Chapter 7 #2
“You say you did not die.” She sounded cold, emotionless—it was necessary to be both.
“I escaped and fled north, to Scotland.”
“Then what do you here? Now?”
“I have lost all I had in England, so I made a life by fighting for whoever wanted me. I was part of the recent rebellion on Lady Lily’s lands, but this time I did not escape.
De Vessey here has brought me to justice, lady.
He beat me in fair fight, and treated me kindly in defeat.
On the journey to York, we spoke of many things, and one of them was you. ”
De Vessey. The realization squeezed her, dangerously tight, so that for a moment she could hardly breathe. She fought back, refusing to collapse before him like one of the foolish, hysterical women she had always despised. She dare not show any more weakness, not now.
Now, when he knew who she was.
Ivo de Vessey, Radulf’s man, knows me. Can anything be more disastrous?
Sir Anthony’s voice droned on. “When de Vessey told me you were in York, lady, I asked to see you again. Lady Briar, I think often on those days. Your father was a great man.”
“Aye,” she whispered, tears spilling from her eyes, though her voice did not tremble. “So he was.”
Behind her the silence was palpable, but she could not turn, she dared not.
“I asked to see you again, Lady Briar, because I wanted to make sure you did not blame your father for what occurred. ‘Twas never his fault. He found the king’s justice wanting, and in his pain and grief, sought to make his own justice.”
“I know this, Sir Anthony,” she said, and now it was anger that made her voice shake. “I do not blame my father. I well know who to blame for our calamity.”
Anthony eased his wounded leg with a grimace.
“I tried to tell him, lady, but he would not listen to me. If Odo had been well, mayhap he would have listened to him, but Odo was close to death.” The pale eyes lifted and fixed on hers.
“ ‘Tis not something one man can easily tell another. That he is a cuckold.”
Briar blinked, her anger turning colder.
What was this? Cuckold? Had the man been wounded in the head, as well as the leg?
There had been talk, afterward, of Anna’s unfaithfulness, but Briar had always dismissed it.
Her father had loved his beautiful wife so much; how could Anna betray devotion such as that?
Briar could not imagine being loved in such a single-minded way, and if she was, she knew she would never wantonly destroy it.
That was why she had chosen the form of vengeance against Radulf that she had—to destroy his wife’s love and faith in him.
It was the worst punishment Briar could imagine.
“But I thought ‘twas only talk!” she cried out now. “I know Radulf lusted after Anna, but I believed she resisted his importunings, and that was why he had her killed. Are you telling me, Sir Anthony, that they were lovers? No wonder my father was so bitter!”
Sir Anthony shook his head. He looked as if he were sorry for what he was about to say—there was something in his eyes that spoke of deep regret. But there was also a recklessness in the set of his head, a strong need to speak, to set himself free. Whatever the cost to her.
“Anna was faithless, lady, but I do not know if Radulf was her partner. There were... others. I heard mention of both Lord Fitzmorton and Lord Shelborne. Your father did not know—or pretended not to. I think, if he had been forced to recognize her for what she was, it would have destroyed him. As it did. Nay, lady, she was the reason he died. He fought for her, seeking justice for her death, when she had been all too happy to besmear his reputation while she was alive. If anyone killed your father, Lady Briar, then it was Anna.”
The silence was deep; a dark hollow sound.
What does it matter whether she was faithful or not? screamed a shrill voice in her head. Radulf still ordered Anna to be murdered, and it was that murder which began the whole downward spiral of the Kenton family. Whether she was a faithful wife or not changes nothing!
But it did.
Sir Anthony had spoken of matters Briar had never heard before.
Mayhap it was simply that she had been too young, and too sheltered, to grasp the meaning of them at the time.
Whatever the explanation, hearing them now had left her shocked and shaken.
She needed time to be alone, to lick at her wounds, to recover herself.
And to convince herself she had been right to waste two years of her life seeking vengeance at Radulf’s door.
“I do not know who killed her.” Sir Anthony’s already wrinkled face creased in thought. “Perhaps ‘twas Radulf, perhaps ‘twas some other who desired her and could not own her, not wholly. Even I let her use me. You do not know how persuasive she could be.”
Shamefaced, he turned away, and Briar felt the hot sickness return. Suddenly she knew she did not want to hear any more.
