Once He Loves (Medieval 3)

“Ivo!” Briar struggled and tried to run, but Miles held her fast. The blade pressed harder, and she was still.

Ivo, mounted upon his horse, walked it from around the side of the dwelling. Slowly, carefully, as if there was no hurry. Briar gazed up into his face, seeing the grim determination. There was a deadly look in his black eyes, and after one swift glance at Briar, to assure himself she was all right, they settled upon his brother.

In turn Miles watched him, his body still as a snake about to strike. Excitement and anticipation thrummed through him—Briar could feel both. “Brother, you surprise me. You are usually so tardy when it comes to saving those you love.”

“I’m going to kill you, Miles. Let her go, and we can fight. That’s what you really want, isn’t it?”

Miles bared his teeth. “You’d give your life for hers, wouldn’t you? Good and noble Ivo! You make me puke. I’ve hated you all my life, but never so

much as I hate you now.”

“Then fight me!” Ivo shouted, and Briar understood then that he knew. Knew that Miles was going to kill her, there in front of him, and then Ivo would not care whether he himself lived or died.

“Let her go.”

The voice sounded rough, as though it had not been used for a very long time. It came from behind Miles, from the door of the dwelling. Briar tried to turn, but even as she struggled, Miles was spinning her around. Odo’s fist struck empty air. Miles brought his arm back and then thrust his sword into the big man with a satisfied grunt.

Briar slipped out of his grasp and fell to the ground. She knew she should run, get away, but she seemed unable to move from the spot. Odo sat down, hands to his wound, staring up in surprise at Miles.

“I should have done that before,” Miles panted, annoyed with himself, and then turned to look at Briar. “And now for you,” he said.

Briar felt the air stir, the tremor of the horse’s hooves on the ground. Miles looked up, his eyes widened. The horse, already in motion, came in a rush between Miles and Briar. Ivo swung his own sword, the blade arching gracefully.

Miles fell without a sound.

Briar rose on shaking legs. Ivo had dismounted, reluctantly, and was staring down at his brother. Miles’s chest rose and fell wildly, as if he couldn’t get enough air, the bright blood spreading across his breast. He gazed up at Ivo, gray eyes dulled now, fading. His mouth curled into a smile—Ivo’s smile.

“Ivo,” he whispered. “I want to…I want to…”

Ivo dropped to one knee, leaning closer. “What is it, Miles?”

Miles gasped, swallowed, and said, “I want to tell you that I’ll beat you yet,” and then the air rattled from his throat, and he was gone.

“Odo!”

Jocelyn’s screams echoed savagely about them. She came running toward her husband, Mary close behind her. Ivo was still kneeling, staring blankly down at his brother’s body. Briar touched his shoulder, gently, and he looked up at her.

“He was going to kill you,” he said fiercely.

“I know, Ivo.”

“He was evil.”

“He was.”

“But he was still my brother.”

She wanted to hold him, to comfort him, but what could she say that he did not already know? Miles had hated him, aye, but Ivo had still hoped that one day matters might be as he longed for them to be. But now Miles was gone. The dream was over.

Mayhap, in a way, Miles had beaten Ivo. But it was not a victory Briar begrudged him.

“Odo!” It was a wail of sheer anguish. Briar froze, goose bumps rising on her skin. Odo was lying still and pale upon the ground, his wife bent over him. Mary, standing nearby, wept silently.

“Briar,” she whispered, “oh, Briar…”

Briar went to her sisters.

“I am very sorry.”