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With a gasp, she stood up and flung herself toward the slop bucket. The mead and all else she had had at supper this night came back out. Noisily.
Jocelyn’s mouth dropped open, but in another moment she had hurried to her sister’s side, making soothing noises. Mary started to follow, but Sweyn grasped her arm, murmuring, “Leave her be, she is in good hands.”
Ivo did not move at all. He was stunned, and the misery inside him burned like a brand. She was repulsed by the thought of his hand. What else could it be? Indeed, she was so revolted that she had cast up the contents of her stomach into a bucket. He turned on his heel and left the room.
Briar took several gulps of air, allowing Jocelyn to mop at her hot, damp face with a cool cloth. It was not squeamishness that had made her ill—she was never squeamish. The thought of Ivo’s pain had jolted her, aye, but never enough to make her physically ill. Mayhap she had a fever—that would explain her odd thoughts during the song, her lack of concentration, her wild fears.
She was not herself.
“I am not myself,” she said the thought aloud.
“She kept forgetting the words to the song,” Mary piped in worriedly.
Jocelyn nodded, smoothing Briar’s hair out of her eyes. “Stay here tonight.”
Briar shook her head. “I want to go home. I need to go home.” Her voice had an edge to it that she didn’t like. Briar took a deep breath, meeting Jocelyn’s worried eyes. “I’m sorry…for before. I know you mean well, Jocelyn…”
“But you saw it as betrayal,” Jocelyn replied evenly. “I wasn’t taking sides against you, Briar. Not everything is about taking sides.”
“Is it not?” Briar’s reply was bleak.
Jocelyn squeezed her sister’s shoulder. “You need to be home in bed. I will wash your face and make up a hot posset for you while you are here, and then you can take another dose before you sleep.”
Briar nodded, not even bothering to argue further. Sweyn glanced from one to the other, and then spoke to Jocelyn. “I will see that they reach home safely.”
Jocelyn smiled her relief. “Thank you, Sweyn.” She leaned close to Briar, kissing her pink cheek. “You are still feeling ill?”
Wearily, Briar shook her head. “I am well now,” she said huskily. “Just tired.”
“Then let the Dane take you home. You will be well in the morning.”
Briar rose and looked about her properly for the first time since her rush for the bucket. “Where is de Vessey?”
Her sisters exchanged a puzzling glance. “He left when you were ill,” Jocelyn said carefully.
“Mayhap he is one of those men who can not bear to see a woman being ill,” Mary added.
It seemed a strange affliction for a mercenary, but Briar let it pass.
Sweyn moved toward the door. “I must first tell my lord where I am going. I will meet you both at the stables.”
“He is a kindly man,” Jocelyn ventured, when he had gone.
“Aye.” Mary smiled with pride.
As if the man’s character were entirely her doing, Briar thought crossly.
“You like him,” Jocelyn went on, with a pleased nod. “Aye, Mary, ’tis about time you found a sweetheart.”
Briar stared at her elder sister with disbelief. “She is a child! How can you push her in the direction of such a man as that? A Danish mercenary? Jocelyn, Mary is innocent and gently bred—”
“She is a harpist, Briar, with no money and no prospects.” Jocelyn’s retort was brutal. “You are a songstress and I am a cook. We no longer live at Castle Kenton.”
Briar shook her head stubbornly, but her throat was too tight for her to argue. Tears, again? Jesu! What was wrong with her?
“I am not a child.” Mary spoke up softly and with a determination Briar had not seen in her before. “I know my own mind, Briar. I do not need you to tell me what I can and can’t do. Sometimes you make me feel as if I can’t breathe!”
Mary stopped and the silence was heavy. Briar knew she looked hurt and shocked. She felt hurt and shocked. Mary was a child, her little sister—wasn’t she?
