by Tamara Leigh
“I am happy for you, my lady,” Helene said, “and I pray you will continue to be so blessed.”
The woman briefly touched her abdomen. “We await another b-blessing now.”
Helene raised her eyebrows. “Ah, you are with child?”
“Nay.” There seemed disappointment in the word, but not the grief of one near to giving up hope of ever bearing children.
Though Helene knew Lady Beatrix and her husband had not been wed long, children were likely on her mind, especially since her older sister was more recently wed and in the early months of her own pregnancy.
“But worry not that I seek your counsel,” Lady Beatrix added. “If the Lord so blesses us, it will be when He deems the time is right.”
Helene was grateful she did not request herbs or potions to more quickly cause a child to grow in her womb. Though skilled and confident enough to deal with ailments of pregnancy and delivering babes, Helene also believed the timing of a child was best left to God. Too, she had yet to see evidence that those things prescribed by others to coax a reluctant womb to become more receptive did, in fact, result in pregnancy. Mostly, it seemed that the mixtures and powders gave false hope and, in some instances, proved dangerous or even fatal to the desperate women who sought to provide their husbands with sons.
“I hope that, in time, you will know the blessing of children,” Helene said.
The lady inclined her head and moved toward the doorway. “I shall tell Sir Abel that you have accepted the tower room.”
Helene started to follow but halted. “Did he know you intended to offer it?”
“He did, for though I had already thought to place you here following our brother and mother’s departure, he himself suggested it—said you appeared to be sleeping poorly, and he did not believe you were accustomed to bedding down in a hall.”
Helene felt herself blush, not only because Abel had looked near enough upon her to note her weariness but that he had shared the observation with his sister. “That was kind of him.”
Lady Beatrix considered her. “I think you must know he has a care for you.”
Laughter sprang from Helene’s throat. However, before she could add words to her protest, Lady Beatrix raised a hand. “I know he is quick to offend with his attitude and mood, but I also know he thinks more of you than he will tell.”
Of course she might believe so since, according to Baron Wulfrith, she and their sister had heard Sir Abel speak her name in his delirium.
“As for his concern over you being alone with Sir Durand…” The lady paused and Helene sensed she questioned the wisdom of moving the conversation in that direction. “Though ‘tis true I do not believe you have anything to f-fear from him, I understand my brother’s concern.”
Would it never end, this constant allusion to the sins of Sir Durand that, on one side of it saw him a man who moved freely among those who warned her away from him, and on the other side of it saw him awaiting the king’s pardon that might be denied him in favor of imprisonment?
“However,” the lady continued, “I also understand it is not mere curiosity that makes you seek the nature of Abel’s concern, and I know I would myself wish an explanation of why so esteemed a knight did not sooner act to free me from that…” Her chest rose and fell. “From Sir Robert.”
Helene was grateful the lady did not fit ill names to the man, though it would be understandable if she did, for it was her death Sir Robert had sought.
“And so,” Lady Beatrix said, “though I would ask that you let it be, I shall understand if you cannot.”
Can I let it be? I should. After all, what difference does it make now when I should be looking toward what will be for my son and me?
Hoping Sir Durand’s pardon would come soon and remove the temptation of discovering the truth, Helene said, “You are most kind, Lady Beatrix. I thank you.”
The lady inclined her head. “I shall leave you now.” As her footsteps faded down the steps, Helene turned back into the room. “Oh, John,” she breathed, “I do wish you were here.” Wished it terribly though it would be selfish to ask that he be brought to Soaring. After all, he was happy running about the donjon at Broehne Castle and, the longer he remained distant from Sir Abel, the sooner he would forget the man he had told her he would like to call “father.”
“It can never be,” Helene murmured and crossed to the bed. She turned her back to it, lowered to the edge, and slowly laid down. Soft. No crackle or prick. The scent of feathers and herbs. No odor of straw and dust and mildew.
She closed her eyes and imagined the night ahead when she would try not to fall asleep too soon that she might longer enjoy this wondrous embrace.
She laughed. Most assuredly, she would miss this bed when she returned to Tippet and her wattle and daub hut with its earthen floor and straw-filled pallets.
Unfortunately, if she was not more careful with her emotions, that was not all she would miss. Hence, she would do well to maintain as much distance as possible between her heart and Sir Abel. She would tend him, but she must do so with the truth firmly in mind—he was but her patient.
Chapter Eleven
A sennight and some days passed and, with each new sunrise, Abel grew stronger.
As much as he despised the staff that proclaimed his vulnerability to any who might seek to finish what Sir Robert’s brigands had barely left undone, he was grateful for its aid that allowed him to move about the donjon. And as little a care as he had for eating, the ability to partake of meals with others in the great hall increased his appetite sufficiently that his drawn and pale features began to fill in and take on a healthier color.
Though he felt a long way from the warrior he had been, he began to see possibilities that had not been apparent in the days before Helene’s arrival—Helene who was so intent on her mortar and pestle that she had not seen him enter the kitchen, nor seemed to notice that the servants’ voices had dimmed with his appearance.
