Once He Loves (Medieval 3)

“What ails her?” asked Jocelyn. “’Tis not like Mary to speak so.”

“I know not. She has been strange. Not herself at all. I wonder if she is catching a chill.”

“Then tell me quickly, so that she can come back into the warm,” Jocelyn demanded.

“He is smitten, I think. At least…he wants me, but he is cautious. He has secrets of his own, so he will not pry too deeply into mine in case he has to tell me his.”

“So neither of you trusts the other,” Jocelyn mocked. “Not quite true love.”

Briar’s eyes flashed. “Who said aught about love? This is a matter of our usefulness to each other, that is all.”

Jocelyn looked like she would like to argue, but bit the words back. “When will you meet him again?”

“I know not.”

“You have caught your man, Briar, but methinks he might be more than you can handle.”

“We shall see.” Briar hid her doubts beneath a confident exterior.

Just then Mary opened the door, her face sullen, raindrops glittering like pearls in her dark hair. She dumped her armful of wood by the fire and, ignoring her sisters, set about rebuilding the blaze. Jocelyn rose to help her, speaking softly, teasing Mary to smile back, and then to laugh.

Briar watched them in silence. Once, they would have sat in their hall and servants would have performed their every command. Once, she had dressed in fine clothes, with jewels upon her fingers, and ridden her mare through the crisp mornings upon the moors.

Others had spoken jealously of the Kentons. Her father had too much, they said. He did not deserve his wealth and power, they said. Well, they would be happy now! At least he had treated the people he ruled with fairness and generosity, for all the good it had done him. Those same people had not lifted a hand to help his daughters when they had been outcast and desperate.

Jocelyn had brought food, and she and Mary were preparing a meal. Odo sat, head bowed, sunk into his own thoughts. Watching him, Briar wondered what he reflected on, so deep inside himself. Did he remember the past, and the hearty, good-natured man he had once been? Did he remember the love between him and Jocelyn, when they had wed in Normandy? They had been in York when Anna was murdered, but Odo had fallen dangerously ill—struck down as if by a lightning bolt—and there had been nothing he could do to help Briar’s

father. Jocelyn, too, had been fully occupied with her husband. At the time she had believed he would get better. He had recovered somewhat in body, although one side of his face remained distorted; it was his mind that had left him, like smoke through a hole in the thatch. Would it ever return?

Briar did not think so. Her sister may still hope, but every day Briar saw Odo growing more drawn and aged. As if the years were being sucked from him by whatever had taken his mind. She thought it would be a release for him when he died. Jocelyn would be the one to suffer; Jocelyn would be destroyed all over again.

There is danger in loving a man so completely.

Briar knew that was so, and she did not intend to give any man her heart.

Is it something you can stop from happening? Is it something you can control?

The question made her uneasy. She had never been so uncertain of herself before she met Ivo de Vessey. She had always seen her way clearly, chosen her path carefully. Now the candle she had lit—her candle of vengeance—was no longer bright enough to light her through the dark maze. She felt lost; she felt a tremendous urge to place her faith in Ivo de Vessey.

How could that be a good thing?

Ivo lifted the goblet and drank the contents down. The wine was good and he wished he could drink enough to cloud his thoughts, and to send Briar away.

From his place beside Ivo, Sweyn nodded at the room full of important men.

“They all come when Radulf calls.”

It was true, they had all come. Some to do him homage, some just to gaze on the famous King’s Sword, and others because they feared his anger if they did not. He was more hated than he was loved. Did Briar hate him? Ivo asked himself. Was that why she had meant to take him to her bed? As some sort of revenge? Or was she like so many others, wanting to possess Radulf in the hope that some of his power would come off on her.

Ivo did not think so. Briar was a woman of strong passions. When she hated, she would hate with a single-minded determination, and from what he had heard of her past, she had much reason to hate. Aye, if he were a gambling man, like Sweyn, he would bet on hatred. Ivo understood hate, he knew how it could corrode and destroy, but he was also sure that hate could be turned around. Healed. Briar had opened his heart again—surely it was for a reason?

If a man could capture her fierce heart, would she bind herself to only him?

Ivo realized that the room had fallen silent. There was a group about Radulf, but he dominated them, standing head and shoulders above them. But that wasn’t the reason for the hush. Just now Radulf did not look best pleased. A short, stout man cringed before him, as if he feared that Radulf was about to tear him limb from limb.

“My Lord Radulf.” His voice was shaky as he swept a deep bow. “My lord, I only meant, my lord, that it might be as well if Lady Lily were here, my lord. The people trust her. My lord.” The little man was clearly wishing himself anywhere but before the black stare of Radulf. “They need to know for themselves that she is hale and hearty.”

“Hale and hearty!” roared Radulf. “Why in God’s name should she not be hale and hearty? She is at Crevitch with our children. She cannot come jolting all over the country, just because some peasants think she should wipe their noses!”