to be with you,” she confessed and the confession delighted him. “And tonight I will be alone.” Her misery seemed absolute.

  Stephen went to hold her close again but stopped, sensing Elen was not finished. She stared at the ground, frowning, as if she struggled with her thoughts. There was more to this than her childish protest revealed. “I have spent so long trying to help Ferndale find my father’s killer and present him to the king and now that is gone.” She touched her chest. “It is an empty space in here.”

  Stephen frowned. “I help relieve that emptiness?” The question skirted a black abyss in his mind—the abyss that hid Elen’s motives from him. I choose you, she had said. But she had not said why.

  Elen shook her head. “No, it is not you who relieves it but its presence does not seem to matter when you are with me.”

  Stephen held her tightly, then, and reassured her that within a day there would be no obstructions between them. Yet all the while he felt a hollow ache inside.

  Reassured, Helena returned to her assigned tasks. Stephen watched her slip through the trees.

  He did not know why she chose to marry him. Her reasons were clothed in a privacy he had given her the first time they met, when he had deliberately chosen not to investigate her secrets. He would not—could not—break the trust that restraint had won for him. He could not demand she reassure him of her love. He would not ask Elen for the reason she married him.

  In the end it didn’t matter, for he knew he would marry her, come what may. His heart and mind would accept nothing else.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The holy man had the ill-kempt, malnourished appearance of those heretics who were truly touched by divine madness. His long hair and beard hid all but a hooked nose and fierce blue eyes that constantly snapped fire and passion for his beliefs.

  He insisted upon inspecting the bride and groom before doing them the honor of marrying them and plunked himself down to wait upon the hollow trunks that served as benches around the center fire. It was there Helena found him.

  She presented herself nervously before the tall, desiccated man they called Father Alban. The villagers of Robert’s band seemed to hold him in deep reverence and if his powers were all they claimed, then possibly he could see into her soul and know she did not come to the altar pure.

  Father Alban glanced at her, barely taking in her rich green gown—freshly cleaned for this occasion—and the sprigs of holly in her hair, or the hem of her cloak, caught up into drapes with green ribbons and gold brooches. He seemed to be about to dismiss her altogether when he glanced in her eyes. He looked again. His own blue ones narrowed as he stared. “Yes,” he murmured.

  Stephen stepped to her side, brushing down his own finery. He wore the black clothes he had worn upon their escape from York and his sword and dagger, freshly polished. There was a thick gold chain about his neck and for the first time Helena saw his family’s crest in filigree detail.

  Father Alban swung to face Stephen, giving him the same intense examination he had given Helena. He nodded shortly. “Yes, yes, these are the ones,” he declared. He glared at Stephen. “Take her hand, man. Do you not expect to marry the lass? I do not do these honors for anyone but those truly bound together by the fates. At least you might show some outer signal that this is so. Now, where to start?”

  Helena glanced at Stephen, startled. The wedding was to begin now? She saw Stephen’s barely suppressed smile as he reached for her hand. “Why not?” she heard him murmur, almost to himself.

  Behind them, barely contained hysteria sounded, as people realized the holy man intended to start the wedding immediately. They scurried into their places, forced by the proximity of the fire to range behind the holy man instead of behind the bridal couple.

  Robert, as both groom’s attendant and escort to the bride, chose to stand beside Father Alban, resplendent in his own high court clothes.

  Alban closed his eyes for a moment and Helena looked again at Stephen for reassurance. The holy man seemed less attached to the earth than to his heavens. But Stephen shook his head and smiled to reassure her.

  Alban took a deep breath and began to orate the wedding ceremony in resonant, formal Latin. The phrases rolled across the clearing with reassuring familiarity. Helena relaxed as he recited the age-old phrases that joined a man and woman.

  She dared to look at Stephen again, as the heat in her cheeks dissipated and she became calmer. He listened to Alban as if every word was new and fresh.

  With a jolt Helena realized they were fresh and new, even though she had heard them recited dozens of times. On this occasion, the words were meant for her and Stephen. She was about to promise to abide by the strictures Alban intoned.

  Absolute obedience and loyalty… Be guided by his wisdom and judgment… Put aside your pride and work for the betterment of your husband…

  Helena’s heart beat hard. A fist of fear squeezed her throat. She stared at the old man, horror welling. He looked squarely at her and rapped out in English, “Say you, Helena of York?”

  She felt a small pressure on her hand, the one captured inside Stephen’s and forced herself to look at him. He shook his head, a very tiny movement that no one beyond Robert would be able to see. He lifted his hand and rested it over his heart for a moment.

