by Tamara Leigh
“Ere I left the convent, Sister Clare, who was present when I was brought there to live, told me her sister had been betrothed to a young Aldous Lavonne ere she died of the pox. Thus, she had recognized him when he delivered me to the convent.”
“Mayhap she lied.”
Helene struggled not to take offense at the suggestion. After all, he did not know that most excellent woman. “Though you may wish it so,” she said tightly, “Sister Clare would never have lied.”
He stared at her, his breath sounding loud between them. “So ’twas for the Lavonnes you came to Tippet—and wed that you might remain.”
“As well as the other reasons of which we spoke.”
“Why did you never reveal yourself to your family?”
Exhausted by the stress of remaining focused on him so he would not think she was ashamed or—worse—lying, she looked down. “’Twas not my intention to hide my parentage. I but wanted to do so at the right time. However, I was not long in Tippet ere I realized it would be best if I but knew them from afar, especially once…”
He did not need to know that Christian’s older brother, Geoffrey—also her half brother—had sought to ravish her and would have had Willem not appeared. After all, Geoffrey was long dead.
“Once you knew the truth of Aldous and Robert Lavonne,” Abel answered for her.
That too. “I have forgiven them for who they allowed themselves to become.”
Abel’s laughter had a rusted edge to it. “You should have donned a habit and taken vows, Helene of Tippet.”
Once more named alongside her village…
“This is the world I live in,” she said, “and I will not allow it to be soiled by hatred or anger because someone ill treated me—”
“Ill treated! Your sire allowed you to be chained like an animal to keep his sorry bones from turning to dust. And your brother…” He sneered. “He left you to die.”
She opened her cramped hands in a pitifully pleading gesture. “I did not die, Abel. They are dead, and God is their judge. Not me. Not you. God.”
As Abel stood over Helene, wishing he had not come to the wood with her and spoken as he had, he resentfully acknowledged that she was right. And therein lay the problem—knowing it but being unable to accept it. Then there was her betrayal, though he could yet reason well enough to understand why she had withheld the truth.
He felt as if caught in the same trap of lies and hidden truths that had seen him wed to a woman who had sought his death, whose family’s treachery had made him vow never again to be so vulnerable to any woman.
He nearly laughed. Helene was not the only one who had betrayed him. That honor was more his own.
“Abel?” When she touched his sleeve, the feel of her fingers disturbed him such that the sting of having betrayed himself deepened—as did the longing to remove the worry from her brow, the uncertainty from her eyes, and the sorrow from her mouth.
Where was the Wulfrith warrior his father had raised? Where was the man who had spent nearly every waking hour honing his body and skills in the art of war? He was not entirely gone, for some of him had been reclaimed this past fortnight with Durand, but there was yet much to be reclaimed if ever he was to regain enough of what he had lost that he might once again be worthy of his family’s name. And he could not do that if he continued to lay himself open to this woman whom he had thought he knew.
“Abel?” she said with more urgency.
The words that rose to his lips were cruel, but they were needed as much for her sake as his own. “You would do well to call me Sir Abel.” He pulled his arm from her hold.
A sharply drawn breath parted lips that had been soft and sweet beneath his not so long ago. “Then you will not let it go?” she said.
“How can I? My injuries are too recent and your deception too fresh to pretend this did not happen, just as I cannot pretend Rosamund never happened.”
She startled, and he immediately regretted equating her with the woman who had nearly eviscerated him. But then, in a way, so had Helene. The wound she had dealt did not leave a crimson stain nor place him at death’s door, but it pained him as deeply. Perhaps more.
“Nay, Helene of Tippet,” he pressed onward, “I cannot and will not let it go.”
Her eyes flashed, and whatever regret and sorrow had gripped her moments earlier was supplanted by tearful anger. “Then you would do as well to call me Helene Lavonne.” Her voice was so tight he could feel the ache in her throat. “For if I am to bear my family’s sins, surely I am as entitled to my father’s name as Robert was.” She grabbed the basket from the ground only to drop it in the next instant and hitch up her skirts.
“Keep it!” Abel growled as she reached for the Wulfrith dagger.
Hand hovering over the hilt, she looked up.
“Think of it as payment for your aid,” he said, “for it was certainly earned.”
He steeled himself for her stubborn refusal, but she dropped her skirts, retrieved the basket, and swung away. However, at the edge of the clearing, she looked around. “I will not easily forget what passed between us this day, but I shall forget it—or, at least, set it aside as you have done. Until then, I will pray that what happened to you in this place will fade that you might find peace, that you learn to believe in something above and beyond the swing of your sword, that you believe in Him.” She drew a deep breath. “Be assured that, as quickly as can be arranged, I will leave Soaring.”
Gone. If only she had never been…
He inclined his head. “I believe that is best for all.”
Her lids flickered, then she turned and started back the way they had come.
When she was far enough ahead that he did not think he would hear any sounds of misery that might escape her, he followed. But try as he did to turn his thoughts to a place beyond Helene, he was pressed on all sides by regret that he would never again know her.
Unfortunately, there was more regret to come, for what surely awaited Helene in the hall would only make this day worse. For both of them.
