Heart of Vengeance

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  Stephen looked around the hall. “From the emptiness of this place, you would not consider it poor judgment to arrive tonight, Alphonse?”

  “Surely, if the king sent for you this night, you would know this is not so.”

  Helena tried hard not to glance at Stephen, or show her alarm.

  Stephen shrugged. “What reasons would I arrive here for other than his summons?”

  Alphonse nodded and smiled. “True, true. He must want you to see this shining hour, as you were the instigator of it, in a way. Perhaps you can take it as a sign that all is forgiven, hmm?”

  Stephen laughed and not a single false note sounded. “Should I dare to hope?” None of the puzzlement he must surely be experiencing crept into his voice or expression.

  “Well, you’d better come along, then. It should already have begun by now. That’s why I was rushing. Late, again.” He gave a disarming grin and swept his arm aside, indicating they should precede him.

  Stephen took Helena’s hand and led her across the floor to the passage toward which Alphonse had been heading. Alphonse stepped into place beside them.

  “Yes, it’s a grand moment,” he said. “Not only has Richard defeated France but now Phillip is the first to sue for peace. The King never thought he would see the day when France asked for terms. He always says French dogs would not ask for mercy even if they were on their knees with the axe at their throats.”

  “I was not aware Phillip made the overture,” Stephen said, as if all but this small point was already known to him.

  “Oh, yes! The two ambassadors arrived yesterday. Richard has been in a turmoil ever since, trying to decide reparations, punitive fines…”

  Stephen’s grip on Helena’s hand suddenly crushed her fingers and she was hard put not to cry out a protest. “Two ambassadors?” he asked sharply. “Two French ambassadors?”

  Alphonse laughed. “They’d hardly be Spanish now, would they?”

  Stephen stopped in the middle of the long dark corridor and turned to Alphonse. His hand released Helena’s and gripped his sword. “Quickly, Alphonse. Show me where they meet. Now! We may already be too late.”

  “Why…? What…?” Alphonse shook his head. “I don’t understand. I thought you knew of this. I thought the king had sent for you.”

  Stephen turned and pushed Alphonse into a staggering run. “They’re not ambassadors sent by Phillip.” He started to run himself. “They’re here to kill Richard.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  That Richard should be working toward a peaceful settlement with Phillip was a majestic jest not lost on Stephen. But the humor of it was buried beneath the dread churning within him. The corridor they ran along seemed endless.

  “Where? Where?” Stephen quizzed Alphonse.

  “Just down here. The new private wing.” Alphonse gasped for air and could manage no more.

  “This blessed castle is too large!” Elen protested.

  Stephen spared her a glance. She had looped her skirts over one arm and ran as swiftly as they. Of course, he remembered, his mental voice dry, she was good at running.

  Alphonse slowed and Stephen grabbed his arm to hurry him along. It wasn’t as if the man were wearing a full mail suit, or carrying a long sword and shield, after all.

  “Here!” Alphonse squeaked, trying to stop despite Stephen’s grip and reached out for a short, narrow passage off the corridor. At the end was a door with a posted guard, who flexed to attention when he saw Stephen’s sword.

  “The king is in danger!” Elen called. “Open the door!”

  Her presence of mind was invaluable. The guard’s priority was to keep the king safe and her warning focused his attention on the inside of the room. Suddenly, he was as anxious to have the door opened as they were.

  Stephen judged his speed and, as the door was unlatched, his shoulder hit the wood and pushed the barrier aside. It barely slowed his step and he flew into the long room. Stephen barreled past knights, barons, courtiers, priests, even an archbishop with rich robes and pointed hat, all filling one end of the room to watch the proceedings in the center.

  Stephen tried to take in everything at once, to assess where the danger lay, where Richard stood, where the guards and knights appointed to protect Richard were ranged so that he might avoid their interference.

  Who were the assassins? Stephen looked around and saw the king standing in front of a beautifully carved table with a large iron sconce, his eyes just beginning to widen with surprise.