At the cook’s ponderous approach, Abel held up a hand and nodded at the table in the corner where the healer worked. With a shrug, the man turned back to the immense cauldron he had been tending.
When Abel returned his gaze to Helene, he thought she could not look lovelier in spite of the hair that escaped its plait and the color that ran high in the cheek that was visible where she stood in profile.
Though he could not recall the last time he had entered a kitchen, he thought he must have been quite young not to remember how heated such a place became during the preparation of meals. And she was in the midst of it, clearly determined to complete whatever task she had set herself no matter her discomfort.
He considered seeking her later, but he had good cause to approach her aside from the times she solemnly saw to his injuries and shied away from conversations that strayed from his healing. He knew why she did it and told himself he was glad, and yet he was not at all pleased. Just as he did not like that she continued to disregard his warnings about Durand.
Twice more he had seen them together in the inner bailey as she made her way to the outer gatehouse where she ministered to the guards, and both times it had seemed that Durand expected her. Though it could not be said the knight looked overly pleased to see her, neither did he appear unsettled. And Helene…
He did not like the smiles with which she gifted the other man or how near she drew to his side when they exchanged the inner bailey for the outer. Though Abel told himself she would have to look elsewhere for a father for her son, elsewhere did not include Durand. King Henry’s determination of the knight’s fate could not come soon enough.
Helene paused in her exertions, pressed her palms to the table, and braced herself as if to catch her breath.
Not wishing to be caught staring, Abel put his staff forward. However, before he reached her, she took up the pestle again.
When he halted scant feet from her, he heard her voice and caught the slight movement of her lips. Remembering his departed wife’s penchant for talking to
herself—rather, those others who dwelt within her—he tensed.
Though he told himself he was being foolish, he leaned in to catch Helene’s words, and that slight movement brought her head around.
She jumped back and lost hold of the pestle that clattered to the table.
He raised his right hand. “I apologize. I did not mean to startle you.”
“Why are you here?”
“I came for you.” He smiled, but the expression felt tight on his face. “What were you speaking while you worked? An incantation?”
She drew a sharp breath and glanced around as if for fear they had an audience. “Do you wish to see me burned as a witch?”
He raised his eyebrows. “You are many things, Helene of Tippet, but a witch is not one of them.”
She grabbed his arm. “’Tis not something to be made light of.”
He did not look to her hand upon him, for it was disturbing enough to feel it—more, that it was not, at this moment, a touch meant to heal. “If you fear how you are perceived, why do you speak when there is no one to lend an ear to your words?”
She moistened her lips and released her hold on him. “I talk barely above my breath, and there is one who lends an ear though He cannot be seen with the eye.”
Abel felt an unsettling at his center, but as he leaned toward the possibility that Helene did, indeed, seek darkness, realization struck. “You pray over your medicinals.”
Relief eased the taut lines of her moist face. “As I was instructed to do at the convent.”
“The convent?”
She inclined her head. “It is where I was raised and learned to heal others.”
“And where you also learned Norman-French.”
“That as well.”
Which gave rise to yet more questions he knew he should not ask. Still, he said, “How came you to live in the village of Tippet?”
She tensed again. “As I did not wish to take vows, I left the convent once I was of an age to do so. When I came to Tippet and learned the village was without a healer, I decided to stay.”
“And wed.”
“Aye.” There was reluctance in the single word, but she hastily added, “My husband, Willem, was a good man and father.”
And yet Abel sensed there was something he had not been. Might there not have been love between them though it seemed that emotion was more easily attained by commoners whose marriages were not as often arranged with an eye to alliances and fortune? “How did he die?” he asked.
Sorrow plucking at her mouth, she said, “An accident during harvest. I…could not stop the bleeding.” Then, as if to fend off further questions, she said, “But tell me, what brings you to this inhospitable place?”
It took a moment to recall why he had come and, when he did, he reached his right hand forward. “You have said I will not use it again.”
She glanced at his scarred palm. “To wield a sword, Sir Abel.”
“And still you believe that?”
“I do.” Her brow furrowed. “Are you asking because it has become more receptive to grip?”
“It has.”
She wiped her hands on the heavy apron that surely accounted for much of her perspiration, then reached forward, took his hand in hers, and raised it. “Close your fingers.”
He drew them toward his palm as far as they would go before they began to tremble with the effort to reach what they could not.
As she leaned in, a lock of her hair fell forward and brushed his wrist. “It continues to heal well.” With her other hand, she probed his palm, then cupped his fingers and gently curled them downward until they touched the heel of his hand. She held them thus several moments, during which he stared at her bent head and resisted the impulse to push that errant lock aside.
“Now hold them there if you can.” She removed her hand from atop his.
He could not and ground his teeth as the fingers drew back.
