Once He Loves (Medieval 3)

He had known she loved her sister, of course he did, but to see it so clearly in her actions…His firebrand, Briar, seemed suddenly softer, more womanly, very much gentler.

He remembered how she had clung to him on the ride from Lord Shelborne’s, her lips sweet on his. He believed her. She felt no revulsion for his maimed hand—Briar was not the sort to cringe and turn faint at the sight of blood or damaged flesh. His raw feelings where his lost fingers were concerned had deceived him into seeing something that was not there.

Ivo took a long slow breath and wondered where he could go from here. He would protect Briar, he would help her solve the mystery of Anna’s death, but after that? What then?

Matilda.

His sister’s name was a bittersweet memory, reminding him of his failure once before. Not this time, though. Miles won’t win this time…

Sweyn caught his eye.

The Dane looked miserable and uncomfortable, as if he wished himself far away. Ivo jerked his head at the door, and Sweyn followed him back out into the night.

Mist from the river puddled about their feet. They could hear the voices of boatsmen and the wash of their oars, strangely muffled by the miasma. From inside the dwelling, the women’s soft murmurs spilled like candlelight.

Ivo spoke. “Radulf has asked to speak with me, otherwise I would stay. I must leave them in your hands, my friend.”

Sweyn nodded, his handsome, good-natured face more serious than usual. “I will guard them, Ivo. I will do whatever I must to keep them safe. Return to Radulf, and know they are in good hands.”

Ivo nodded. He wanted to stay, but Radulf had asked specifically for him. Radulf was a good lord, but even the best of them did not like to be disobeyed.

“Who were they?” Sweyn was watching him, waiting. As if he sensed Ivo had his suspicions.

The knot in Ivo’s belly tightened. “Enemies of Radulf, mayhap?” he offered.

Sweyn turned thoughtful. “They wore dark colors—no emblems, no signs as to who was their master, and yet a troop of men like that…They were disciplined, trained, not the riffraff who normally set out to steal and plunder. And they were mounted on good horses, too. Aye, Ivo, they belonged to someone. ’Twas some reason to it.”

“They were not afraid; that was not why they ran.”

Again Ivo remembered how the leader had thrust his sword at him so aggressively before he rode past. Ivo had blocked it easily, but there had been real menace and intent in that blow. More feeling than one stranger should feel for another. Personal feeling, old feeling, the feeling between those who are well known to each other. Mayhap even blood feeling…

“Was Miles among them?”

Ivo went still at Sweyn’s question. Had his friend read his mind? Sweyn said no more, waiting, until at last Ivo spoke, making his voice slow and measured.

“Miles hates me, ’tis true, but he is in hiding. Why come out into the open and risk being arrested by the k

ing’s men? Why show himself for my benefit?”

“Do you really think Miles would balk at showing himself, if it gave him the chance to do you harm, Ivo? He will know how you tricked him at Somerford, how you played dead and then escaped from him. He missed his chance to kill you that day, and he will have been brooding about it ever since. Aye, what else does he have to think of, now he is in hiding from the king? If he hated you before, then he will hate you more now. It could be that Miles has just set you a challenge.”

Ivo flexed the fingers on his gloved hand. Miles wanted him dead. It was the truth. A strange and incomprehensible truth to Ivo; his brother loathed and hated him, and longed to hurt him. Mayhap even kill him. Did Miles see Ivo as his conscience? Did he think that the only way to silence that conscience was by crushing it? Ivo knew the evil of which Miles was capable, although Miles’s mind, even after all these years, was still a mystery to him. But for all its puzzlement, the fact remained: Miles wanted Ivo dead.

“I recognized him,” he said quietly, as if speaking too loud was dangerous and would make something that he as yet only suspected into reality. “When the troop leader came riding at me, I recognized him. Not with my mind, Sweyn. Inside my heart, deep in my belly. I felt his hatred like hot air on my face.”

Sweyn was silent, listening to the boatsman’s oars, the splash and dip drifting over the dark Ouse.

“And then I noticed the way he held his sword, the set of his head, the line of his shoulders, and I knew him. ’Twas Miles.”

There, it was said now. Like something bad forced out of the shadows and into the light. But Ivo felt no better for seeing it. Tension coiled in his stomach, made his throat ache. Miles was here, in York, just as Lord Henry had said he was. Miles, his brother and his most deadly enemy.

“You can’t be sure,” Sweyn said mildly, now playing at devil’s advocate. “A man might resemble another, it does not mean ’tis him.”

“Mayhap.”

“Miles would be a fool to pit himself against you here, with Radulf at your back, and me at your side.”

Ivo managed a grin, and the knot in his belly loosened slightly. “Fool indeed, Sweyn.”