  Stephen felt a tug on his left elbow. “There!” Elen called and he saw her point to the left. A row of regal chairs stood there, one empty. The king’s. On either side sat two men, strangers to him, elegantly dressed, their clothes just odd enough in style to mark them as foreigners.

  The Frenchmen.

  They had recognized their deception was at an end, for they looked at one another and spoke rapidly. The man on the left nodded and shot to his feet, heading for the king. His hand dug in his sleeve and his face drew into a rictus, a growl of menace.

  “Long live Phillip!” he cried, withdrawing a wickedly long dagger and lifting it high.

  Richard barely reacted, so unexpected was this turn of events. It seemed to Stephen that everyone was moving slowly, like insects caught in amber.

  The man with the dagger was the more dangerous one, so Stephen changed his direction and leapt at him, bringing his sword up. Without intending to, he found himself voicing a battle cry such as he had not uttered since the days of fighting in the Holy Lands. The blow he landed shuddered through the stone floor itself and the assassin dropped instantly, dead before he hit the floor.

  Stephen spun to tackle the second man and found Elen already there, her long knife out and up against his throat. The assassin raised his dagger despite her knife. He knew that although her knife was at his throat, Elen could not finish the task. She did not have time to reach elsewhere for a disabling wound and the man knew it.

  Chilling silence enveloped Stephen. A high, wordless, cry of warning pierced his mind. Elen was in danger.

  He acted before he knew what he was going to do. His knife was out, flipped, the blade grasped. He jerked his wrist in the quick downward flick that would ensure the greatest power and fastest speed. Every action was automatic, smooth and exact. Even before the blade reached its target, he knew it would strike home.

  Stephen watched the knife pass through the small space made by the edge of Elen’s veil and her upraised arm and bury itself in the assassin’s throat, just below Elen’s useless blade.

  The man fell back, gurgling, hands scrabbling at the knife. His dagger clattered on the stone floor.

  The danger to Elen had passed and, abruptly, the room seemed to tilt and rock. Stephen propped himself on his bloody sword as strength deserted him. Even his hearing wavered, the sounds of horror and astonishment from the men at the end of the room rising and beating at him.

  Then Elen was at his side, her hands warm and strong, a silent comfort despite their audience. She laid a hand on his shoulder and he saw the troubled light in her eyes, though she smiled reassuringly.

  “The king is safe,” she told him.

  Her misunderstanding was like a body blow. She did not know this after-fear was for her, not the king. Even Stephen had not predicted it but the fact was undeniable—Elen’s welfare was more important to him than the king’s.

  He stared at her. The words would not come, though he wanted to say them. He still grappled with the truth.

  Then Richard was before him and his rage seemed to make him tower over them. “Stephen, for God’s sake, man, do you know what you have done?”

  “I know now,” Stephen said and was surprised to hear his voice emerge a rusty croak. A weak laugh tugged at him. He let it out and saw both Elen and Richard stared at him.

  Elen faced Richard and curtsied deeply. “Your Highness, these men were not agents of King Phillip. They were assassins, sent here to kill you.”

  “Yes, I gath
ered that,” Richard said dryly. He picked up her hand. “Stephen I know of old. And you are, my lady…?”

  Stephen saw her swallow and lick her lips. She glanced at him and he recognized her hesitation. Should she tell Richard her true identity and risk the penalties he might bring upon her?

  Before he had killed the second assassin, Stephen would have left Helena to make her own decision and live with the consequences. He had been determined she should live with the black fruit of her desire for vengeance. But now he knew he must force the issue, for once and for all time. “This is Helena of York, daughter of the former Earl of Wessex, Your Highness…and my wife.”

  Richard’s brow lifted and the hand that held Elen’s dropped. “Your wife?” he repeated slowly. He glanced at Elen, then at the men assembled behind them. “Leave us,” he commanded.

