The merchant’s house was opulent, the people enthusiastic, and despite her afflictions, Briar sang well. Tonight it was Mary who made the blunders. At one point she lost the time entirely, and her lip wobbled, as if she might burst into tears, but Briar simply sang louder and they got through it.
They had come to their final song, and a troop of acrobats was waiting impatiently to take their place, when Briar glanced across the heads of the guests and spied Sir Miles de Vessey. He was standing, watching her from the shadows at the very back of the room.
Her heart gave a great thump, almost as if she was afraid. But that was foolish, for why should she be afraid of Miles, who was Ivo’s brother? And then she thought of Ivo, and how cold his behavior had been. Had she not decided she must heal whatever ailed him? If only there was some way to discover just what it was ...
She looked up again, searching the faces before her, but this time Miles had gone. Vanished into the shadows, as if he had never been.
Sweyn peered around the room, wondering who it was Briar was staring at. The woman was dangerous, and he wished Ivo luck in taming her. Aye, all women were dangerous. He was better off alone.
“They’re both bonny, but for my money, I’d have the taller one.”
The voice drifted in Sweyn’s direction, cocky and confident, and Scottish. Sweyn gritted his teeth. He hated the Scots. In his experience all they did was fight and fornicate, and they never knew when to stop on either count. He had just spent some of the worst weeks of his life chasing them off Lord Radulf’s estates and back over the border, and now here was another one, lording it over the locals in York.
“I like tall women,” the voice went on, as if everyone was panting to know his preferences. “I like to look right into their eyes when I’m on top of them.”
Sweyn ground his teeth. His head was muzzy with drink and now a rush of hot blood added to the mixture. He knew, even as he began pushing his way through the rich sea of fine cloth tunics and silken gowns, that he was making a mistake. He had never fought for a woman before, he had never even been jealous before.
But this was about Mary. And Mary was special.
Amazed, he paused, stood gazing at nothing, forgetting where he was.
Aye, she is special. She’s different from all the others. I don’t know why or how, but she is. And no amount of my wishing can change how I feel about her...
“I wonder if her fingers are as nimble on other instruments.”
Sweyn groaned. That was it! He could take no more. Like a maddened bull, he thrust his way into the group around the Scot and grabbed the man up by the scruff of his neck, and shook him hard.
Women screamed. Men cursed and backed away. The Scot choked and clawed at his hands, but Sweyn kept shaking him.
“Do not speak about my lady in that way,” he said, drawing out his words, giving the Scot a good, hard shake on each one. “Do you hear me, you foul-mouthed beastie? Do you hear me now?”
The Scot nodded desperately, his face turning blue.
“Let him go, Sweyn.”
Someone put a hand on his shoulder. Ivo, Sweyn realized through the fumes of drink and rage. His friend’s fingers were very strong, and they pressed down hard, and then harder again.
“He has learned his lesson, and we do not want to attract too much attention. He might be someone important.”
Sweyn blinked, and then promptly dropped his burden. The Scot landed with an oomph as Sweyn walked away.
“What were you doing?” Ivo had followed him to the far side of the room.
Sweyn turned his face away and shook his head. He had run mad, that was the only explanation. The words spilled out of him.
“She wants me to make her a woman.” He tried to laugh, but the sound cracked in the middle. “Me! What do I know of faithfulness and... and love, Ivo? I have never looked for such things before, not even within myself.”
Ivo appeared to be as much at a loss as Sweyn, although he didn’t seem to need to ask of whom Sweyn was speaking. “Be careful,” he said at last. “Be very sure before you make any decisions, my friend.”
Sweyn groaned and sank his head into his hands. Careful? It was far too late for careful. He was already up to his neck and gasping for air. Odin help him, he loved her, and unless he could think of a very good reason why, Sweyn knew that sooner or later he was going to do just as Mary asked.
The final song was finished. Despite a fight that had broken out in one part of the hall, Briar and Mary had managed to sing it perfectly, together. Pleased, they soaked up the applause, which was long and loud. And then the acrobats came running, darting amongst the crowd, turning somersaults and climbing onto each other’s shoulders.
Mary laughed and clapped her hands as one of the acrobats pretended to look under a woman’s skirts, causing her to squeal in outrage. A moment later, the humor had drained out of her again, and she looked so sad that Briar reached out to touch her cheek.
“What is it, sweeting?” she asked gently. “You are unhappy. Tell me, Mary, what ails you?”
The girl sighed and shook her head.
