Chapter 7
The river was gray today, a shiny steel-gray that dazzled her eyes.
A pair of dippers floated upon its surface, their feathers sleek and wet, while a heron searched among the rubbish along the shore.
Ivo waited by his horse, looking stiff and uneasy.
Briar knew, as if he had told her, that he did not feel safe in this place.
He was wrong; it was safe enough if a person was careful.
She and Mary had had only one unpleasant encounter: a man had tried to get inside their home, but had soon fled when Briar came at him with her sword, and he realized they weren’t the helpless women he had thought them. They had not been molested since.
Their dwelling was warm and dry, better than many of the other accommodations they had found since they left Castle Kenton. It would do.
And besides, what choice had they? Despite their popularity they were lowly women entertainers, and the money they earned was barely enough for food and clothes.
They could not afford to live high. And Jocelyn could not jeopardize her, and above all Odo’s, place in Lord Shelborne’s household by smuggling in her sisters.
They had agreed on that. Odo always came first with Jocelyn.
Briar walked up to Ivo and tilted her head to see his face. It was closed, watchful, but he did not move back, not even when the toes of her shoes touched his and her cloak brushed his legs. She realized then that she liked that about him, the fact that he didn’t back down from her.
“What do you want to show me?”
Something moved in his closed face. Pain? Regret? But even as her suspicions were aroused, he had resumed his intent, black stare.
“You will see soon enough, demoiselle.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “I do not like surprises, de Vessey.”
“Come,” he said impatiently, and held out his linked hands for her foot, to throw her into the saddle.
Briar glanced behind her. “What of my sister? Where is the Dane? I cannot leave her here, alone.”
Ivo’s expression turned superior. “You think you are strong enough to stand between her and any cutthroats who lurk here? Briar, you delude yourself. You are a small woman, and although I am sure you would fight to the death, you would soon be overcome if the man were determined.”
“I do well enough,” she replied, refusing to be drawn.
After giving her another long look, he nodded his head in the direction of one of the fallen cottages.
The big blond man leaned against a crumbling wall, arms crossed, as still as if he were asleep.
He did not appear to be keeping watch, thought Briar, and yet something in his very stillness made her think of a hawk hovering, waiting to dive upon its prey.
Mary was in good hands, then.
Briar hitched up her skirt to show her darned stockings and old shoes, and was amused at the blind expression that came into Ivo’s eyes.
He was good at protecting his feelings—or was he protecting hers?
With a mental shrug, she set her foot in his hands, and he threw her up into the saddle as easily as if she had been a feather.
As he prepared to mount behind her, Briar looked down, into his upturned face. Their eyes met and locked.
To her surprise, he smiled.
As if he was pleased simply to be in her company.
Ivo rode through the quiet streets of York, with Briar tucked securely into his arms. At first she had tried to hold herself apart, her body stiff and ungiving, but gradually she had relaxed and slipped further into the curve of his body.
It was more comfortable for her, but not so much for him.
Her haughty demeanor did little to alleviate his desire for her.
His body ached.
When he had seen her before the fire, her long hair glowing, her body near enough to naked, he had felt as raw as a youth with his first wench.
If Mary hadn’t been there, Ivo doubted he would have been able to stop himself from grabbing her up, carrying her to her bed, and making her his again. And again.
The memories of their night together were as fresh and new in his mind as if they had just happened.
She might resist him at every turn—he smiled to himself as he remembered her attempts to fight him with her puny sword—but it made no difference to how he felt.
He wanted her. More than that—he wanted to protect her, defend her, carry the memory of her kisses into battle, and win for her sake.
Why wouldn’t she see that?
But of course she could not, he reminded himself bitterly. What woman would want the services of a disgraced knight? No wonder she thought it best to protect herself. She did not trust him, and who could blame her?
The king’s castle rose high and solemn above the newly constructed rooftops, while a flag flapped wildly in the breeze.
During the last siege of York all the buildings surrounding the castle had been burned by William’s men, so that the rebels should have no protection on their approach.
Now that there was peace again, the area was gradually being reestablished.
The woman in his arms shifted. Ivo felt all the softness leave her body as she realized where they were going. Like a wild creature scenting danger, Briar stiffened.
