Chapter 8 #3
“I worry for you, Briar,” Jocelyn said softly. “I want to see you smile again, laugh again. I want to see you as you used to be.”
“Nothing is as it used to be,” Briar retorted stubbornly.
“I want to see you happy.”
“How can I be happy! After all that has happened?”
“Briar, we must move on. We must.”
“Aye, go ahead, if you can. I have not finished yet with die past.”
Jocelyn threw up her hands with an exasperated sigh. She turned to the two men, determinedly ignoring her sullen, fuming sister.
“ Tis not often I have such visitors in my kitchen. Next Lord Radulf himself will appear and demand to sit by my oven.” She spoke tire name deliberately.
Sweyn laughed, ignoring the undercurrents. “You would be sorry if he did, lady. He is foul- tempered these days. He misses his wife,” he explained, when Jocelyn looked quizzical.
“Ah!” Jocelyn nodded, as if she understood.
And she probably did, Briar supposed reluctantly.
If Odo were gone, Jocelyn would feel as if part of herself were missing.
That was what loving someone meant—not that Briar was willing to admit for a moment that Radulf was innocent of Anna’s death.
Not yet. But she could accept that he loved Lily, his wife.
As her father, Richard, had loved Arina.
Love was cruel. Briar knew she would rather bury her heart deep in the ground before she allowed herself to love a man like that.
Jocelyn served the mead in small wooden bowls, and Briar took hers with a stiff thank-you, and ignored the surreptitious glances her sister was sending between Ivo and herself.
‘Twas none of her business. Especially now, when Jocelyn had been caught out in her deceit.
Briar told herself bleakly that she would never trust her again.
Instead, Briar watched Mary and Sweyn. They stood close, and murmured quiet words to each other.
It was as she feared, Briar thought bleakly.
Mary was enamored of the handsome Dane, but worse, he was smitten with her, too.
How could anyone mistake that dazed smile, that startled ex?pression in his eyes.
And Mary, coloring for no reason when he looked at her, or gazing up at him with adoring eyes.
Aye, love glowed about them like a candle flame.
Briar sipped at her mead as though it were poison.
This was wrong. Mary was too young. She needed Briar to look after her.
What had happened to her world? All she had thought solid and real, had begun to shiver and twist like the leaves that were even now falling from the trees.
How could she see her way clear? If she no longer knew what lay ahead of her?
This was Ivo de Vessey’s fault. ‘Twas all because of him! Until he had come to York, all had been well, and now ... Briar clenched her hands tighter about her bowl.
He was standing beside her. She could feel his presence without having to turn her head and look. The warmth of his body, the scent of him, the sheer dark presence of him. She could have been locked in a night-black dungeon and still have known when he came through the door.
This new understanding gave her no pleasure.
“Briar?”
She schooled her features, and turned to look up at him. He opened his mouth to speak, then reading her mulish expression, frowned and changed his mind. With an exasperated breath, he reached up and ran his fingers through his black hair.
Jocelyn, who had stopped to watch the byplay, seemed to notice the glove for the first time. “You are prepared to do battle even here?” she asked, nodding to his hand.
Ivo glanced at his leather encased fingers as if he had forgotten them, and then his face turned hard as granite. “My hand was hurt in a fight, once, long ago, Lady Jocelyn. I wear the glove because it is unsightly.”
Jocelyn nodded. “But it does not prevent you from your profession?”
“Nay, I am as able to fight and defend myself as well as any other man. I have learned to compensate for the missing fingers.”
Suddenly Briar looked up at him with wide eyes. She had not realized, when he said he was hurt, that he meant... Sweet Jesu, that he should have lost his fingers in a fight. Fierce, beautiful Ivo! Nausea and pain sliced through her.
With a gasp, she stood up and flung herself toward the slop bucket. The mead and all else she had had at supper this night came back out. Noisily.
Jocelyn’s mouth dropped open, but in another moment she had hurried to her sister’s side, making soothing noises. Mary started to follow, but Sweyn grasped her arm, murmuring, “Leave her be, she is in good hands.”