Chapter Eighteen
She was prepared to face Baron Lavonne when she entered—at least, as prepared as she could be considering Abel. What she was not prepared for was Lady Gaenor. And less so, John.
“Mama!” her son shouted from where he sat beside Baron Lavonne’s wife at the high table, causing others seated for the nooning meal to look up from their trenchers and conversations.
Dealt yet another a blow, Helene struggled for composure as her son determined that the fastest way to reach her was by ducking beneath the table and scrambling across the dais. Then his little legs were stretching as long as they could, his wooden sword bouncing at his side, his wide-flung arms giving notice that this was to be a flying hug.
She dropped her basket to the floor, bent, and opened her arms. “John!” she cried as he wrapped his arms around her neck.
He laughed and, as she swung him around, she felt the weight he had gained in her absence. Doubtless, the lord and lady of Broehne Castle fed him well—surely better than she had ever been able to do.
“You are surprised!” John exclaimed when she came to a dizzying halt.
She pressed a kiss to his stew-stained cheek. “I am wonderfully surprised.” It was not a lie, though neither was it the truth. It was a blessing to hold him again and inhale his little boy scent, but it was also heartache, for she hurt too much and was too aware of the many gathered in the hall to remain in this moment with her son. Especially when she heard the doors open to admit another whom she did not doubt was Abel.
“Helene,” Lady Gaenor said.
Unable to suppress a startle at finding the woman before her, Helene lifted her face from alongside John’s and summoned a smile. “My lady, I was told you would not be accompanying your husband.”
“’Twas so.” She touched her belly that barely evidenced the babe she carried. “But I began to feel better.”
Then, hopefully, the medicine Helene had prepared b
efore departing for Soaring was doing its good work of settling her stomach.
“And then, when the messenger sent to Soaring returned last eve with my brother’s message,” Lady Gaenor continued, “I had all the more reason to make the journey.” She inclined her head to indicate the little boy in his mother’s arms.
Helene blinked. “I don’t—”
“Sir Abel sent for me.” John turned in Helene’s arms and grinned at Baron Lavonne’s wife. “Did he not, my lady? Sir Abel himself!”
Lady Gaenor’s smile broadened, nudging her over the line to lovely. “So he did, John. He told that your mother missed you. Thus, we have come.”
As the day fit together—Abel’s walk in the wood with her, the feelings he had revealed, his seeking to confirm her feelings, that he had sent for John though they had agreed he should stay away until Abel was certain he could make a life with them—everything blurred around the edges and the pain that Helene struggled to keep down welled up.
This was to have been the day, a day come much sooner than she had expected, a day in which she had not dared place too much hope. Instead, her revelation had made it a day devoid of hope.
Lady Gaenor touched Helene’s arm. “Are you well?”
“Aye. It was just a bit warm for my walk in the wood, and now the surprise of John’s arrival…” She pressed another kiss to his cheek. “I am grateful you have brought him.”
Again, not a lie, but not the truth. Had it been any other day…
“I am pleased to have done so,” Lady Gaenor said.
Truly? After all, Durand was here and, from what Helene now knew of what had happened between her friend and this lady, she thought it must be less comfortable for Baron Lavonne’s wife to be around the knight than it was for Lady Beatrix.
“Where is Sir Abel?” John asked.
Praying he had slipped abovestairs, Helene made a show of looking around, but there was no moment to pretend she did not see him where he stood just inside the doors watching them, for John exclaimed, “Mama, Sir Abel has a beard!” An instant later, he was all knobby elbows and knees as he wriggled to climb down her, then he was running to the man she, herself, had longed to run to.
“Look!” he called. “I brought the sword you made me, Sir Abel!”
Ahead of John’s arrival, Abel met Helene’s gaze.
Please do not turn him away, she silently beseeched. He does not know what I have wrought with my cowardice as much as you have wrought with your anger. He cannot be held responsible for the blood in his veins that you deem tainted. Please, Abel.
She did not realize she was holding her breath until he smiled at John. A moment later, her son threw his arms around Abel’s legs.
Feeling a sob rise, Helene swallowed it. Just as Abel Wulfrith was not hers to have, neither was he John’s. Still, considering the circumstances, he played well the part asked of him—mussing John’s hair and giving him his full attention as her son jumped back and pulled his wooden sword.
“I have practiced every day!” John waved the sword. “I—” He gasped. “Your face is cut, Sir Abel. Was it a bad man who did it?”
Once again, Helene caught her hands making a mess of her skirts and opened her fingers to free them.
“It was,” Abel said.
“Did you kill him?”
A hesitation, and then, “He has been severely punished and will never again raise a blade against another.”
John nodded in approval, then said, “Can mama fix your face—make it grow all the way back together?”
Abel glanced at Helene. “She has done all she can, but she assures me that time will much improve my appearance.”
John was quiet a long moment, then said, “I would like such a scar.”
Abel’s eyebrows rose. “Would you?”
“Aye, then I would be as fierce a knight as you.”
“Practice is what will make you fierce. And the more you practice, the fewer scars you will have—a good thing.”
“I have been practicing! Just as you said I should if I want to be a knight.”