  It was a reminder of another oath, a much simpler one, spoken with utter honesty. “If you need me, I will come.” His hand pushed her enclosed one back toward her chest and she realized what he was trying to tell her. That oath could be hers too.

  She remembered what he had said yesterday, that the old ways would dog them for a while, for they dared to do what they wanted in the face of expectation.

  In her mind, Helena repeated Stephen’s oath, firmly and loudly. If you need me, I will come. “I promise,” she added aloud, resting her hand over her heart.

  Stephen’s gaze was steady upon her and she knew he saw and understo
od her promise.

  Father Alban swung back to Stephen and recited his duties as husband, father and master and paused expectantly. Stephen looked at Helena, placed a hand over his heart and uttered a low, “I promise.”

  She couldn’t help but glance at the holy man. He watched them both and his eyes glittered with a pleased expression. Did he know what they had just done?

  Then he said the closing phrases that sealed their bond as husband and wife. She and Stephen were married.

  As Alban’s last, vibrant cadence echoed through the clearing, the clouds broke and sunlight dropped upon them, touching their upturned faces with golden light. Alban lifted his arms and turned his nose to the sun.

  “See! Even the heavens approve this union. They know there is a purpose in the smallest turning leaf, the mightiest clash of armies and the decision of souls thought lost and alone, through endless sands and the tides of man.”

  Helena gasped and glanced at Stephen, who stared at Alban with a deep frown. But Alban continued blithely, “For from such tests of a man comes the strength to abide by what is right, what is good, and what should be.”

  He dropped his chin and looked at them both but his eyes did not snap with fervor now. They were glassy. Dreamy, as if Alban’s mind were far away. “You will meet opposition from the highest in this land. Do not waver from your course.”

  Helena stepped back, shrinking from this strange, frightening man and felt Stephen shift sideways, bringing him closer to her side.

  Alban blinked owlishly at them, as if he were waking up. He kneaded his temple with bony fingers. “What did I say?”

  * * * * *

  Rather than be cowed by Father Alban’s frightening oratory, Robert’s people took it as a sign of great blessing, that Stephen and Elen had been touched by God. So the wedding feast took on an extra degree of joy and celebration and the wine flowed liberally from the two huge barrels Robert had procured from some unnamed, and probably unwilling, donor.

  With drink came dancing and soon three musicians had emerged with drum, pipe and lute.

  The sun was lowering when William of Worcester approached Elen. Stephen noticed the lad’s cheeks were flushed and rosy but not, this time, from deep emotion. He had been drinking, although his manner was steady enough as he bowed low to Elen and requested a dance.

  With a smile, Stephen offered William Elen’s hand and gladly sat on the log by the fire to recover his breath while the pair slipped in among the other couples.

  He could not help but watch Elen. That dress! What was it about the green velvet that plucked at his mind so? The way it clung to hip and breast, or the way it glowed with rich life of its own? Or was it simply the glorious green color that constantly drew his eye? The touch memory of her soft flesh beneath the ties, perhaps?

  One day, he would buy her a dozen green velvet gowns, one for each month. And he would give her jewels and riches befitting a queen. One day.

  But for now, she was his wife and her willow-wand body clothed in this velvet gown was sufficient to drive him to distraction. Soon, it would be time to take her back to their quarters in the cavern, with the thicker and wider mattress he had found for them. Stephen’s blood warmed at the idea. Everything was right with his world. Contentment touched him for the first time in many restless years.

  When William and Elen stopped dancing in the middle of the tune and stood with their heads together, talking amid the others, Stephen’s heart leapt and a wordless question formed in his mind.

  They took no notice of the people around them, or the music. Nor did they think to leave the area where the dancing was most concentrated. Elen’s brow was furrowed as she questioned him.

  His answers had an alarming effect upon her. For she grew very still and her hand lifted to William’s shoulder as if to steady herself. She turned stiffly to look at Stephen. Her white face and enormous eyes had him leaping to his feet and pushing through the dancers to her side before his mind had fully understood the alarm.

  He reached her and slid his arm around her. He felt her tremble. “What is it?” Stephen asked. But she turned her face into his chest with a little groan and remained silent.

  William appeared as distressed as Elen. Stephen looked to him for an answer and he shook his head. “I had no idea.”

  “What did you speak of?” Stephen demanded.

  “Her father’s death.”

  Coldness touched Stephen, clamping onto his stomach. He recognized the fear it stirred. “What about it?”

  William looked deeply afraid now as he glanced from Elen to Stephen. “I have this day just learned she seeks the man responsible for the Earl of Wessex’s death.” He drew himself up straighter. “Isobel was kind to me, always. I sought only to return that kindness in some way.”

