The Heart of the Phoenix (2 page)

“No, not a child at all,” he whispered.

The magic dream fractured. The boy she’d worshipped would never behave in such a way. Disenchantment swept through her, warming her cheeks against the bitter night.

“Don’t.” She sobbed and wrenched away. She ran, sliding across the roof toward the stairway. What a horrible mistake. The Stephen of her memory truly was dead.

****

Sir Stephen watched her disappear. Just to make sure she’d not slip and do herself harm, of course. Then he turned once more to stare into the icy night.

“God’s blood!” He slammed his fist into the cold stone wall. How he loathed himself.

Had he sunk so far to insult her this way? Was he any better than the man he hunted?

She should never have followed him. A moment’s peace was all he asked, for God knew he’d had little enough of that lately. The thickening snow pelted his upthrust face. No sound penetrated his refuge now, yet her gasp of disillusionment rang in his ears.

It was better this way. Little Evie, the curious sprite of seven years past, had blossomed into Lady Evelynn of Chauvere, a chestnut-haired beauty whose blue eyes mirrored the Eastern seas. No. She was not a child. But it did not—could not—matter to him. Only word of his father’s impending death had drawn him back to England to say farewell. Stephen knew where his path led, and no lady cared to make a home in hell.

He must cure Evie of her youthful hero worship, for her own good. He scrubbed a palm against his aching chest.

There would never be another woman for him. Ever. Especially one whose smiles could light up a man’s heart.

If only he possessed one.

Northwest Normandy

May 1199

Damn, he hated the silence.

Sir Stephen held his breath. Perspiration trickled down his neck despite the cool night. He listened for the rustle of leaves, the yip of a fox kit, the
whirsh
of owl wings. Nothing. Even the breeze scarcely stroked his beard-stubbled cheek as he led his bay gelding. Step by step they eased through the tiny clearing. Sluggish light from the quarter moon cast a watery path ahead.

When he left the village earlier, his decision to avoid travelers and return through the woods seemed unnecessary. Few knew of this meeting. Still, habit propelled him off the familiar road between village and monastery. And habit had him tucking the hilt of his black dagger snug against his palm. Now, as he pushed on, the very silence shouted.

Danger.

He inhaled, soft, easy. A trace of rancid sweat hit his nostrils. Jesu! On the right. He ducked the instant a knife blade nicked his ear. Instinct drove his own double-edged dagger down then up through cloth and flesh. He heard a grunt as he wrenched free the blade. Warm, copper-scented wetness pulsed across his arm.

Not his blood, thank God. And he damn well better move if he wanted to keep it that way. Reins fisted, Stephen leaped into the saddle just as keening whoops slashed the air. More assailants. His mind marked the voices. Too many. He couldn’t fight them all. Four, six, more shadows burst into the clearing—front, sides, back. He knew the drill. Tighten the circle. Trap the target.

He’d mastered those rules. He could damn well break them. The circle rotated. Strongest in front to block escape. Bent low over his mount’s neck, he yanked sharply to hit their left, always the weak side of the pattern.

He kicked out as he galloped past a shadow. It went down. The well-trained bay leaped through the opening. Then a sting on his left sent fire up Stephen’s leg. He reached down, jammed a fist against his thigh. This time the wetness oozing through his fingers was his own.

He sucked in a breath. It echoed in his ears, drowned his pounding heart. No one followed yet, but that would change. There. The thud of hooves echoed. He headed into the forest, spotting a likely place to hide. The thunder of horses grew closer, loud enough to drown his brief stop to leap from the saddle.

His bloodied leg buckled as he hit the ground rolling. “Satan’s backside.”

Without pause, his mount picked up the gait and crashed through the underbrush onto a narrow path.

Stephen hurtled into a large bush, ducked beneath the thick branches. And gritted his teeth when brambles clawed his cheeks.

Christ in chains.
Can this night get any better?

The earth vibrated as his pursuers stormed past. Who were these assailants? He struggled for a glimpse through the brush. Not Saracen Assassins. Too much noise. Assassins worked with subtle conniving. Only one explanation presented itself, the murdering knights he hunted. Did they know his identity, or had they tracked the Phoenix only?