  * * * * *

  When the room had been emptied and the bodies removed, all that remained were Richard, Stephen and Helena and two bloody spots on the cold flagstones. No rushes had been laid, for the room was meant for formalities that occurred most often during summer campaigns, not in the depth of winter when most men stayed close to their own hearths.

  Helena studied the king and tried to guess his intentions now that Stephen had revealed her damning identity. Richard’s anger seemed to have subsided and a cold caution dictated his every word. That caution filled her with fear, for Richard had instantly recognized the legal complications. That was why he had cleared the room of unnecessary witnesses.

  Stephen walked stiffly to one of the high chairs and lowered himself into it, using his sword as a prop.

  Richard stared at Helena. His gaze was as compelling as Stephen had once told her it was. “Your father was declared a traitor to me,” he said quietly. “I believe you chose to follow him despite his status as outlaw, instead of accepting my protection as a ward of the crown.”

  Helena’s trembling worsened.

  “She just saved your life, Richard,” Stephen pointed out.

  The King spared Stephen a swift glance before turning back to Helena. “Which is why I do not act as the law demands right now.” He reached for his own knife, tucked into a jeweled sheath at his waist. He pulled it out with a quiet whisper of metal. “By rights, I am entitled to cut your heart out where you stand and there is not one person in the land who could gainsay me.”

  Helena fell back a step, fresh alarm bursting within her. Richard followed. She heard Stephen curse and jump to his feet. She backed up farther and still Richard came. Stephen reached her side and his sword lifted in front of her as a barrier.

  “Richard,” he said, his voice strained.

  Helena saw Richard’s gaze cut from her to glance over her shoulder. His whole attention, she realized, was upon something behind her.

  She laid her hand over Stephen’s on the hilt of his sword, in warning and simply stepped aside.

  Richard rushed passed her and lunged at one of the rich tapestries hanging at the back of the room. “Show yourself!” he demanded. The knifepoint pushed through the fabric.

  There was a squeak of alarm. “Do not harm me, lord!” Fear distorted the voice. “I will come out.”

  Richard straightened. “At once!”

  The tapestry billowed and the man revealed himself.

  Helena gasped. “Savaric!”

  The white skin and hair was unmistakable, even though the man was dressed in black.

  Stephen moved so swiftly from her side that the air was ruffled by his departure and swirled around her skirts. He brushed past Richard and grabbed a fistful of Savaric’s long hair and yanked the man’s head back, exposing the throat. His knifepoint rested against it.

  “This is the man you should deal with as freely as the law allows, Your Highness.” Helena had never heard his voice so full of loathing and fury. “This is the employer of the two we kept from your own throat.” Stephen shook Savaric’s head like a dog might worry a bone. “He could not resist watching the fruits of his labor.”

  Richard studied Savaric thoughtfully. “I know this man.”

  “Your Highness, I am a servant of your brother!” Savaric cried. “I am Savaric, of York. I come merely to see your greatness and to see for myself this beautiful castle that men praise the length of England! I know nothing of these assassins that set upon you.”

  Richard smiled but the expression was cold. “If you are, indeed, servant to my brother, then you should know better than to skulk behind a tapestry. John knows my feelings about household spies and would have instructed you on this.”

  “Your Highness, I do not understand!” Savaric cried.

  Helena could not help but sidle closer to the abhorrent man, an uneasy fascination drawing her like a spell. This pitiful, whining creature was the man who had orchestrated such misery in so many lives? It did not seem possible.

  “Understand this, then,” Richard replied. “You do not come as John’s spy, for you claim the role far too easily and I have little reason to doubt Stephen’s word.”

  Helena saw Savaric’s quick, sliding glance in Stephen’s direction. The colorless eyes narrowed.

  “Watch out!” she cried, before she even saw the danger.

  Savaric’s left hand held a small dirk, like those used by the hill tribes to the north of Hadrian’s Wall. The blade swung toward Richard, who stood close enough for Savaric to reach.

  Stephen’s sword came up, protecting the king. Savaric’s wrist met the blade…and was not cut, for Stephen had twisted the blade so that flesh slapped against the flat of the sword and the knife was jarred harmlessly from Savaric’s grip.

