Jocelyn had come to stand beside her husband. Her wiry dark hair hung in a long plait down her slim back, her sharp blue gaze shifted from Briar to rest upon Odo’s bent head, and softened with love and devotion. Jocelyn was a striking woman, her features strong rather than pretty, except when she looked upon Odo—then she was beautiful.
“Aye, Jocelyn, I am better now.” Different, though, in a manner she was yet to explain to herself satisfactorily. But there was no need for Jocelyn to know that.
Her sister nodded and, brushing her fingers lightly on Odo’s shoulder as she passed, poured some milk from a jug into a wooden bowl. She brought the bowl over to Briar and handed it to her. Mary slept on, her dark lashes brushing her pale cheeks, her fingers curled like a child’s against her lips. At seventeen years, Mary was more than old enough to have been married and have children of her own—girls in their privileged world were often betrothed as babies. But Briar still thought of Mary as the little sister who must be cosseted; mayhap she always would.
“You seem more like your old self,” Jocelyn said, and then lowered her voice so the servants could not hear. “Are you still determined to go on with this foolishness?”
“’Tis not foolishness. This time the idea was yours, sister, and it was a good one.”
Jocelyn grinned like a young girl. “It was, wasn’t it?”
Briar’s eyes narrowed.
Jocelyn went on. “You needed your dark plot. It was what kept you alive, Briar. I know that. But ’tis true, I think the time has come for you to put it aside and get on with your life. Mayhap this Ivo de Vessey will help you to do that.”
Frustration and anger filled Briar. “My life is vengeance; ’tis what I live for!” she said. But even as she spoke the familiar words, the doubts were circling like birds of prey.
Beside her, Mary yawned and stretched, and turned over onto her back. She rubbed her eyes, her voice husky from sleep. “I dreamed I was home, Briar. And everything that has happened to us, that was the dream.”
“Oh, Mary,” whispered Briar, moisture stinging her eyes. Jesu, she had not cried so much in years. Irritated at her own lack of control over her emotions, she bit her lip and forced back the tears.
Jocelyn’s brisk voice dispelled the gloom. “I have milk for you to drink, and soon the bread will be baked. You can feast before you go.” As she spoke she set about pouring another, larger bowl of milk for Odo, setting it by the big man. Once he would have turned and smiled at his wife, taken her hand in his, kissed her fingers. Now he made no movement toward her, nor gave any sign that he even knew anyone else was in the room.
Briar remembered Odo from before, big and hearty, always with a smile on his face. He had stood by their father, and if he had not been so ill when Lord Kenton rebelled against the king, mayhap things would have turned out differently. Odo would never have let his father-by-marriage commit so hasty an act, or risk so much. Odo would have made him wait, until emotion had cooled, until any decision made could be made with a clear head. And then, if Lord Richard had still wanted to take such a grave step, then Odo would have led his army.
Aye, Odo had always been a good and loyal man. ’Twas a pity Jocelyn’s husband should have been reduced to this. Surely even death was preferable to being a broken shell without a mind? Although Briar did not think Jocelyn would agree—for Jocelyn, even this empty creature with Odo’s face and body was better than no husband at all.
“Will Lord Shelborne mind our feasting on his bread?” Mary asked.
Jocelyn shrugged and spoke with some of the old Kenton arrogance. “I care not what Lord Shelborne minds.”
Briar smiled.
Jocelyn ignored her and held the bowl of milk to Odo’s lips, murmuring encouragement to him as if he were a babe.
After Odo had been struck down by his illness, he had lost the ability to speak, nor did he understand what others said to him. And one side of his face had lost all movement, sagging like dead flesh, while the same side of his body no longer moved to his command but jerked and stuttered as if Odo were now a puppet with strings. Gradually body movement had returned, but his face remained fixed and his gaze empty; the Odo of old was gone.
Mary and Briar rose and washed their faces in the warm water provided. Then they dressed behind the screen stretched across the corner, smoothing their crumpled clothing as best they could before they pulled on their well-worn stockings and shoes. And all the time, the kitchen maids continued with their tasks, as if the Kenton sisters did not exist.
It was apt, thought Briar. Because in many ways it was true that they did not exist, not any longer. And that was why the past sometimes seemed like a dream to them all. Briar remembered the comfortable wealth of Castle Kenton, with its newly buil
t stone keep and strong wooden barricades, and before that, the house in Normandy where they had lived together. When she thought of those times, it was as if they had happened to someone else.
Her mother was even more of a dream. She had died when Briar was a child, shortly after Mary was born. Her father had remained alone, until he had wed Lady Anna, in Normandy. Briar had not known her stepmother well, but she had found her amusing company, and certainly she was very beautiful. Once they were in England, Anna and Richard had often been away in London at court, or else in York. Anna preferred gaiety and gossip to the isolation of Castle Kenton, where Briar and Mary had spent much of their time. Sometimes Jocelyn and Odo had stayed, too, but more often they were busy overseeing Richard’s estates. Their father had trusted Odo to stand in his shoes, while he himself kept his beautiful wife happy.
They had been privileged.
Why was it that one only realized the full extent of one’s good fortune when it was lost?
“Where were you last night?”
Mary was combing her long dark hair, but her curious gaze was fixed upon Briar.
“I was asked to sing privately.”
“Oh.” Mary frowned for a moment as if she would ask more questions, and then smiled wistfully instead. “You sing so beautifully, Briar. I once overheard it said that your voice could heal the sick.”
Briar laughed bitterly. “I am become a holy relic! Mayhap the desperate will take pilgrimages to my door.”