Once He Loves (Medieval 3)

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.

“Of course, of course.” The man winked, broadly and unmistakably. “This way.”

The private chamber was small, barely large enough for the table and stool and narrow bed that filled it. Ivo had to stoop his head beneath the ceiling beams. Briar held herself still, hands clenched at her sides, impatience making her skin twitch. Ivo kept one watchful eye on her as he instructed the host to bring food and drink, and then at last they were alone.

Briar barely waited until the door was closed.

“Tell me now, de Vessey,” she said, and her voice was husky with the strain of being calm.

“I will. But first, come and sit down.”

She sighed, but did as she was told. ’Twould save time, she reasoned, if she didn’t argue. And besides, her legs were weak and shaky, and it was a relief to sink down onto the bed. The straw mattress rustled under her, and Briar drew her warm cloak more closely about her, as if the woollen cloth could protect her from what was to come. Ivo de Vessey seemed concerned for her welfare, but Briar wasn’t deceived.

He was Radulf’s man.

Did that mean he had told Radulf who she was, too? Briar did not expect a great man like Radulf to be afraid of her, but she did not want him warned of her presence. Vengeance, justice—how could she extract them if Radulf were forewarned?

Venge

ance?