Ivo did not move at all. He was stunned, and the misery inside him burned like a brand. She was repulsed by the thought of his hand. What else could it be? Indeed, she was so revolted that she had cast up the contents of her stomach into a bucket. He turned on his heel and left the room.
Briar took several gulps of air, allowing Jocelyn to mop at her hot, damp face with a cool cloth.
It was not squeamishness that had made her ill—she was never squeamish.
The thought of Ivo’s pain had jolted her, aye, but never enough to make her physically ill.
Mayhap she had a fever—that would explain her odd thoughts during the song, her lack of concentration, her wild fears.
She was not herself.
“I am not myself,” she said the thought aloud.
“She kept forgetting the words to the song,” Mary piped in worriedly.
Jocelyn nodded, smoothing Briar’s hair out of her eyes. “Stay here tonight.”
Briar shook her head. “I want to go home. I need to go home.” Her voice had an edge to it that she didn’t like. Briar took a deep breath, meeting Jocelyn’s worried eyes. “I’m sorry... for before. I know you mean well, Jocelyn...”
“But you saw it as betrayal,” Jocelyn replied evenly. “I wasn’t taking sides against you, Briar. Not everything is about taking sides.”
“Is it not?” Briar’s reply was bleak.
Jocelyn squeezed her sister’s shoulder. “You need to be home in bed. I will wash your face and make up a hot posset for you while you are here, and then you can take another dose before you sleep.”
Briar nodded, not even bothering to argue further. Sweyn glanced from one to the other, and then spoke to Jocelyn. “I will see that they reach home safely.”
Jocelyn smiled her relief. “Thank you, Sweyn.” She leaned close to Briar, kissing her pink cheek. “You are still feeling ill?”
Wearily, Briar shook her head. “I am well now,” she said huskily. “Just tired.”
“Then let the Dane take you home. You will be well in the morning.”
Briar rose and looked about her properly for the first time since her rush for the bucket. “Where is de Vessey?”
Her sisters exchanged a puzzling glance. “He left when you were ill,” Jocelyn said carefully.
“Mayhap he is one of those men who cannot bear to see a woman being ill,” Mary added.
It seemed a strange affliction for a mercenary, but Briar let it pass.
Sweyn moved toward the door. “I must first tell my lord where I am going. I will meet you both at the stables.”
“He is a kindly man,” Jocelyn ventured, when he had gone.
“Aye.” Mary smiled with pride.
As if the man’s character were entirely her doing, Briar thought crossly.
“You like him,” Jocelyn went on, with a pleased nod. “Aye, Mary, ‘tis about time you found a sweetheart.”
Briar stared at her elder sister with disbelief. “She is a child! How can you push her in the direction of such a man as that? A Danish mercenary? Jocelyn, Mary is innocent and gently bred—”
“She is a harpist, Briar, with no money and no prospects.” Jocelyn’s retort was brutal. “You are a songstress and I am a cook. We no longer live at Castle Kenton.”
Briar shook her head stubbornly, but her throat was too tight for her to argue. Tears, again? Jesu! What was wrong with her?
“I am not a child.” Mary spoke up softly and with a determination Briar had not seen in her before. “I know my own mind, Briar. I do not need you to tell me what I can and can’t do. Sometimes you make me feel as if I can’t breathe!”
Mary stopped and the silence was heavy. Briar knew she looked hurt and shocked. She felt hurt and shocked. Mary was a child, her little sister— wasn’t she?
Warm fingers grasped her own. Briar looked up into Mary’s kind, dark eyes. “Come and let me wash your face.”
Jocelyn raised an eyebrow as they passed, but she was smiling.
“I hope you’re enjoying this,” Briar murmured darkly as Mary led the way. “You’ll be sorry when Mary is abandoned and ruined. It will be too late then.”
“Life is never certain, Briar.” Jocelyn held her gaze. “We cannot always wait to have all our questions answered. There is not always time to wait. Sometimes we have to leap, and pray we land safely.”
Ivo watched Sweyn make his way back into the hall. The Dane’s eyes fixed upon Lord Radulf, and he only seemed to notice Ivo as he drew closer. Clearly Sweyn was a man on a mission.
