by Tamara Leigh
To her surprise, Durand laid a hand over her right hand, gently eased the skirts from it, and gripped her fingers in his. “Tell me.”
She wanted to, but this was the man who had determinedly sought her brother’s death and dealt the killing blow. He might react to the truth as poorly as Abel had done. Perhaps worse. Of course, what had she to lose?
She swallowed hard, but a sob slipped free.
“Helene, whatever you did not do cannot be so bad as you—or Sir Abel—believe it to be.” He squeezed her hand. “Trust me.”
She dragged the back of her free hand across her eyes and met his gaze. “My wager with Sir Abel was made under false pretenses. He believed he was protecting a woman with whom he might make a life, not…” She looked closer upon the man before her. “…a woman who had both a father and mother in common with Robert Lavonne.”
His face went momentarily lax, then his eyes widened and he stiffened. “It cannot be.”
“’Tis.”
He shifted his gaze to her hair as Abel had done, then released her hand and rose from the bench. The distance he put between them was yet another cut to her heart and she clasped her hands to keep from pressing them to her chest. When he returned to stand over her, he said, “Tell me how it is so.”
Though the thought of speaking it all again made her grateful her stomach was too empty to toss up anything other than bile, he had a right to know.
“Will you sit again?” She nodded at the bench, hoping he did not find her so repellent he would refuse.
Once more, he lowered to it, and she recounted it all, answering many of the same questions Abel had put to her. By the end of the telling, her tears had dried and all that remained was a stuffed nose, a dull headache, and deeply wrinkled skirts.
“All I have told you,” she said, “is as I told Sir Abel when he went to the wood with me and we paused at the cave where he fell in battle.”
“Obviously, he did not receive the tidings well.”
“He did not, but ‘tis true I should have told him sooner.”
“You did not lest he sent you away.”
She nodded. “I longed to help him—to fix what had been done to him.”
Durand sighed. “’Tis a mess, Helene.”
“And made all the worse with the arrival of my son.”
“I am sorry.”
She peered into his face. “You do not hate me?”
He gave a short laugh. “Had I been as severely injured as Abel, ‘twould be more difficult to see you as separate from Aldous and Robert Lavonne, but hate you?” He shrugged. “I suppose I might have had I been told sooner, though only because I would have denied myself the chance to know you.”
Emotions surged through Helene’s numb, hollowed out places and, if not that she was so terribly dry, she thought she might cry again. “I thank you,” she whispered.
“Neither does Abel hate you,” Durand said and, when she looked away, asked, “What will you do now?”
Though distressed that she could not keep her word to Abel’s brother, Baron Wulfrith, to remain until he came again, she was no longer needed—or wanted. “John and I will leave Soaring with Baron Lavonne and his wife when they return to Broehne Castle on the morrow.”
After a thoughtful moment, Durand said, “That is probably wisest—at least until Abel has time and space to consider the mistake he makes in holding you accountable for something of which you were as much a victim as any other.”
Helene pushed to her feet. “While John sleeps and ere the kitchen teems with preparations for supper, I must needs assure there is a good supply of medicines for those whose injuries and ailments I treat.”
Durand stood. “Whatever I can do to aid you in whatever way you need, you have but to ask, Helene.”
Though she knew he yet struggled with all she had told, she felt certain he meant it. Fortunately, she would not have to test his words after this day, for she would not likely see him again.
Chapter Nineteen
The supper hour had dragged longer than usual and was made all the more difficult by the presence of Helene and John who had sat at a lower table in his line of sight.
It had not been easy for Abel to rouse himself to leave his chamber, but he would have felt like a coward had he remained abovestairs. And if Helene could bring herself to the hall, he certainly could.
He had avoided looking at her as much as possible, but John was far too boisterous to ignore. Too, it was hard not to gaze upon mother and son who were once again reunited as he had intended they should be—for a reason that was to have included his person.
If only he had known it would not be the hopeful occasion he had anticipated. If only Helene had been as true as he had believed her to be. If only he could break from the past that held him so tight.
His mother would have advised prayer, and she would be right, for everything inside him tossed as if caught in a storm, and he found himself longing for the calm and peace attained when he put his knees to the cold, hard floor. And yet this thing that seethed inside him would not allow him to bend a knee.
He shifted his gaze to the hearth where Beatrix, Gaenor, and Helene had gathered following the end of the meal. As with each time he looked their way, it was Helene he lingered upon and, as he had done often since she had left him in the wood, he questioned the reason he had refused the return of the Wulfrith dagger. In giving it to her, he had meant it to remain in her keeping only until he could reclaim it such that he, not the dagger, served as protector to her and John. But in that moment, he had been unable to take it.
Not wanting to look any closer upon his refusal, he turned his attention to the restless boy who was visibly unhappy at being made to remain at his mother’s side rather than join the men who stood at a distance so their conversation would not interfere with the talk of women.
Abel could not help but smile when John caught his eye and the boy shot a hand into the air and waved. But his smile slipped when, for the briefest moment, he met Helene’s gaze.
