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When he had gone, Sweyn said hopefully, “Perhaps Miles has taken fright from York. Perhaps seeing Lord Henry has hurried him onto a ship away from England. Far away.”
“I pray ’tis so, Sweyn. I pray ’tis so.”
But Ivo knew it wasn’t. He sensed Miles’s presence, like some foul miasma. Aye, he and his brother would have their day of reckoning, and soon.
Chapter 6
Ivo steadied his horse and narrowed his eyes against the glare off the water. The staithes, or landing stages, toward Ouse bridge were busy with boats and their cargoes. More craft moved upon the river, taking advantage of the still, morning air. Voices drifted from the two Norman castles, the shouts of soldiers who had been up since the Angelus bell, preparing for the day.
But here, where Briar lived, it was an island of solitude. Flotsam had collected in the mud along the shore, and most of the dwellings had fallen into heaps of wood and straw. There was a sense of decay and neglect. Of damp despair.
Ivo did not like to think of her living here, not without his protection. He knew he had no rights to her, but still he felt as if he did. In his mind she was his, and his knightly duty was clear. ’Twas a pity he was no longer a knight.
That had been Miles’s doing.
“We are brothers, after all,” Miles said. “Let us try, this once, to stand side by side as we fight our lord’s enemy.”
“How can you expect me to forget our sister? How can I fight beside Matilda’s murderer?”
Miles’s eyes filled with tears. “Do you not think her death lodges in my heart, too, Ivo? I do not need you to remind me of what I caused. She was my sister, too.”
And Ivo, horrified and suspicious to find Miles in the pay of the same lord as himself, had nevertheless swallowed both in the hope that maybe, just maybe, Miles had changed. That maybe they might be truly brothers, at last.
But Miles hadn’t been interested in protecting his lord, or fighting his lord’s enemy. He had wanted only to hurt Ivo. At the crucial moment he had struck. He had lulled Ivo into dropping his guard, persuaded him to drink from a poisoned cup—or, at least, wine tainted with a sleeping draft. Ivo had slept deeply, and while he slept, the attack upon the lord had come. Miles had fought well, brilliantly, sending the enemy about, but the lord Ivo had been meant to play bodyguard to had been killed by a stray arrow bolt.
That was suspicious enough, Ivo later thought, but by then it was too late to prove anything against Miles. No one would have believed him.
Ivo still clearly remembered the moment he had awoken. Head pounding and mouth dry, he had stumbled out into the bailey, only to realize what had happened. The rest of the garrison had turned to him, silently condemning. And then Miles, quiet, restrained, but unable to hide from Ivo the evil gleam of triumph in his eyes.
“Shame upon you, Ivo. You were drunk, and now you have let us all down. I have forgiven your cowardice before, but I will not do so again. From this moment, you are no longer my brother.”
Ivo had been stripped of his knighthood and sent out into the world, disgraced. At first he had been too bitter to care what became of him. He had lived with outlaws in the forest and fully expected to be hanged. Then, after robbing a cart belonging to a bishop, he had had the good fortune to be pursued and captured by Gunnar Olafson. Gunnar had been paid by the bishop to return his goods, and this he had done.
Ivo he had kept.
Ivo never understood why. What redeeming feature had Gunnar seen in the wild-haired, black-bearded creature he had become? Whatever it was, Gunnar had never swerved in his belief in Ivo, and Ivo knew he owed him his life. He had fought at Gunnar’s side up and down the country, and at some stage during that time, he had fought his way out of the abyss. Ivo had been with Gunnar Olafson’s little band of misfits ever since. In a way, it had been his home—the only home he had.
But now Gunnar had wed Lady Rose of Somerford Manor, and no longer called himself a mercenary. He had given his men a choice—they could remain at Somerford with him or take what was owed them and go their own ways.
One of Gunnar’s five mercenaries, Alfred, had remained at Somerford, mainly because of the miller’s pretty daughter. Reynard and Ethelred were still deciding, and were currently at Crevitch with Lady Lily, and Ivo and Sweyn had opted to continue as mercenaries in the employ of Lord Radulf.
Ivo could not see himself getting fat at Somerford Manor, although he would miss Gunnar. Miss him far more than he had ever missed Miles.
He still did not understand why Miles hated him so. They had different mothers, but Miles had always been the favored elder son in his father’s eyes. Ivo knew he had done nothing to his brother—apart from observe his evil actions. Perhaps that had been enough. Perhaps Miles did not want any witnesses. Would Miles live more easily with himself once Ivo was dead?
It was a puzzle to Ivo. And now Miles was in York, and it seemed as if the end to their bitter story might be fast approaching. Could he defeat his brother? Each and every other time they had met in anger, Miles had won. Would this time be different?
He would know that soon enough.
With a grim smile, Ivo urged his horse forward, toward the dilapidated dwelling that was the home of Briar, songstress and second daughter of Lord Richard Kenton.
Briar had washed her hair. She was seated, drying it by the fire and running her fingers through the long, chestnut strands. There were times, after she was outcast, when she had been tempted to cut her hair. Especially when she and Mary had been on their own, and had had to dress as men for their own protection. There was a freedom in being a man, and one time Briar held a knife blade to her long locks. What was the use in having such hair when she was a lady no more? she had asked herself. She had no servants to help her care for it. Hair such as hers was for admiration and homage, and Briar had lost both.
But an inner stubbornness had prevented her. If she cut her hair, she had reasoned, then they would have won. And that would never do.
Briar was wearing her old linen chemise—why get her clothes all wet? Mary was dressed, however, and was busy setting out their bowls, about to serve up the mess of boiled grain and water and the few crumbled pieces of goat’s cheese that was their breakfast. The smell of the steaming pot in the warm room was not unpleasant. Briar ran her fingers through her hair again, relaxed, unprepared.
The loud knock against their door made bo
