by Tamara Leigh
Though her smile was one of approval, he was unsettled by his body’s response to the bowing of her lips. He pulled his hand free and, unable to put space between them without limp or loss of balance, said, “The physician did all that he could.”
She lowered her arms to her sides. “Then Lord D’Arci has told you that hand will not hold a sword again? That you will only impede its healing by forcing it to do what can no longer be done?”
As if her smile had never been, Abel’s left hand made the fist his right could not, his knuckles aching for something to drive against. “I need none to tell me that.”
Her gaze flicked to his clenched hand, but when she once more lifted her eyes to his, the wariness there was so fleeting as to have been imagined. “Know this, Abel Wulfrith,” she said, a surprisingly hard edge to her voice, “do you raise a hand to me, I shall defend my person with all that I have. And, I vow, I will not be the only one bloodied and bruised.”
He stiffened. Did she truly believe him capable of beating a woman? Ever he had defended the weak and vulnerable, using his blade and fists only against those who preyed upon others—or nearly so, for he had done his wife no harm when he had wrested from her the dagger with which she had sought his death. And yet this woman thought—
He recalled the ill that had befallen Helene when he had misjudged and failed her the day they had first met. Though he had not witnessed the beating given to her by Sir Robert, the leader of the brigands who had stolen her from her home, he had seen the remnants of that violence upon her face, neck, and wrists on the day of the night he had wielded a sword against those same miscreants. Of course Helene of Tippet did not trust him. Likely, she did not trust any man.
He forced his hands at his sides to relax. “I have never hit a woman, and I never shall.”
She delved his face, then slowly inclined her head. “It seems we shall be at peace with one another, then.”
He frowned and, in so doing, was made all the more aware of his scarred face that he had yet to look upon though the ridge of its sweeping path told that it was unsightly. “Were you to remain at Castle Soaring, that would be desirable, but you shall be gone from here this day.”
“Only if you yourself deliver me beyond these walls.” She ran her gaze down him and up again. “Most unfortunate for you, Sir Abel, in your current state of apathy and self pity, that is something of which you are incapable.”
Only remembrance of that glimpse of wariness in her eyes held him from once more manifesting his anger by forming a fist. “Go,” he rumbled.
“I shall—after I have cleaned and examined your injuries that I might determine how best to tend you.” She pointed her chin toward the bed. “Can you reach it unaided?”
In that moment, Abel wanted nothing more than to carry her across the chamber and deposit her in the passageway. But as well she knew—and boasted—that simple act was beyond him. And it made him feel more helpless than before.
“You think I will meekly lie down at your command, Helene of Tippet?” The laughter that barked from him was so coarse it felt torn from his throat. “That I shall willingly bare myself to you?”
She parted her lips as if to answer, hesitated, then said, “Like it or nay that I am a woman, healing is my gift and profession. However, if you fear I will be horrified by what is beneath your tunic, know that already I have seen it.”
Abel was certain her meaning was different from the way it sounded, that she referred to similar wounds upon others she had tended. And yet, that was not what he saw in her eyes.
Containing the impulse to step nearer, he asked low, “What say you?”
“Whilst you slept ere the dawn, I did come and look upon your leg. And your face.”
She had been here? In the dark of his alone? When the sleeping draught had held him down? When it had fed him dreams across which he had bled?
Memories rushed past the door thrown open by this woman’s revelation, but though he tried to blind his mind’s eye to the bloodletting at Soaring when he had fallen to brigands, next the bloodletting in his own bed when he had fallen to his wife, images flashed before him, even those only imagined—the blade at his throat he did not see…the path it traced from the great vein in his neck to the ribs that caged his slowly beating heart…the twitching of Rosamund’s lips that so rarely bowed…the darkness all around her…the pain…
And then light.
Abel felt something then, heard something, saw something—pieces of a heretofore forgotten dream or, rather, what he had thought was a dream. Helene of Tippet had been here. His hand had known her hand, his ears her voice, his eyes her eyes. And, as on that night many years past, sleep had made him vulnerable to a woman who had come to him in the dark.
Abel could not remember the last time he had thrown something against a wall, but surely he had not been beyond five years of age, for his father would not have tolerated such loss of control. Though he was now well beyond his twentieth year, in that moment, the longing to break something upon the walls of his chamber was almost overwhelming. And the woman before him must have felt it, for wariness once again made an appearance upon her face. Still, she did not retreat, though he wished her to. Not that he feared he would do her harm, for he had spoken true that he would never strike a woman. He simply wanted her gone.
Hardly able to hear above the sound of blood rushing in his ears, he wrenched up his tunic. “Did you look upon this as well?”
Rather than turn away as expected, she cautiously lowered her eyes down his bared chest and fixed on the old and new scar that intersected. Head tilting, brow furrowing as if his injuries, rather than his behavior, was of great interest, she said, “Nay, I did not trespass that far.”
Struggling to keep his breath from sounding loud in the space between them, he dropped the hem of his tunic. “But still you trespassed.”
“I did.”
His protesting legs protested with greater urgency, and he knew it was because his every muscle had tensed—and that if he did not soon rid himself of this woman, he might collapse at her feet. Regardless, he demanded, “Why?”