Ivo still felt empty. Like a large vessel unloaded of its cargo, echoing with a forlorn silence.
Briar’s reaction had cut him so deep he was light-headed with loss.
He knew his hand was ugly—that was why he made sure to always keep it covered—and aye, in his heart, he was ashamed of it, too.
But it had never yet made a woman vomit.
And that it should be this woman, in particular. ..
He shook his head angrily.
Maybe ‘tis for the best.
He squeezed his gloved hand into a fist. He should never have let Briar open his heart again.
“The songstress is ill, my lord.” Sweyn’s voice drifted into Ivo’s consciousness. “I beg permission to take her, and her sister, safely home. They are alone and they live by the river. ‘Tis not safe for them to walk.”
“Near the river?” Radulf replied.
“The songstress is ill?” Lord Shelborne was looking concerned, despite a tendency to sway back and forth, the legacy of too much of his own wine.
“Aye, my lord.” Sweyn turned politely to Shelborne, concealing his impatience to be gone. “Have I your permission to escort her and her sister home?” Now Sweyn was looking to Lord Radulf, waiting.
“I will do it! I have men aplenty.” Lord Shelborne swayed more violently and had to flop down upon a nearby stool.
“Thank you, my lord, but they have asked for me,” Sweyn replied, all smiles and respectful steel.
Ivo straightened and paid more attention. Sweyn was an easy going man, but a man used to getting his own way. Would he get his own way with Mary? And what exactly was it that he wanted?
“You are in a hurry to play the gallant knight, Sweyn.” Radulf was no fool.
He had seen there was more to this than Sweyn was saying.
He grinned, planting a playful blow on Sweyn’s shoulder that made him stumble and almost lose his balance.
“You are lovesick,” he announced. “I well know the signs. Which one is it that you covet? The smaller one who sings so sweetly, or the tall one with the dark eyes?”
“I covet neither Briar nor Mary, my lord,” with a betraying gaucheness.
Radulf chuckled at the wary, almost scared ex-pression in Sweyn’s blue eyes. “Aye, I believe you, but the heart is not always as obedient as a man would like.” His own eyes narrowed, all humor fleeing his face. “What did you say their names were?”
Ivo sensed trouble. He stepped forward and stood shoulder to shoulder with Sweyn. His friend sent him a relieved and grateful glance. Radulf raised an eyebrow and waited.
“My lord,” Ivo said, “they are called Briar and Mary. Two simple girls who sing and play like angels.”
Radulf raised the other black brow. “What, are you being poetic now, de Vessey? You have never struck me as the type. Which one of these sisters do you covet? Briar or Mary?”
Ivo hesitated. ‘Twould be easy for him to deny it, to swear he had no interest in either of them. A moment ago he would have done it—mayhap. But now, suddenly, he couldn’t.
It would be a lie, and Ivo did not want to lie about Briar.
He did want her, despite all that stood between them now and in the past. Perhaps it was time she and everyone else knew it.
“I want Briar,” he said bluntly. “My lord.”
Radulf gave a soft laugh. “Aye, I believe you, Ivo. You have the look of a man who’s been struck down by love.”
Lord Shelborne was turning his head from one to the other, making an effort to follow the conversation with an obviously wine-soaked mind. “Briar and Mary? Aye, Radulf, their names are f-f-famil... familiar to me, too.”
Radulf nodded, frowning. “I know them from somewhere.”
Shelborne hauled himself up by grasping on to Radulf and using him as a ladder, ignoring the latter’s sigh. “Kenton had a daughter named Briar,” he muttered drunkenly. He wagged his head back and forth. “Poor Kenton. We ail take some blame in his death.”
Radulf was staring at Ivo but Ivo refused to meet his eyes. Now was not the time for such confidences, and he prayed God Radulf had the wit to realize it...
“Go then,” Radulf said brusquely, although he was clearly not happy. “Take the singing sisters home.”
“Thank you, my lord,” Ivo and Sweyn replied in unison.
“But Ivo,” Radulf stopped him in mid-stride, and transfixed him with a look. “I will have words with you, when you return.”
Ivo nodded, resigned. He had a fairly good idea what Radulf’s words would be about.