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Briar’s father had been beside himself with grief and rage, believing he knew the truth of the matter, and yet unable to convince the king, Radulf’s friend from childhood, that it was so. In his blind fury, Richard Kenton rebelled against William—and lost his lands, his wealth, and his army when Radulf won the battle. It was then that Briar’s father, distraught, abandoned by former friends and supporters, knowing he must face the traitor’s noose, took his own life.
Perhaps he thought by doing so he would free his three daughters of the taint of his treason. That, despite his actions, they would be allowed to continue living the life to which they were accustomed. That his disgrace would stop with his death.
But it was not to be.
At the time that news of her father’s death came, Briar had been within weeks of making an advantageous marriage to their neighbor, Lord Filby. Filby had seemed smitten with her, and had sworn he wanted nothing more than to make her happy—her father would never have considered his suit if that were not the case, for he was a loving man when it came to his family. Briar had expected Filby to stand by her in her time of trouble, to marry her despite her father’s misfortunes, and to take care of her and Mary. It was simply the way in which things were done in the Kenton family, and Briar—sheltered, pampered—had imagined everyone else was the same.
What an innocent she had been!
Filby had soon ripped that innocence asunder and taught her the cold, harsh reality. He had replied to her desperate message with a blunt refusal. No, he would not ride to Castle Kenton, he would not enter the stronghold of a traitor, and as she was now a traitor by association, he would not marry her.
Bewildered, believing her betrothed had somehow mistaken the matter or did not fully understand her dilemma, Briar had stated her intention of riding to Filby. Jocelyn and Odo were at Castle Kenton—Odo so ill he could not leave his chamber, and Jocelyn unable to see further than her husband’s health. Mary, who had never been asked to do more than smile and embroider, could only stare big-eyed at Briar. Neither of them were of any help.
Briar had felt she had no choice. She had her mare saddled and rode out. To her relief Filby’s gate had been opened to allow her entry, but the man who granted her audience was very different from the besotted suitor who had sought her hand.
He was cold. He was unfeeling. He was unmoved.
When her pleading had no effect upon him, in a moment of wild desperation, Briar had offered him her body in exchange for his help. Surely, she had thought in some fevered part of her mind, once he had lain with her, loved her, he would not be able to desert her?
The memory of those short moments with Filby still made Briar curl up and shrivel inside. For he had indeed taken what she offered him, but brutally, without conscience or consideration, and it had made not the slightest difference. Filby still abandoned her to her fate, and Briar had ridden home, even more broken than before.
A fortnight later, Filby’s men had come to Castle Kenton to make a proclamation. Briar and Mary and Jocelyn had the choice of remaining at the castle and being taken prisoner, locked up until Filby decided what to do with them, or to leave and become formally known as outcasts. Briar, aware of what Filby would make of her if she stayed, chose the latter. Odo, who would once have given his life to protect them, was now unable even to feed himself, and Jocelyn was terrified of what would happen if she remained with him at Castle Kenton.
They had left their past behind them.
The world beyond Castle Kenton was harsh, a foreign land ruled by a Norman king. Without the safety provided by their money and power, they had to rely upon the conquered English folk to stay alive. There was kindness, more than Briar would have believed, but they could not beg forever. They must find an honest way to make money.
It was Mary who had hid her little harp beneath her cloak before she left Castle Kenton, who took to playing for a coin here and there. And then Briar had begun to sing an accompaniment, and found her voice was much admired. One evening, as they sang and played, some of the king’s soldiers rode up. Jocelyn and Odo had fled one way, and Mary and Briar had fled the other. After that, the two younger sisters were alone.
They had continued to travel, making their way as best they could, dressing as men for safety. After they reached York, they continued to play and sing, and became sought after. Accordingly, their talent had risen in value. They had begun to sing in the halls of those Norman families where once they might have been guests, and that was how they had been reunited with Jocelyn and Odo, now servants of Lord Shelborne.
No one remembered them; no one wished to, Briar thought bitterly. Lord Kenton was long dead, but who would be foolish enough to claim an acquaintance with a traitor, dead or otherwise? It was almost like being invisible. She sang and entertained, was cheered and feted, but no one really saw her. Comments were made, secrets passed about, and all in her presence as if she were a deaf-mute. It amused her, and angered her, and fed her blind need for vengeance.
For it was vengeance more than anything else that had
kept her alive these past months and years. The need to pay Radulf—the great Lord Radulf!—back for what he had done to them. For it was Radulf she blamed. Filby had his place in her black thoughts, but he was dead now, killed in an uprising on his lands. Briar could not revenge herself upon a dead man, and besides, Radulf was the true instigator of their downfall. And when she had heard he was to come to York, she had made her plan.
It was a simple one, and turned on Radulf’s lady, Lily. For who had not heard of the special bond of love that existed between Radulf and his lady wife?
Rumor also had it—so said the gossips in the halls where she sang—that Lily would not come north with him. She had been lately brought to bed of a son and was still weak from the birthing. Radulf would come by himself. It was logical that he would be lonely, vulnerable to the charms of a sympathetic woman, an easy target for seduction. It seemed only just that Radulf should fall by the same means he had used to bring about the destruction of Briar’s father. So Briar had decided then that she would take away that which he treasured most—the love and trust of his wife.
He would not die, but as Briar well knew, there were worse things than dying.
She had not realized just how easy it would be.
Briar had known, as she had prepared to sing tonight, that Radulf would be in Lord Shelborne’s hall. He had been invited—Jocelyn had let slip to her that the messenger had gone out shortly after Radulf arrived in York. Of course he would come—a lonely man, missing his wife, with an opportunity to forget himself in the conversation of others? Aye, he would come.
And she had known something of his appearance. Didn’t everyone know what the great Radulf, the King’s Sword, looked like? A big, dark man with a brooding gaze. A man who caught the eye and kept it with the mesmerizing quality of his presence.
She had known him at once.
As if it had been meant to be.
Briar combed her fingers through the dark whorls of hair that formed a crucifix on the broad chest of the man beside her. Her body ached and tingled from his use of her—she felt betrayed by her own senses, but there would be time to consider that later. For now, she had what she wanted. Vengeance. How would the Lady Lily enjoy hearing such news? Aye, then she would know how it felt to be betrayed and abandoned, and Radulf would learn what it was to lose all and yet remain breathing.
She had much about which to be pleased, and yet…
Briar listened to the heavy thud of the man’s heartbeat beneath her cheek, and wondered again why she could not exult. Despite all, the sense of triumph eluded her. Why hadn’t the smoldering need for vengeance, that had begun to burn inside her the day her father died, turned to a clear, cleansing flame? If anything, the black smoke was even thicker and more acrid.