“Take me away, de Vessey.”
He reached out as if to comfort her, but Briar pulled back, standing rigid and alone. Aye, alone, as it should be. It seemed that no man was to be trusted after all.
Turning, blindly, Briar all but ran out of the dark cell, past the guard, and up the stairs. Her chest was heaving from more than physical exertion as she burst into the light.
Cold, gray day surrounded her. She took deep gulps of the frigid air, desperately attempting to still the queasiness in her stomach.
She would not be sick before Ivo, she would not!
It was a long moment before she sensed he was standing right behind her. Silent, waiting, so attuned to her that he knew exactly what she wanted from him. Tears stung her eyes and she gave a shaken laugh. He was playing at being her loyal knight. Aye, her very own disgraced knight.
“ ‘Tis all lies,” she said, recovering a little. “You have had much time on the journey to bring Sir Anthony to your side, and to help him in the telling of his tale.”
When he did not answer, Briar took another deep, steadying her breath, and turned at last to face him.
Had she expected to see distrust, because she was a traitor’s daughter?
Mayhap even triumph, that he had kept this information from her so completely.
Sir Anthony must have made him aware on the journey to York of who she really was, but he had waited until now to tell her.
Briar had not thought Ivo de Vessey a naturally cautious man, who would keep such information to himself longer than necessary, but mayhap she was wrong.
But as she looked into his dark eyes, all she could see was compassion and understanding, and the hot flicker of temper that she had lit.
“Why would I feed him lies?” he asked her evenly, but with an edge to his voice.
“Sir Anthony is dying—his leg is beyond healing—and seeks to lighten the burden on his conscience. He thinks that if he had forced your father to accept the truth, that his wife was a whore, then your father might well be alive today. Anthony was weak when it mattered, he thought only of his own shame where Anna was concerned and what telling your father would mean to their friendship, and his future. He accounted his own skin more important than that of Sir Richard. That is what he seeks to redress now.”
“It doesn’t make any difference.” Woodenly, Briar repeated the words she had spoken to Sir Anthony. “Radulf still had Anna killed—mayhap she had threatened to tell Lily. He still deserves to suffer for what he did to her... to us.”
“Nay, Briar,” he said softly.
“Aye! He did! Now take me home.”
He hesitated, but he must have sensed she was on the verge of breaking down completely. How could he not? Briar asked herself wildly. She was clutching onto self-control with her fingernails, and even now they were slipping.
Ivo nodded and moved toward his horse.
Briar took two shaky steps before she stopped again. The words almost choked her.
“You knew, de Vessey. May you rot in hell, you knew who I was, and did not tell me.”
Ivo paused—she could see him setting his shoulders, preparing himself for the tempest, before he turned. His face wore a resigned look. “Let us leave this place first, demoiselle, and then we will talk.”
Briar was tempted to have it out with him at once. She wanted to shout and scream. He knew it, too. The watchfulness was there in his eyes, but he gave a wry grin.
“Later, Briar,” he promised softly, “you can tear my flesh off in strips. But not here, not in front of the king’s guard where questions may well be asked.”
Briar glanced about and realized that they had gathered quite a deal of interest from the other occupants of the castle bailey.
With a stiff nod, she led the way to Ivo’s horse and allowed him to help her to mount before him.
Together they rode in silence, beyond the sturdy walls and into the city of York.
Their surroundings meant nothing to her. Her eyes were blind. Her mind kept running back and forth, trapped; over and over she heard Anthony’s words, but she could not concentrate. She could not think. Her father’s face filled her vision, and Anna, beautiful Anna.
Why did I not know? Was I so blind that I could not see what was happening? Or mayhap I preferred not to? Am I so like my father? Wilfully blind...
“I was protected and innocent,” she whispered. “And a fool. I should have seen. I should have spoken to my father, made him listen, made him stop—”
“Lady, I know a private place.” His voice cut through her soft mutterings as he turned into a narrow snickleway. There was a small hostelry at the farther end. At this time of day there were few inside, and Briar waited, head aching, stomach roiling, while Ivo called for the host.
“Ah, good sir!” The man came forward eagerly. “The private room you wanted is—”
“Aye, I will have a private room,” Ivo cut him short, glancing uneasily at Briar. She stared back, knowing she should be suspicious of their exchange but too shocked to take it in properly.