This had been no random assault. The trap had sprung for him alone. But only three people knew of his rendezvous this night. His mind worked the trio of relationships. All friends—he’d thought. Which one had betrayed him? Bitter regret burned his throat, and he forced a swallow. Hadn’t he learned long ago not to trust anyone? Especially friends.

The ringing in his ears died, and he heard silence once more. Not until the rustle of a hare whispered through the brittle dry grass did he move. He settled back against a tree to gingerly unkink his leg, then brush his knuckles across his aching thigh. The thick blood had clotted. A sigh fought free of his clenched lips.

The bay was long gone, leading the others on a futile chase to the river. It would find its way back later. Stephen was on his own for now. And it was a damned long hobble back to St. Anselm. He’d best get started if he wanted to make it before dawn.

The eastern horizon glittered pearl before he espied the monastery’s roof outlined against the night sky’s fading pitch. He limped toward the narrow opening obscured by a tangle of grape vines so ancient no one recalled when they last produced. A muted grunt escaped his throat when he tugged at the warped wood. The old door creaked, then gave a few precious inches. He squeezed through sideways and hauled it shut.

The scriptorium lay ahead on the right. He’d wait for Brother Gerald there—if his double-cursed leg continued to move. He limped forward, neck and jaw locked rigid in his struggle to remain erect. Perspiration plastered shirt and aketon to his body, soaked through to the plain tunic he wore over a finely wrought chain doublet. But in his chest, a block of ice lodged where his heart belonged.

During the long walk back to the monastery, he’d worked out which of his three closest comrades bore the title of traitor. Bile rose in his throat at the answer.

Inside the copy house, Stephen dropped to his knees, numb to the explosion of pain in his thigh. He prayed.

He prayed he was wrong. And if his reasoning proved right, he prayed for the strength to act. Tomorrow he’d confront Brother Michael. God help the monk if harm befell even one of the men because of his treachery. Why had Michael turned, now of all times? The Phoenix Brotherhood hadn’t been this close to uncovering the treacherous Dragon for years.

Whatever happened must be quick. They must either find the leader of the murdering mercenaries before the Dragon escaped Normandy, or they must move operations to England. Stephen had promised to be home before the conclave to support John’s claim as Richard’s successor. His father may have recovered in the past months, but he needed Stephen’s help. And Stephen had vowed to assume duties at Riverton Castle or die trying.

Although that was a distinct possibility.

He didn’t regret the danger. It meant his search had nearly ended. After five long years, he’d at last avenge Sorya. Yet hers was not the face that wavered in his imagination. Instead, chestnut hair and sea-blue eyes swam before him, and he swore he felt winter cool lips tremble against his.

“Evie,” he moaned as pain seared his leg. He pitched forward onto the stone floor.

****

Castle Rosemont, Normandy

Lady Evelynn crumpled the small sheet of parchment in her hand.

Henry couldn’t do this to her. Not again. Today’s message made the second time he’d postponed her return to England. Couldn’t he understand how she longed to see home? Her heart skittered, and her palms tingled with panic.

Of course, he didn’t know her dreams had returned. They grew stronger each time. Last night, dear Lord, she saw fire so intense she swore its acrid odor filled the bedchamber when she awoke.

She pressed her other hand to her stomach and drew a shaky breath. In addition—she glared at the wrinkled note—her brother had the effrontery to inform her of her own betrothal. Not that he’d bothered to inform her of her future lord’s name. He wished to surprise her, he said, as if planning her saint’s day treat.

She bit her lip so hard, she feared to draw blood. Wedded. And by order of the king, no less. Henry said Richard had sent a special message weeks before he’d been struck down. Why the king had condescended to notice her, Evie had no idea.

Her brother’s concern for her safety might be well-meant. But she was no longer a child he must cosset against any threat, no matter how remote. Plague take Prince John and his maneuverings for the succession. Perhaps she should call him King John now, but her stubbornness wouldn’t allow it. He hadn’t been crowned after all. Besides, with the support of King Philip of France, Arthur might still win the day.

Even so, how could Henry possibly think danger threatened her here? The first time he ordered a delay, she understood. The French king’s backers had revolted not five leagues away. But Rosemont sat well distant from any current conflict. She could hardly blame Henry for possessing inaccurate information, but it need not affect her.