She leaned toward her son and said something that distracted John long enough for Abel to turn his attention elsewhere without appearing to snub the boy.
Though it was not fair that John should be kept away from him, neither did Abel think it fair—as Helene surely did not—to encourage his affections in a direction that had become ponderous.
A burst of laughter sounded from the dozen men in whose midst Abel stood erect despite his throbbing leg. When it dissolved, Baron Lavonne looked around the gathering and stopped his gaze upon Durand who stood two removed from Abel. “I have something for you, Sir Durand. ’Tis the primary reason for my visit.”
The knight stiffened. “Aye, my lord?”
The baron opened a pouch on his belt, drew out a rolled parchment, and extended it. “From King Henry.”
Durand stared at what he had long awaited, then wrapped his fingers around it.
Though Abel was certain the missive portended well since the king’s men had not accompanied its delivery the sooner to escort Durand to London and imprisonment, he remained silent with the others as his old friend broke the wax seal and unrolled the parchment.
However it read, his face did not reflect the good or bad of it. Finally, he lowered the missive. “I have been pardoned.”
Few were aware of the circumstances that had required a pardon, but it was no secret he had displeased Henry such that he had been forced to remain at Soaring to await judgment. Thus, congratulations ran around the gathering and several men clapped him on the back.
When the din subsided, Durand said, “I thank you for speaking in my defense, Baron Lavonne, and you, Lord D’Arci.”
Though both men would surely be glad to see the knight gone from the barony and their wives’ lives, their smiles seemed genuine.
“What have we missed?” Beatrix called.
Abel and the others looked toward the hearth and saw the three women and John advancing on them.
“I have been pa
rdoned,” Durand said.
Beatrix smiled. “How could it be otherwise?”
Abel did not intend to look upon Helene, but when John broke from her side and ran forward, he glanced at her and saw her open her mouth as if to call him back, but then she pressed her lips closed.
“Sir Abel!” John yanked on his tunic. “You must see how good I am with my sword.”
Despite the day’s revelation, Abel could not turn him away again. “Show me,” he said and stepped from the gathering.
Helene stared after them. There had been no way to stop John without rousing his tears and, since Abel seemed willing—though surely with much grudging—she could not deny her son. After all, this would surely be his last opportunity to spend time with the man he held in such high regard.
“Does your leg hurt you?” she heard John ask as Abel moved toward the hearth with a limp more pronounced than it had been earlier in the day.
“Not as it did weeks ago.”
“Mama fixed it good.”
After a hesitation, Abel said, “Your mother is a fine healer.”
For a Lavonne, Helene could not help but think the bitter thought as her son once more drew his sword and slashed and turned and twisted as he imagined he was the fiercest of warriors. And when Abel adjusted his grip on the hilt and showed him how to stand, her son was more attentive than she had ever seen him. It made her hurt more deeply.
John needed a father, but it would not be Abel Wulfrith, and if there was some way to leave Soaring now before Abel further impressed himself upon her son, she would.
Helene pulled herself back to those she stood amongst and found Durand’s gaze upon her. Guessing he had seen her watching John and Abel, and touched by his concern, she gave him what she hoped would pass for a smile. However, his expression became more lined and he looked to where the baron and Lord D’Arci stood with their wives.
A moment later, Helene better understood his concern when Lady Beatrix said, “Then ‘tis settled, Baron. You shall remain at Soaring three days longer while my sister and I visit and you and my husband hunt.”
Helene flung her gaze to Durand, and he inclined his head.
Three more days! She could hardly bear this one evening. And what of John who would shadow Abel’s every step and become yet more attached?
In the next instant, she knew what she would ask of Durand that he had said she might.
She waited until the gathering broke into smaller groups, as was to be expected with the women’s arrival, then caught Durand’s eye and nodded to the far wall near the dais. Shortly, he joined her there.
“Certes, ‘tis not what you wanted to hear,” he said.
“It is not.” She glanced at the hearth where Lady Gaenor had gone to watch her brother instruct John. “Which is the reason I would ask of you a great favor.”
“Anything.”
“Now that you have received your pardon, you must be eager to leave Soaring.”
Something—regret?—crossed his face. “It is time. My welcome is wrung out, I have done the best to make amends to Abel, and…” He smiled sorrowfully. “…you shall soon be leaving as well.”
“Sooner than three days hence, I pray.” She drew a deep breath. “If it is not asking too much, on the morrow would you deliver John and me home to Tippet?”
He considered her. “I am sorry ‘tis so bad for you. Aye, if that is what you wish, I will take you from here.”
She reached forward and squeezed his arm. “I thank you.”
“At first light, then?”
“John and I will be ready.”
He inclined his head and looked across the hall. “’Tis good your wager is void,” he murmured.
Helene made sense of his words when she saw Abel had paused in his instruction to cast an eye their way. A moment later, Lady Gaenor followed his gaze.
“It is good,” Helene said, “and now, as the day ahead of us is long, I will take John abovestairs and put him to bed.” She stepped past him.