She looked up. “I believe your grip will continue to improve and you will be able to grasp items of greater breadth than a sword hilt, but you ought to turn your mind to training your left hand to serve as once your right did.”
Surely it could be done. After all, as his right hand had been trained to the sword, his left had been trained in the simultaneous use of a dagger. Still, they were different techniques, the dominant hand more responsive to the length of a sword and finding the balance necessary to properly swing and strike.
Struggling against bitterness, he raised his eyebrows. “So, in spite of your devotion to the Lord, you do not foresee a miracle?”
“I do not, Sir Abel, for miracles can only be hoped—and prayed—for, not seen ahead of their arrival.”
Did she realize that one of her hands still held his? If so, was the impression as strong for her as it was for him, so much that his eyes were tempted to her mouth?
“Do you pray for me, Helene?”
She was a long moment in answering. “I do, and I shall continue to pray for you even if you do not wish it, just as…”
“What?”
She pulled her hand from beneath his and smoothed it over the damp strands about her face. “Aldous Lavonne took issue with my prayers, but still I prayed for him.”
Abel stiffened. “For a man such as he?”
Her eyes widened. “A man such as he, Sir Abel, was surely more in need of prayer than a man such as you.”
He felt his insides twist. “Did you also pray for his son, Sir Robert?”
“I did.”
“And yet your prayers did not move God, did they? The knave did not release you to return to your son or cease with his destruction and murder. Death stopped him, naught else.”
“That is so. Just as, no matter how much I pray for you, you will not be healed unless you allow yourself to be.”
“Allow myself? Of course I will!”
“I do not speak only of bodily healing, Sir Abel. I pray for more than that.”
He nearly demanded what else she prayed for, but he knew.
“And I shall continue to hope that your soul listens where Sir Robert’s did not,” she added.
He should not have sought her out, should have remained apart from her as she clearly wished to remain apart from him. And yet, though he had known she would not likely believe the increased ability to fold his fingers inward would lead to restoration of that hand’s function, he had come. Fool that he was.
Still, it was not his intention to argue with her or give her cause to further distance herself. Realizing how tightly he gripped the staff, he relaxed his hold. “I would not have you cease your prayers for me. Certes, I am sure they can only help.” And he did believe it though he had yet to reconcile that God had not kept the mace from his back, the blade from his leg and hand.
Helene’s smile was slight. “I am glad to hear it.”
Drawn again to the curve of her mouth, he shifted his gaze to the mortar. “What is it that requires so much work and prayer?”
She turned back to the table and retrieved the pestle. “The captain of the guard suffers from a stomach ailment that oft awakens him at night.” She tipped the mortar to reveal the mashed brown and green contents that looked more likely to worsen the man’s condition.
“Mixed in wine and taken before bed, it should give him relief.”
“A cure?”
“I fear not. As I have told him, the only cure is to be more at ease with his cares. Unfortunately, as long as he shoulders so much responsibility, that is probably hoping for too much.”
“So now you tend not only those injured during the attack but those whose bellies ache.”
“I am pleased to ease Lord D’Arci’s burden where I can, for Lady Beatrix tells that the loss of his man, Sir Canute, during the attack is sorely felt. Thus, until he is replaced, her husband’s duties are burdensome.”
It was true. There seemed few moments outside of meals that his brother-in-law was not bent over journals or giving ear to his people’s concerns and pr
oblems or setting off to some corner of the demesne to do his duty to Baron Lavonne.
“’Tis kind of you.”
She lowered the pestle into the mortar. “And of certain benefit, for it makes the days pass more quickly.”
“You wish them to pass quickly?”
She glanced at him. “You forget that I have a son from whom I am parted, Sir Abel.”
He did not forget. He just did not care to think there.
“Though the tower room is much to my liking, and never have I slept in better comfort, still I miss John.”
Abel knew he should not suggest it, but he said, “You could send for him.”
Her hand that had begun to work the pestle stilled and her eyes swung to him. “Nay, I could not.”
It was as if he had suggested something unseemly. “Why?”
Her gaze slid away, and he thought this time she might not be as honest as she had been in the past. But then she said, “It is best if John forgets you, Sir Abel, for he became overly fond of you, and I would not have him hurt.”
He knew what she was saying, for it would have been impossible to be ignorant of the boy’s attachment. “Aye, ’tis probably for the best.” He cleared his throat. “I shall leave you to your work.”
As he started to turn opposite, she said, “Come with me.”
He paused. “Where?”
“To deliver this medicine. Since you have mastered the reach of the donjon, it would be good for you to venture out of doors and feel the sun upon your face.”
Abel detested that her suggestion unsettled him—as if he feared leaving these walls—and yet all of him strained at the thought of doing so. He lowered his gaze to the staff he once more gripped as if it was all that held him upright. “Another day, perhaps.”
She touched his arm. “Pride has no place in your healing. If ever you wish to be as skilled a warrior as once you were, you must crush underfoot the small humiliations.” She put her head to the side. “Come with me.”