  “No one accuses you of malice. What did you tell her?”

  “That I knew the man she looked for.”

  The fear coalesced around him like a pall. “No, you cannot know.” The denial came quickly.

  William swallowed. “I do not lie, my lord.”

  Stephen felt a hand on his shoulder and Robert stepped next to him. The dancing and the music had halted. The people drew around them in a tight, concerned circle.

  “Tell us,” Robert coaxed William gently.

  William looked at Stephen again before facing Robert squarely, shoulders stiff. “My father, before he died, was in the habit of sharing with me whatever news he had learned in his contact with the court and his day-to-day dealings with the peasants. About two years ago he told me that the King’s Justiciar, Hugh, had probably been poisoned.”

  Gasps sounded around him and William spread his hands. “There was no proof but he was certain. A year ago, when Wessex was found dead in that field, he went to investigate for himself.” William glanced at Stephen then, sensing he was the man he must convince. “He came home afraid, for he knew Wessex had been killed by one of his own. It had nothing to do with the peasants.”

  “Why not?” Robert asked.

  “Because he had been beheaded.” William spoke the dreadful words calmly.

  Elen uttered a groan and Stephen held her tighter. “He saw the body?” Stephen snapped at William.

  “And the field where it lay, yes. It was muddy, churned up by many horses. Big horses. Destriers.”

  Which meant knights and barons.

  Robert lifted his hand when the people around them began muttering. “That does not tell us more than we already suspected about Wessex’s death. Is there a connection between Wessex and Hugh Puissant?”

  “My father believed there was. He said there was a man out there, moving among the barons, using stealth and deception to pick them off one by one, clearing a path for either himself, or some other master.”

  “But no one benefited from Hugh’s death but Lord Ranulf and it cannot be him,” Robert said.

  “Hubert Walter became Justiciar,” Elen said softly. “He benefited.”

  Stephen shook his head. “He became Justiciar unwillingly. He did it as a favor to Richard. I know the man. He wants only to be at home and at peace.”

  “Perhaps he simply says that to keep suspicion from falling upon him,” Robert suggested.

  “Wait,” Stephen said. “If Hugh was poisoned, then the poisoner must have been close at hand to deliver it. They say Hugh became sick rather suddenly. Who traveled with him? Does anyone know?”

  Robert grew thoughtful. “It was a very small party. Only three barons and two of them are dead now.” He frowned, hearing his own words.

  Stephen felt his own rage build. “Who was the third?”

  Robert grinned. “Me.” He crossed his arms. “I did not kill Wessex. Or Hugh.”

  “But you find yourself mysteriously outlawed, no?”

  Robert’s smile faded. “I took this route by choice.”

  “What choice? The gallows, or the forest?” he asked dryly. “It seems you were in the way, too, Loxley.”

  Robert rubbed his chin. “Then
who could it be?”

  “Who else was there? Not just the barons. Aides, attendants, anyone.”

  Elen stirred and lifted her head. “Don’t you see, yet?” she said, voice strained. “Can you not see the pattern? You have all been forced aside, one by one, just as my father was. When my father refused to simply accept his expulsion from court, when he pursued it and searched for proof of his innocence, he was killed.” She swallowed. “Just as I have looked for proof of his innocence. Those soldiers in Ferndale were looking for me. Me, Helena, not the lady Isobel.”

  “Nottingham?” Robert asked doubtfully.

  “Someone behind him. Someone who stands behind all the barons, moving them, manipulating them,” Elen said.

  Stephen’s jaw sagged as the facts all fitted into place. “Savaric!”

  Robert blinked. “Who?”

  “The Lord Savaric, currently of York. He holds York castle, taken in escheat,” Stephen explained. “He is responsible for my own state of lawlessness.”

  “I don’t know this lord,” Robert said.

  “He’s no lord!” The statement came from the people around them and Merriman pushed his way through to where they stood. He nodded to Robert. “Savaric is English and was born a commoner. His accent when he speaks English gives him away.”

  “Then how on God’s earth did he manage to win himself a castle?” Robert demanded.

  “How else?” Elen said softly. “He moved as he has always moved, with stealth and secrecy.”

  “But he was not with the party that traveled with Hugh,” Robert protested.

  “Are you sure?” Stephen asked. “The man is unmistakable. He is colorless. Even his eyes lack color and his voice is rusty and scratched.”

  Robert’s eyes widened.

  “And long nails, like talons,” Elen added.

  “I know this man.” Robert sighed. “He was there. He was an attendant to one of them. I never learned which.”