Movement at her sides drew his gaze, and he saw her clench handfuls of her skirts. However, she surely noticed what had captured his attention, for she immediately splayed her fingers. “I did it that I might prepare myself.”
“Do you always prepare yourself by stealing upon your patients? Invading their privacy?”
“Nay, ‘tis just that…you are unlike others who require my services.”
He nearly asked in what way he was different, but he knew. “I am disfigured.”
She blinked. “I do not speak of that. You know I have tended far worse—”
“Aye. How could I forget the heinous Aldous Lavonne whom the devil so admired he allowed his spawn to survive a fire that nearly melted the flesh from his bones?”
Helene stared at the gaunt, unshaven Abel Wulfrith. That was, of course, how he would remember the old baron. And she could hardly blame him. Lacking the cooperation of his legitimate son, Christian, Aldous had enlisted his misbegotten son, Sir Robert, to do whatever was necessary—including murder—to thwart the king’s attempt to unite the warring Wulfriths and Lavonnes through marriage. But unbeknownst to Sir Abel, Aldous had come as near to repentance as he could before death had seen him out of this world. Even if the scarred, suffering old man had not made it to heaven, he surely could not be as deep in hell as those he had harmed would wish.
Restless hands aching to fill themselves with the bunched material of her skirts, Helene decided she would bend to her patient’s will—this once. “As there are others who await my services, I will leave you to see to those needs for which you believe you require no assistance.”
“What others?” he snapped as she started to turn away.
She paused. “You sound displeased.”
His nostrils flared. “I am but curious.”
She did not believe him, though neither did she know what to make of his rea
ction. “Since you are not in such a terrible state as to need my full attention, I am to tend others who have yet to recover fully from the injuries gained in defending Castle Soaring.”
“Sir Durand as well, then.”
She frowned. “I do not know who that is, but if needs be, certainly.”
“’Twas he who took the prize I was after—Sir Robert’s death.”
The leader of the brigands who had beat her following her near escape that had also been her first meeting with Sir Abel.
As she stared at the man before her and felt hatred slough off him, a caustic smile rose amid his beard. “You might want to thank him,” he said.
Though she tried to keep her expression impassive, she could not. Thus, she pivoted and, suppressing the impulse to hasten away, measuredly crossed the chamber.
“If ‘tis not my disfigurement of which you spoke,” he called, “then how am I unlike others who require your services?”
She paused and, wishing she had more carefully guarded her words, looked over her shoulder. “’Twould be best for your pride, Sir Abel, if you have seen your way into clean clothing when I return. Thus, I can determine how to speed your healing that you may all the sooner see my back.” She inclined her head, stepped into the passageway, and closed the door.
Chapter Four
Helene braced her back against the door frame and yielded to emotions that had clambered up her insides while she stood before a man who, in daylight, looked even more removed from the one who had, for so brief a time, served as her savior.
Lowering her chin, she allowed her breath to come and go as it pleased—at first fast and dizzying, gradually slower and calming.
She had known their meeting would be difficult but had hoped that, having first come to him in the dark before dawn, it would have gone better. Of course, had she not been so honest, their meeting might have been less confrontational, but she disliked sweetening bitterness, the true character of which would only make itself known and more painfully tasted later. Indeed, if not for John, she might have been yet more honest about Aldous Lavonne and Sir Robert, but for her son’s sake, she would risk having to partake of that bitter draught some other time.
So caught up was she in what had been and what might be, Helene did not catch the sound of slippers traversing the stone floor until they were nearly upon her. She pushed off the door frame and, feeling heat in her cheeks, stepped toward the woman who approached.
It was Lady Beatrix, Sir Abel and Baron Wulfrith’s youngest sister who was wed to the physician and keeper of Castle Soaring, Michael D’Arci. And behind her came her mother. Though Helene had met both on the night past, the hour had been too late for more than a brief exchange.
“My ladies,” she said with a dip of the head intended as much to show respect as to hide her grimace at sounding so breathless.
Lady Beatrix, much removed in looks and height from her older sister, Lady Gaenor, halted before her. “All is well, Helene?”
“Aye, my lady.”
Lady Isobel drew alongside her daughter and glanced at the door behind which Sir Abel resided. “I warrant that is not so,” she said in the lightly accented voice that Helene guessed had, many years ago, more strongly evidenced her Scottish upbringing. “Tell me, what has my son done to put you in such a state?”
“I fear Sir Abel is quite angry.”
“How came he to be so?”
Knowing the woman might be protective—especially considering her son’s injuries—and look unkindly on one who overstepped the boundary between noble and commoner, Helene steeled herself. “By my own devices, my lady. I pushed him as he did not wish to be pushed.” And had trespassed upon him earlier yet, though that need not be told. Hopefully, it would remain between Sir Abel and her—and Baron Wulfrith.
Lady Isobel took a step nearer as if to better look down upon the woman whom she deemed beneath her. However, there was no enmity in her eyes but, rather, something like mischief rising above something very like sorrow. “Why, you are hardly of a size to push a man born to battle and blade.” She nodded at Lady Beatrix. “In fact, you are not much taller than my daughter.”