“You are safe,” he said firmly, slowing his horse as they made the approach. “There is a man I want
you to see. He is a prisoner here. He knows you.”
“He knows me?”
“ ‘Twas he who gave me this fine bruise upon my face.”
“And you want me to congratulate him?” she asked cautiously, her eyes gleaming.
He laughed. Jesu, he admired her. She was making jokes, when he well knew she was terrified. The king was her enemy and this was his castle— how could she not think the worst?
“Aye, you can do that if you wish.”
They had been admitted through the gate and into the bailey without any problems. Now Ivo dismounted and, reaching up, grasped Briar’s waist, bringing her down beside Mm. She stepped closer and he hid a smile. Now he was her protector, disgraced or not.
Without asking first, he took her cool fingers in his and led her toward the place where the prisoners were held.
It was cold and forbidding here, but little different to most dungeons.
Ivo had seen many, though rarely from the inside.
Briar, he suspected, had seen none; indeed, it appeared she did not like the look of this one at all.
Perhaps she was imagining herself in here, imagining what it would be like if she were locked up by the king’s order.
“ ‘Tis a dreary place,” she murmured.
He wanted to pull her closer, to kiss her, to tease her in his arms until she was warm and feisty again. His sharp-tongued lady. But there were too many eyes upon them, and he did not wish to make her a cause for gossip. With a murmured word to the guard, he led her into a cell.
The man he sought was master of a gloomy corner. He sat on a bench before a smoky brazier, one of his legs heavily bandaged. Graying hair hung long about his shoulders, and pale eyes adorned a tanned and wrinkled face. He peered at them as if he had trouble seeing them.
“I have the lady you asked for,” Ivo said clearly, and drew Briar forward.
She resisted but then, with a deep breath, allowed it.
The prisoner began to struggle to his feet.
“Nay, do not stand,” Briar said hastily. She took a step and stopped. A sense of recognition swept over her, ousting the sickness in her belly. ‘Twas this wretched place, she thought, ‘twould make anyone bilious.
Briar glanced at Ivo, but he stood to one side, as if he had no part in the conversation. His eyes were fierce, glowing with some strong emotion, but she could not read it.
“Do I know you?” she asked the prisoner uncertainly. “Why have you asked for me, old man?”
“Aye, you know me, lady.” The pale eyes lifted to hers, and froze her in place. Nausea twisted within her again, while that well-remembered voice said, “I am Anthony the traitor, lady, but once I was called Sir Anthony Delacourt.”
Sharp memory, like the sting of a whip to her flesh.
Sir Anthony, vassal and friend, stood by her father at Castle Kenton, his face as grim as Lord Richard’s, as the two men prepared to make treason against the king.
“I thought you died at the hands of Radulf’s men,” Briar said, her voice oddly devoid of feeling. The cell was growing dark around her, as if night had come suddenly and without warning.
“No, my lady, I did not die.”
For a single, insane moment she thought: If Sir Anthony is alive, then mayhap so is my father! And then she remembered that that could not be. Her father had died at his own hand and she had prayed over his poor, cold body...
Dizziness assailed her. Briar reached out, blindly, her legs giving way.
A hard, strong arm came around her, and cool, gloved fingers closed over her own grasping ones.
Eyes shut, she clung to him, soaking up his strength and support, while the world faded in and out, and sickness threatened to humiliate her.
Gradually everything stilled and righted. Her breathing returned to normal, and her stomach stopped doing a jig. He was, she realized, holding her up, his voice a soft, urgent murmur in her ear.
“My angel, my sweet lady, please, be strong...”
There was a temptation to simply remain where she was and listen to his endearments. No man had ever called her such things before, and again that warm and wonderful feeling filled her. But to play at helplessness was not Briar’s way. He was right, she was strong, and she must be strong now.
“I am recovered.”
Instantly he stilled, his breath ragged against her hair, waiting.
She swallowed, and licked her dry lips. “ ‘Twas just a moment, when I... I remembered...”
“I understand.”
He said it as if he really did.
Her fingers tightened on his as she straightened, regained her footing, and then she released them. He stepped back, but not very far.
Sir Anthony was watching her warily, his face more haggard even than before.