  Richard, who had pushed away several paces, straightened from his defensive crouch. “Christ, Stephen. Kill the man and be done with it. You were never one to play cat and mouse with your quarry.”

  “I beg your forgiveness, Richard, but this man’s death is reserved for another.” Stephen forced Savaric forward and pushed him to the wooden table at the center of the room.

  “You’re not making a lot of sense,” Richard said, following.

  “Indulge me a moment or two and you will understand.”

  “Preserving my life is worth at least that much,” Richard agreed.

  Stephen lifted Savaric by his throat and slammed him onto the table. It shuddered under the impact. Savaric’s flailing boots sent the sconce flying across the room with a heavy boom.

  Stephen slid Savaric along the table until his head hung over the end. He gripped the long hair again, forcing Savaric’s head back. Stephen looked at Richard. “Would you mind holding him still?”

  “Not at all,” Richard murmured. He stepped to Stephen’s side and held Savaric’s hair as if it were a normal, everyday event in his life.

  An emotional storm raced through Helena. Fear, confusion and an overwhelming need for the vengeance she had sought for over a year. That moment was here at last.

  Stephen grasped her arm and walked her to the table. “Take out your knife,” he told her and positioned her at Savaric’s head.

  Savaric bucked but Richard cuffed him lightly and Stephen climbed onto the table and sat on him, pinning Savaric’s hands with his knees. Despite the constrictions, Savaric continued to struggle but Stephen sat with rock-like steadiness, his gaze burning into Helena.

  “He is yours, Helena. All you have to do is cut and that which you have lusted after will be yours.”

  Savaric bucked again, screaming a string of curses.

  Helena had pulled out her knife but her hand moved sluggishly. She looked at Savaric again, at his exposed throat. “Not like this,” she said slowly.

  “Yes, like this,” Stephen insisted. “What does it matter how his blood is drawn? Is not the drawing of it enough?”

  Helena felt her heart beating in her throat and at her temples. Each beat sent a surge of aching heat through her. This was what she wanted, yes. Why could she not do it?

  “Kill him!” Stephen railed at her. “This is the man who killed your father without ben
efit of trial or truth. He laid waste to an entire village to cover his crimes. He took your home from you, your freedom. Do you deny this?”

  She shook her head. “No,” she whispered.

  “He had you beaten to a bloody pulp and lingered to savor your state. Once you escaped him he continued to poison others’ minds against you. He is a twisted man, beyond redemption. The world would be better for his absence.” Stephen took Helena’s wrist and laid the knife blade against Savaric’s throat. He held her hand steady, exerting pressure on the blade. A thin crescent of blood appeared under its edge.

  Savaric went wild, fighting against the bonds of two experienced warriors. Both men simply tightened their grips and bore down harder. Savaric’s movements became muffled, then abruptly, he stilled.

  “He’s fainted,” Richard said, amused.

  “Kill him, Helena.”

  All she had to do was draw the knife. She had seen it done countless times and the pressure Stephen exerted on the blade would be strength enough.

  She licked her lips. The beating of her heart was a deafening siren song in her mind, swirling in waves of noise, battering at her.

  “Vengeance is yours,” Stephen said. “Vengeance free of legal price, for Richard is the only witness and he will not speak of this.”

  She looked at the king who stood next to her. He watched her, eyes narrowed, thoughtful. He seemed to understand more than she did, for he nodded. “Stephen speaks truly. I will not pursue this.”

  Her gaze was drawn back to Savaric, helpless and vulnerable. She had dreamed of this moment. It had driven her every waking moment for over a year—except for a brief time when she had thought her quest a dead one. There had been more happiness in that peaceful, quiet time than she had ever experienced before. Ever.

  Why? Because she had reached out instead for something that did not need terrible actions. She had released her hate and accepted love.

  Helena looked at Stephen, sight blurred with tears. She shook her head, voice lost to her.