Chapter 10
The day looked as bleak as the one before.
Ivo glared at the weather as if he thought his displeasure might change it.
He was tired and his head ached, and the only sleep he had had was when he sat down to take off his boots and dozed off on a bench by the fire.
When he finally woke, stiff and disoriented, it was already dawn.
He had grabbed a crust and swallowed a mug of ale, and hurried back to his horse.
Briar.
She was all he could think of. She had taken possession of his mind. His stupidity was beyond bearing. Had he not learned he was not suited to matters of the heart? How could he care for her? Emotional entanglements were not for him. Best he remember that now, before it was too late—for them both.
Smoke drifted from the roof of the cottage, and puddles lay everywhere. Ivo dismounted and strode to the door, thudding his fist against the wood. Sweyn’s muffled voice called to ask who was there, and when Ivo answered, the door was swiftly opened.
Inside, the air was thick with the smell of herbs.
Mary was up, looking flushed and busy, while Briar stirred something bubbling in a pot resting over the coals.
It was from this brew that the strong smell of herbs came, and it looked singularly unappetizing to Ivo.
Briar must have felt the same, for her face was white and pinched, her lips pressed hard together.
Stubborn. Determined.
She shot him a sideways look and caught his smile, but didn’t return it. She simply turned back to her pot and grimly continued to stir.
Ivo met Sweyn’s eyes and raised his brow. In unspoken agreement, the two men moved into a corner and lowered their voices.
“She is sick,” the Dane murmured. “She says she will be better when she eats that mess in the pot.”
That was debatable, thought Ivo. “Everything quiet?” he asked instead.
“Nothing to be heard or seen.”
Ivo nodded. “I am certain last night’s attackers were fixed on us, not the women. Even if their leader was not Miles, I do not see the point in threatening Briar or Mary.”
Puzzled, Sweyn tilted his head to one side. “Did you ever imagine it otherwise? Why would Mary and Briar be in danger from those men?”
“They are Kenton’s daughters.”
And yet, he thought, despite their illustrious past, it still made no sense that they should be in danger.
For what reason? The past was just that.
They were paupers now, they had nothing to steal, their deaths would solve nothing.
Unless ... could the attack have something to do with the murder of Anna?
Was that murky pond stirring, giving up its secrets?
Sweyn cleared his throat.
Ivo glanced up and knew that before he could think further on the matter, he had some explaining to do. His friend was staring at him hard.
“Lord Kenton’s daughters?” Sweyn repeated. “Share this with me, Ivo, and do it right fast!”
But Sweyn’s expression soon turned to bemusement as Ivo quickly explained the entire story. By the time he had finished, Sweyn’s blue eyes held both sorrow and resignation.
“They are the daughters of Lord Kenton,” he repeated, as if to set the fact in his mind. Ivo found he could read his friend’s thoughts in his face easily enough. She is not for me, then. Even in her present state, she is too high for the likes of me.
Well, Sweyn must fight his own demons; Ivo would not make up his mind for him.
“I still feel a need to guard these ladies, Sweyn,” he said quietly, “however great they may once have been. What say you?”
Sweyn nodded, slowly, as if resigned. “Aye, Ivo, I too feel a need to guard the ladies.”
“Good.”
Sweyn shook himself, his eyes narrowing. “Did you speak to Radulf about the attack last night? About Miles?”
“Nay, not yet.”
“Why in Odin’s name not, Ivo? He needs to know.”
Ivo looked bleak. “I will tell him, ‘tis just... I want to make certain first ‘twas no random attack. And nothing to do with Briar and Mary.”
Sweyn heaved a sigh. “You want to face him by yourself,” he said, with a touch of irritation unusual for him. “He means to kill you this time. If you do not mean to kill him, then he has the advantage.”
“I know.”
But did he? And could he, when the moment came, actually destroy a man who was of his own blood? His own brother?
Briar served up the mess from the pot, and handed a bowl to Mary, who began delicately to eat. Catching the horrified eyes of the two men, Briar smiled as brightly as she was able and filled two more bowls, holding them out.
For a moment neither of them moved, and then Sweyn swallowed audibly and edged forward to take his portion from her.
Ivo managed a faint smile as he reached for his bowl.
“Thank you, demoiselle, I am grateful,” he said with his usual knightly courtesy.
Then he just stood there with the bowl in his hand.
