Once He Loves (Medieval 3)

Aye, admit it, I want to be a knight again.

For her.

Briar had started another song. This one was livelier than the last, and the noise level increased. One of the more merry guests clasped the arm of a serving wench, and started a jig. Ivo could see that Briar was enjoying herself, her eyes shone and her skin was flushed.

She was beautiful. There had been someone else, once, who exuded the same inner radiance. Although Matilda had not had Briar’s temper, she had been gentler, more trusting. She had trusted her brother Ivo above all other men.

And Ivo failed her.

Ivo felt his stomach clench. He ran his gloved hand over the beads of sweat that had sprung out on his brow. I am no knight! A knight saved the ones he loved most, he did not leave them to die miserably, screaming out his name. How did he expect to protect Briar, even should she wish him to do so?

And she didn’t, Ivo reminded himself with a grimace of a smile. She considered herself perfectly capable of protecting herself. Ivo remembered again the sword she had held this morning, and the competent manner in which she had handled it. Unlike Matilda, she was fiery and independent, and considered his protection as an interference in her life.

’Twas as well, Ivo told himself bleakly, for she couldn’t rely on him. No one could. For a time he had forgotten that. Pushed the pain deep. Briar’s reawakening of his heart had made him believe for a while that all things were possible, that all broken pieces could be healed…Well, this was one broken shard that would remain lodged inside his heart, forever.

Briar finished her song, well pleased with the response. After they had made their bows, it was clear the guests in Lord Shelborne’s hall would not be content until they sang another. Mary, catching her sister’s glance, nodded, and ran her fingers over the harp’s strings, plucking forth a series of plaintive notes. Once more Briar began to sing. A sad song this, the tale of a lost maiden and her dead knight. She did not sing it often, but for some reason it seemed appropriate tonight.

When she had sung this song in the past, Briar’s thoughts had turned to her father and Anna, of their great love cut tragically short by the jealous Radulf. Tonight those familiar images of them would not come. She had taken a step back from her obsession, and the image she had now of her father and Anna was clearer, sharper, more real. Ivo de Vessey had opened her eyes and her mind to the truth, but in the process he had left her floundering in unknown country.

If she was no longer able to spend her time hating Radulf and swearing vengeance, what was she meant to do?

Her gaze sought out that tall, dark-haired figure who was becoming very familiar to her. She had noted his position as soon as she walked into the hall. How could this man have become so necessary to her, so quickly? He was holding his hand up to his face, but as she watched, he straightened to his full intimidating height and took a deep breath. Ivo looked pale and grave. As if he were thinking unhappy thoughts.

Briar faltered on her lyrics.

She caught herself, substituting different ones, stumbling through the next verse to the chorus. Color stained her face, and she felt Mary’s eyes boring into her, but she did not turn. Concentrating fiercely now, Briar sang on. But after a moment, as if she could no longer order her own actions, she found her eyes fixed once more upon Ivo de Vessey.

This time he was watching her, too. His gaze was black, brooding, suffering. Delving into her mind, interfering in her life, making her weak and vulnerable…Her throat closed up, and she fumbled the words again.

Resentment rolled away, and in its place came a terrible urge to go to him, to put her arms around him. To comfort him.

Dear God, what is happening to me?

Ivo de Vessey did not need comforting! He was big and strong and battle-scarred, and perfectly capable of looking after himself. Why then did she have this terrible urge to lock her arms about him and whisper, ’Tis all right? Why then did she sense some appalling hurt within him, that she alone must heal?

“Sister!”

Mary’s hissed admonition brought her back to herself. Briar soared into the last note of the song. The applause was thunderous. No one grasped how many errors she had made, or perhaps they were too drunk to care. With a relieved smile, she rose and bowed low, holding tight to Mary’s hand, and then the two girls made their way out of the hall.

“What ails you tonight, sister?” Mary demanded. Worried dark eyes examined Briar’s for signs of illness or fever. “I have never known you to take so many wrong turns in a song!”

“’Twas nothing. I was simply distracted.” Briar pushed by the tapestry screen into the cool darkness of the passageway.

“Distracted?” Mary would not be put off. “Was the hall too noisy? Too crowded? They were more than pleased with us tonight, so what was—”

“Ladies.”

That familiar deep voice stopped them. Mary glanced uncertainly over her shoulder. Briar closed her eyes, briefly, gathering her tattered defenses about her. It would never do for him to find out just how much he affected her. Since Filby, Briar had been careful never to rely upon a man, nor had she wanted to. She must not show her weakness to him. That way lay more hurt, and Briar had had enough of hurt. Her emotional defense had always been to attack first, and that is what she did now.

“’Tis the disgraced knight,” she said, her voice light and cruel as she turned to confront him.

She saw his face go tight with anger, but would not let herself feel. “And his friend who is no knight,” she added, as Sweyn also pushed through the arras.

Sweyn ignored her, his eyes shifting to Mary as he examined her flushed face and bright eyes, as if he were satisfying himself of her well-being.

Ivo’s expression was hidden now by the shadows and his own force of will. “You have sharpened your tongue, lady. Does it cut deeply enough for your liking?”

“If you didn’t feel it, then clearly it is not sharp enough,” she replied sweetly.