A muffled thud from the corridor reached her ears. She darted to the bed and shoved the crumpled parchment beneath the bolster a moment before Lady Marguerite—Mimi—swept in. Her cousin never let a closed door discourage her.

“My dear Evie, I wish you would not leave.” Mimi wrung her dimpled hands as she plopped down on a cushioned bench along the wall. Prolonged recovery from childbed had not affected her appetite, and her soft plumpness projected a misleading image of helplessness.

“I fear travel is unsafe right now, especially to England.” She fretted with the embroidered hem of a sleeve. “With John and young Arthur fighting over the crown, no one is safe. Why, we might be attacked here.”

Evie quelled a stab of guilt. Mimi appeared genuinely distressed. “You must not worry. No army is within leagues of Rosemont. Your guards can accompany me to the monastery of St. Anselm in half a day and be back for night duty with no problems.” She paused, then, “Henry has ordered me home.” Not a ghost of a quiver on those last words.
Thank you, Lord.
Evie hadn’t quite mastered the trick of a convincing lie.

Mimi winced.

Evie pressed her lips to prevent a smile that would certainly hurt her cousin’s feelings. Yet for once Evie relished the other lady’s awe of Lord Henry of Chauvere.

“St. Anselm isn’t far, true.” Mimi gave a hesitant nod. “And you did say an escort from your brother awaits you there. But my dear”—she leaned toward Evie to whisper—“a monastery? What do monks understand of ladies? Who knows the conditions you might encounter?”

Evie patted her cousin’s round shoulder. “I’m certain the place is safe. Henry undoubtedly dispatched an entire troop of soldiers for the journey. They accompanied a friend of his from England to the monastery, the messenger said.”

Please Lord, don’t let her ask why they weren’t sent on to Rosemont.
“You know I wouldn’t leave if you still needed help.”

No, she’d not be so selfish. Although her cousin’s illness had dragged on for months, the lady at last wielded power with her old vigor. To the chagrin of the servants who found themselves racing through the castle to carry out orders.

Mimi’s bosom trembled beneath a sigh. “If you are determined, I suppose I must allow you to go.” She grasped Evie’s hand. “But we will miss your pretty, smiling face.” She shot a sidelong glance. “And so will Sir Neville. Why not wait until he returns? I’m certain he could persuade you to remain.”

Evie quirked a brow. “Mimi?” Her voice carried a gentle warning. The son of Mimi’s dear friend made no secret of his admiration. And his arrogant refusal to accept Evie’s rejection counted another reason to leave. She might at last wed, but not in Normandy. And not Sir Neville. But she couldn’t reveal the secret of this unexpected betrothal. Not yet.

“Oh, very well.” Mimi rose. “But you won’t receive a better offer. You have nearly a score of years to your credit, my dear. I know you’ll forgive my saying so, but you must look to your future, or it will be spent playing aunt.” She paused to flick Evie a petulant look before flouncing out.

She did hate to be contradicted.

The moment the door closed, Evie sagged against the wall. Praise Mary, she’d carried off the pretense. Mimi appeared empty-headed, but at times, she possessed a disconcerting shrewdness.

Evie leaped up and dashed to the bed where she extracted Henry’s note. Smoothing the wrinkles, she tilted it toward the dancing candlelight. “Hold at Rosemont for your safety. Travel is much too dangerous. I will send men to accompany you when the time is right.”

He couldn’t possibly expect her to stay away when the struggle for England’s crown meant so much to her family. She belonged with them, not locked away in an isolated holding in western Normandy. What place was safer than home, protected by her powerful brother?

Besides, her soon-to-be-betrothed must expect to find her waiting. She caught her lower lip between her teeth. And if she returned home, perhaps her terrifying dreams might end once again.

Decision made, she thrust the parchment into the flame, then tossed it on the cold brazier. She watched with satisfaction as the page curled into ash. There. For all anyone here knew, Henry expected her to return.

Davy, the squire who had delivered the message, couldn’t say otherwise. He’d left immediately after placing the packet in her hands that morning. He’d meet her at the monastery.

At least, so she’d told Lady Marguerite.

She hadn’t lied. The young squire said he’d come from Chauvere with a small company taking condolence messages to Queen Eleanor on the death of her son, King Richard, but had left them to deliver Henry’s orders to Evelynn. He planned to meet another group at St. Anselm for the return to England. Evie intended to join that party.