“Eat it, sir.” Mary was watching him, wry amusement in her eyes. She was, thought Briar, looking much better this morning. The swooning fit had passed, and Mary was full of life again. Or mayhap, ‘twas Sweyn spending the night in the dwelling with them that had something to do with that.
Briar still did not believe the handsome, fair-headed mercenary was good enough for her sister, but after last night, seeing his dedication to protecting them, and his obvious fondness for her sister, she had thawed toward him.
“Do you sing again tonight?” Ivo asked, distracting her.
Mary nodded, giving him a shy smile.
“Lord Shelborne has offered us a generous fee,” Briar said, forcing down a mouthful of her breakfast. “His daughter and her new husband have returned from London, and he wishes to greet them with pomp.”
She chewed and swallowed another mouthful, then scooped up the next spoonful and stuck it into her mouth.
Her cheeks bulged. She could feel the blood leaving her face, and suspected by the interest showing in Ivo’s eyes that she had turned pale green.
She swallowed her mouthful and started on the next, sure that if she ignored it long enough, the feeling would go away.
Her throat closed over. The mouthfuls she had already forced down changed course, and started to make their way up. With a despairing groan, Briar made a dash for the bucket in the corner. Everything she had eaten came back up, and she was utterly powerless to stop it.
Mary made as if to go to her, but Ivo caught her arm and shook his head, and she subsided. Sweyn set his own bowl thankfully aside. It was Ivo himself who crossed to the dejected form.
Briar had stopped retelling at last, and seemed too exhausted to do more than sit with her head in her arms. Gently, Ivo lifted her up from the floor.
Her arms fell limply to her sides, and he saw the tears running down her white cheeks.
Her mouth was trembling with the effort it was taking not to cry, not in front of him.
Ivo’s heart ached for her, his brave, beautiful Briar.
“Take this,” Mary murmured, and handed him a warm, damp cloth.
Ivo smiled his thanks, and sat down, cradling the woman in his arms. She kept her eyes tight shut, refusing to look at him while he bathed her face as he had done once before.
Gently, thoroughly. After a little time, her tears stopped running and she was quiet, acquiescent against him and close to sleep.
“You will not sing this even, demoiselle,” he murmured the order, and set his lips to her brow.
It was as if he had stuck a pin into her.
She stiffened, her eyes shot open, their color almost completely green, and she glared up at him.
“I will sing!” she declared. “Leave me be, Ivo de Vessey. I will sing. ‘Tis nothing to you. You cannot tell me what I can and cannot do.”
She struggled up, shaking herself free of his arms, and stalked to the other side of the room.
Ivo watched her in amazement, her feet bare beneath the ragged hem of her gown, her hands clenched into fists at her sides as she fought him with every fiber of her being.
If he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he would never have believed her to have been prostrate with illness only moments before.
Jesu, she was magnificent! Ivo tried very hard not to grin, but he must have given himself away, because she let out a faint, strangled scream.
“Do not patronize me, de Vessey. You are not worthy, and we both know it.”
Ivo’s amusement fled. He squeezed his fist about the cloth he had used to cool her face, and tossed it aside. “Your insults grow old,” he said, and stood up. “You need to think of new ones, Briar, if you are to hold my attention.”
“ ‘Tis not a matter of thinking up insults—there are so many, I hardly know where to start.”
With an impatient shrug, Ivo left her to her sister’s care, and beckoned Sweyn outside.
Sweyn grinned. “I’ll say it again. She is a shrew, my friend. You will have your hands full if you decide on her.”
Ivo glanced sideways at him. “Even if I dared to think such thoughts, what use would the daughter of a baron have for a disgraced knight? She is right, I am unworthy of her.”
Sweyn laughed. “Better to ask yourself how the outcast daughter of a traitor can make herself worthy of you, Ivo.”
Ivo smiled at last, and some of his anger drained from him. “And what of you? If I am worthy, then so are you, my friend.”
But Sweyn shook his head, and the bleak look in his amiable blue eyes returned. “Nay, Ivo. You are wellborn, a knight... aye, yes you are. What am I? The mercenary son of a Danish farmer. Not even a Viking raider, but a tiller of the soil.”
“The son of a farmer? Who would think it? Do you ever feel the urge to go back to the soil? Mayhap Mary can help you sow your seed.”
He took off for his horse with speed, but not before Sweyn had struck him a solid and painful blow on his shoulder.
“You are very foolish and very stubborn, Briar. But then so you always were.”