Helene glanced at the younger woman who offered a warm smile. Feeling an answering smile, she suppressed it. Though she did not believe she was beneath the nobility—indeed, knew she was not—it was best to maintain emotional distance from those who lived lives of privilege.
Returning her attention to Lady Isobel, she said, “’Twas the words I spoke that so affected Sir Abel, they that have greater height and breadth and strength than I.”
The lady raised her eyebrows. “Then you and my eldest son are of the same mind—better anger than the apathy that has too long confined Abel to bed.”
“If it must be anger, my lady, aye. But, God willing”—and Sir Abel willing—“your son shall soon turn his efforts to the hard work of healing and learning anew what is required to resume the life he has set aside.”
Lady Isobel took a step back and, when next she spoke, there was strain in her voice. “Are your findings the same as Lord D’Arci’s? That if my son is to wield a sword again, ‘tis only by the left hand he shall do so?”
Feeling the woman’s ache for her hurting child, Helene could not help but miss the opportunity to have been so well loved by a parent. But then, she’d had Sister Clare, and the nun’s reluctant affection had been far better than none at all—the perfunctory pats to the back, the quick side hugs, the hasty top-of-the-head kisses, the halfhearted rap across knuckles for misbehavior. And that last had rarely been dealt except in the sight of other nuns.
Oh, I did love you, Sister Clare, like it or nay.
Remembering an answer was yet required of her, Helene clasped her hands at her waist and said softly, “I fear I have not yet had the opportunity to closely inspect Sir Abel’s injuries.”
“Unwilling patient that he is,” Lady Beatrix interceded. “And likely more unwilling because of your s-s-sex.”
Though few were the words exchanged between the lady of Castle Soaring and Helene, this was the first time the young woman’s speech evidenced the head injury she was said to have sustained in aiding her sister, Lady Gaenor, in fleeing marriage to Helene’s liege over half a year past—a marriage that had finally taken place and appeared to be a good one.
“Though I have proved myself often enough these years and ‘tis less difficult than once it was,” Helene said, “still there are men who would choose death ere giving themselves into my care.” She looked back at Lady Isobel. “But as to your question, my lady, ’tis unlikely my findings will be different from those of Lady Beatrix’s husband whose skill far surpasses my own.”
Though the woman’s shoulders could not be said to sink, they lowered perceptibly. “Then there is much work to be done.”
“Aye, and the sooner Sir Abel accepts my ministrations, the sooner he will heal sufficiently to begin the training required to regain what was lost.”
“What would you have us do?” Lady Beatrix asked.
Helene hesitated. “I would not ask you to forego his company, but if I am allowed to oversee his other needs—grooming, clothing, food, drink—methinks he will progress sufficiently to sooner return to Wulfen Castle and begin training with his brothers.” Which was the goal as told by Baron Wulfrith when he and her liege had stood before her, their combined presence filling every corner of her modest home that had previously seemed a good size.
“Then it will be so,” Lady Isobel said.
Helene dipped her head. “I thank you, my lady.” Believing their exchange was at an end, she stepped around the women and started down the passageway.
“Helene?” Lady Isobel called.
She turned. “My lady?”
“How is it you so easily converse in Norman French?”
It was a question often asked of her. “I was raised at a convent where I learned the medicinal use of herbs alongside the language of the nobility.”
“Are you of noble bl
ood?”
That was rarely asked of her considering the common life she led, but the question was understandable since it was not usual for the Church to shelter children who were not noble and, thus, unable to pay for the privilege. She swallowed. “I am but a healer, my lady.”
Lady Isobel considered her a bit longer, then said, “Good day.”
As Helene traversed the passageway, she heard a door open. Before it closed, she caught the sound of Sir Abel’s gruff voice. Though she could make no sense of his words, she did not doubt he was displeased to receive visitors.
When she turned down the stairs, she felt as if a great mantle had been lifted from her shoulders. But the unburdening was only momentary, for all the days of Sir Abel’s recovery stretched before her. And how she wished she had not agreed to come—more, that she had never met Abel Wulfrith and allowed him to be so well remembered in those places inside her that had lain dormant and hardly known before him.
A memory of their first meeting flashed through her mind and, though she tried to turn it aside, it slowed, cast off its blurred edges, and began to unroll. Yielding to it, she halted a half dozen steps down, put a hand to the wall, and returned to the filthy camp that had been just one of many.
The old baron slept, and now that the hateful Sir Robert had come and gone, it was not likely he would return any time soon and subject her to more scorn and scrutiny. Here, at last, was her chance.
Where she sat upon her pallet with her back to the tent flap lest her captor surprised her, Helene pulled back the hem of her skirts, exposing the chain that ran between her ankles and served two purposes—to lend sound to her movements so the brigands were easily apprised of her presence, and to limit the length of her stride should she try again to escape. The latter she could do nothing about, but the former…
With another strip torn from the hem of her chemise, she wrapped the last of the links. Then, breath held, she gave the chain a shake. It answered with a series of dull clunks but no ring or clatter. Praying her efforts would see her well away from here, she retrieved her rolled mantle that served as a pillow and rose from the pallet.