“Mama, see!” John called when he caught sight of her. “Sir Abel has taught me how to knock a bad man’s sword aside, turn fast, and hit his legs out from under him.” He went through the motions, swinging his wooden sword high, whirling around, and slicing his blade low where he imagined his opponent stood.
Helene halted to the far left of Abel and his sister. “Most impressive,” she said.
“Show me more!” John took a step toward Abel.
“Sir Abel has been most kind,” Helene said, “but ‘tis time we sought our night’s rest, John.”
He groaned.
“Thank Sir Abel for helping you practice and Lady Gaenor for so graciously serving as your audience.”
John looked entreatingly at Abel who, blessedly, said, “Your mother is right. A warrior must have his rest the better to swing a sword.”
Her son’s shoulders slumped, but he lowered his wooden sword and said, “Thank you for showing me, Sir Abel. Thank you for watching me, Lady Gaenor.”
Helene took his hand and swept her gaze from Abel to his sister. “Good eve,” she said and drew her son away.
As they neared the stairs, John jerked his head around. “We will practice more on the morrow,” he declared.
Helene tensed in anticipation of Abel’s answer, but whatever it was, he did not speak it.
“Sir Abel will train me up to be a great knight,” John said as he bounded up the stairs alongside her.
Nay, he would not, but there would be time aplenty for her son to adjust to the man’s absence. Hopefully, he would adjust better than Helene.
“What has happened between you and Helene?”
Wishing he had returned to his chamber rather than agreed to sit with Gaenor at the hearth, Abel frowned. “Why do you ask?”
She eyed him. “I believe I am in a position similar to the one you were in when all was not well between Christian and me—standing aside, wondering how two people might overcome the differences between them, watching them struggle with their feelings for one another.”
Abel snorted. “Feelings!”
His sister glared. “I am no fool, Abel, no matter that you may wish me to be.” She sat forward. “I remember how it was for you at Broehne when you failed to return the healer to her son. I remember ’twas you who carried her upon your horse after rescuing her and Christian’s father from the cave. I remember that, when no word would rouse you while you lingered upon the wall between life and death, it was Helene’s name that eased you back to this side. And on the day past, ‘twas your missive that bade me bring John to Soaring.”
“The healer was missing her son,” he said gruffly.
“If you have no feelings for her, why should that concern you?”
He was not certain he liked this side of Gaenor. “She has served me well. I but wish to repay her for her…constancy.”
Gaenor raised her eyebrows. “If that is so, then why, now that John is here, do you begrudge his presence—more, his mother’s?”
Nay, he did not like this side of her that sought to pick at the pieces of him stained by Helene.
“I do not think I am wrong in believing you were in the wood with her earlier today,” she pressed on, “nor that there was discord between you when you returned to the hall.”
As tempted as Abel was to leave her to her pondering, he said, “You are right. There is much discord between Helene and me.”
“How came it to be so?”
He tried not to be offended by her questioning by reminding himself that what he had learned about Helene also affected his sister by way of how it would affect her husband—if ever it was told. “’Tis not for me to say, Gaenor.”
“Is it something she has done?”
“As opposed to something I have done?”
She shrugged.
“It is,” he said, “and yet it goes beyond that.”
“Is it forgivable?”
This question jolted him, for he had not considered Helene’s deception i
n the light of forgiveness, a light that made her lie by omission seem almost petty such that Gaenor would likely regard his response to it as an angry, vengeful thing.
Which it is, is it not?
“Is it forgivable?” she asked again.
He brought her back to focus and, weary of the conversation, said, “Our mother would say ‘tis our Christian duty to forgive all trespasses, even if only for our own wellbeing and out of obedience to God.”
Gaenor made a sound of disgust. “Do not answer with what you should do. I would know what you will do. Can you or can you not forgive Helene for whatever sins you have determined are hers?”
Her choice of those last words nearly slipped past him, but he pulled them back and examined them. In the next instant, he knew Helene was right to believe Baron Lavonne suspected her parentage. Doubtless, he had shared that suspicion with his wife. But just as Abel was unwilling to speak of Helene’s secret, his sister was loath to advance it lest he was unaware and she further added to the discord. Thus, she tread carefully. As she should, for as he had told, it was not for him to say.
“Aye, methinks I can forgive her,” he allowed. “I just do not believe it will change anything between us.” He stood. “And now, as the night can get no darker, I bid you good eve, Sister.”
She leaned forward, caught his right hand, and asked, “You will return to Wulfen soon?”
“I shall.”
“And there you will remain?”
“Providing I am able to do my duty to the young men given into my care.”
“And beyond that?”
“What do you mean?”
“Garr has made a life outside of Wulfen with Annyn. You could—”
He drew his hand from hers. “As you know, I have already done so and ‘twas nearly as much the death of me as Robert Lavonne.”
“But if the woman is of your choosing—”
“Good eve, Gaenor.” He did not mean to be brusque, but there was no help for it, not with his insides cramping with the strain to contain his emotions.