How Helene wished Abel had not encouraged her son to believe such a life was available to him. If there was any possibility, it would happen only with the aid of Baron Lavonne, and only then if he knew the answer she withheld.
Helene glanced past Lady Gaenor who had turned her regard upon Abel and John. The brother she had yet to claim watched her, his brow no less drawn with question than before she had left for Soaring.
Next, she looked to the others seated at the high table and, at the end of it, saw Durand regarded her with nearly the same intensity as Baron Lavonne.
“Abel looks well,” Lady Gaenor murmured. “’Twould appear he is truly among the living.”
“Aye,” Helene said. “He has come far.”
“For that, I thank you.”
“Though I believe I have been of good benefit to him, my lady, much of his journey was completed ere my arrival. Your brother, Baron Wulfrith, saw to that.”
“I am certain he will be pleased with Abel’s progress.”
Helene glanced at her son. “Has John behaved well in my absence?”
“He has been little trouble. Indeed, he makes the days quite interesting.”
Before Helene could explore the lady’s comment, John’s voice rose. “I want to show you!”
Helene caught her son’s stiff-legged stomp that portended a great show of disappointment, one usually preceded by a day drawn too long and marked by too little sleep.
“Perhaps later.” Abel said.
Helene caught up her basket and hurried forward to relieve him of her son’s presence before either of them slipped over an edge that would cause hurt feelings and arouse undue attention.
She halted and bent near her son. “Sir Abel has exerted himself this day, and I am sure he would like to eat his nooning meal as you have done.”
“But I want to show him how I will protect you if a bad man tries to take you again.”
Hating that the memory of her abduction was still so near him, she said, “Later, hmm? After riding so hard to reach Soaring, ‘tis rest you need.” She took his hand and, avoiding Abel’s gaze, turned her son toward the stairs.
To her relief, John allowed himself to be drawn forward, though he was hardly mindful of his feet, determined as he was to keep Abel in sight for as long as possible.
When they reached the stairs, he asked, “Where are we going?”
“To the tower.” Helene set a foot upon the first step. “We have our own room there.”
“Truly?” he squeaked.
She smiled down at him, and some of her ache eased at the excitement that shone from his face. “Aye, with a bed that sits up off the floor and a mattress that is softer than two—nay, three—pallets atop one another and pillows that do not scratch.”
“I want to see it!”
They ascended the stairs and traversed the passageway. As they neared Abel’s chamber, Helene noted his door was ajar and was tempted to ask John to wait while she slipped inside and left the Wulfrith dagger there. However, Abel had insisted she keep it and, though she would never look upon it without thinking of him, she liked the protection it afforded. Too, the practical side of her told that if ever she was in dire need of coin, whether to feed her starving child or give him a better future than one behind a plow, she could do no better. Thus, she continued past the chamber.
“Our own room!” John exclaimed when they entered it.
He was a long time exploring what should have taken minutes, touching and patting and caressing the few pieces of furniture, peering around and behind them, sliding his hands over stone walls and opening and closing the shutter. And even when he sank into the mattress and wiggled under the coverlet that he said was softer even than her hair, he fought sleep. Only when Helene laid down beside him and stroked his head and murmured how much she had missed him did he settle enough for his lids to lower and his words to come fewer and farther between.
At last, he slept, and she turned from him and put her face in the pillow for fear her misery would awaken him. Her muffled sob was followed by another.
Ah, wee Helene…
And yet another sob that caused John to flop onto his back and mumble something.
Forcing herself to be still and silent, Helene held and, when he did not rouse again, eased herself off the bed. If she was going to cry and cry well, she would have to do it elsewhere.
She kissed John’s cheek, pulled the coverlet up to his chin, and left the tower room. As she approached Abel’s chamber, she saw the door was closed and, though she told herself to hurry past, she paused to press a palm to it. He was in there. But he didn’t wish to see her any more than she should wish to see him.
She lowered her arm and continued to the stairs.
“Helene?”
The voice squeezed into the narrow space between sobs, causing her to startle where she sat hunched on the garden bench, her face in her skirts as she tried to quiet the sounds of her heartache.
Was it Durand who tore away her solitude? His voice in her stuffed ears?
His hand touched her shoulder and, a moment later, he lowered beside her. “What is it, Helene?”
She raised her head slightly and wiped the wet from her eyes and face. “I wish you had not come,” she whispered out of a throat that felt as if nails had been dragged over it.
“I did not intend to. Indeed, I nearly talked myself out of it when I saw you go to the kitchen, but when you returned from the wood, you appeared shaken. And I do not think it was only due to your son’s arrival, especially since Sir Abel appeared equally distressed when he entered after you.”
At her silence, he said, “I know I should not be alone with you—”
She sat upright and turned her face to him that she had not meant for him to see, tear-swollen as it surely was. “My wager with Sir Abel is void,” she said, anger vying with the break in her voice.
Durand’s brow creased more deeply. “Why? What has he done?”
She let out a shuddering breath that took with it enough of her anger that she was able to speak further. “’Tis more what I did. Rather, what I did not do.” If only she had listened to Sister Clare—better yet, had listened to herself. If only…if only…