by Tamara Leigh
When he reached his chamber, he saw that the tray of medicines was not beside the chair but had been placed on the bedside table, meaning Helene had not likely been the one to deliver it.
And that was good.
Is it, Abel Wulfrith?
Chapter Twenty
What was he doing here?
Abel glowered at the one who had knocked, and who was not Helene as he had thought—even hoped, God help him. “I would not believe you so eager to engage me at swords that you would fetch me yourself,” he said, then glanced at the window and the slant of light that was beginning to warm away the night’s chill. “And at such an early hour.”
The knight halted just inside the chamber. “You would be right not to believe it of me.”
“Then?”
“I have come to speak to you about Helene.”
Abel knew he should not be surprised, especially after having seen them converse on the night past, but he was. And there was that streak of jealousy again.
He dropped the lid on the chest out of which he had clothed himself and, tightening his belt, asked, “What of her?”
“I depart Soaring within the hour.”
Though the event was easily foreseen now that he was pardoned, Abel was unsettled that he should be disappointed. “What has that to do with the healer?” he asked.
“I would have lingered another day—mayhap two—that you and I might bring our practice to a better end, but Helene wishes to return to her village and I have agreed to escort her and her son home.”
Abel was not prepared to receive such tidings, certain as he had been that he had several days in which to reconcile what, at this moment, seemed impossible to reconcile. Thus, he struggled to keep his face impassive. “She knows you have come to tell me this?”
“Nay. Indeed, I do not think she would like it.”
“Then why are you here?”
Durand’s laughter was clipped. “You ask that after twice I took Lady Gaenor from her home without word to the Wulfriths?”
He was bold to throw up that reminder. “Helene is not my sister,” Abel said with as much detachment as he could manage, which was surely deficient since the little sleep he had gained on the night past was after hours of living again and again what had passed between Helene and him in the wood, John’s joyful reception, and the questions Gaenor had put to him.
“Certes, she is not your sister,” Durand acceded, “but that does not mean she will not be missed. Thus, it seemed wrong not to give you the opportunity to prevent her from leaving.”
Abel stiffened. “Though she has served me and others well, if she is no longer needed and wishes to return to her village, I see no reason to intervene.” Certainly none that he was willing to share with this man.
“Do you not?”
Abel held his gaze. “As I have told.”
The knight’s brow turned thoughtful and, after a long moment, he said, “’Tis said family creates a multitude of sins. And so it does, falling upon the guilty and innocent alike.”
“What say you?” Abel demanded.
“That you are wrong to hold Helene responsible for what she did not do.”
Abel felt the remains of his impassive expression slip. “You know.”
“Aye, she confided on the day past. Though I do not like it any better than you—and need not remind you ’twas I who killed her brother—I have but to acknowledge the truth of the matter to overlook her relation to those vile beings.”
“The truth?”
“That she knew Robert only as a cruel man who beat her and the old baron as a demanding patient whose care took her from her son.”
Just as part of Abel had already grudgingly conceded. Though he balked at discussing the matter with one who had betrayed his family, he was moved by remembrance of better days when they had known one another beyond the crossing of swords, so moved that he rasped, “She should have told me sooner.” And it was that which was hardest to reconcile.
Durand stepped farther into the room. “Should she have? That you might have all the sooner condemned her?”
Though tempted to deny it, Abel knew it was true. The humiliation that first day when she had seen him so far removed from a warrior had made him long to send her away, and so angry had he been over his losses that, had he known she was a Lavonne, he would have pushed for her to be removed from Soaring. Failing that, he would never have allowed himself to feel again for her as he had done when he had taken her from the cave.
“And when would you have had her tell you?” Durand pressed. “When you drew breath between the hateful things you surely spoke against her brother and father in her hearing—just as I am guilty of having done?”
It was as Abel had turned over and over last eve, grasping at memories of what he had said of Aldous and Robert Lavonne whom Helene had prayed for, and acknowledging how it must have hurt each time those words had fallen bitter from his lips, especially when he had subjected her mother to the same hatred.
Durand narrowed his lids. “Had she told you sooner, you would have reacted as badly as I would have. Now, however, you are better acquainted with her, and though you may not wish to acknowledge it, you know she is a Lavonne by birth only.”
The tight places in Abel that had long prevented him from falling victim to another woman’s treachery, and which Helene’s seeming lack of guile had caused to loosen, warned against heeding the knight’s words. And yet he knew Durand did not speak false.
At Abel’s silence, Durand said, “Verily, ‘tis your gratitude Helene deserves, not your anger, for I do not believe you would have progressed as well as you have done had she not given you good reason to leave this chamber—reason no one else was able to provide.”
It was true—
Those tight places tightened again, dragging forth a memory of Rosamund in his arms the morning after their wedding, eyes bright and lips bowed; next, her bending over him, dim candlelight illuminating her face as pain tore through his side; lastly, her standing at the foot of the bed, eyes wild and lips drawn back as she turned the knife on herself. The truth denied him about his wife had nearly been the death of him.
Pushing the images down, weary of the champions Helene had in Gaenor and this knight, he said, “If you are done, I am sure the healer is eager to depart Soaring.”
“She is not Rosamund.”
Abel jerked at discovering their thoughts traversed the same path.
“Only a fool would allow the Lavonnes to rise from their graves and steal from him what I would give all to have myself,” Durand continued, “a woman who cares for me as I care for her.”
Easing his jaw that he had clenched so hard it made speech almost impossible, Abel said, “Godspeed, Sir Durand.”
The knight sighed. “At least I am not alone in aching for the love of someone I cannot have—though, in your case, ‘tis a choice you yourself have made.” He turned away.
His words ought to have angered Abel, but they held too much truth to arouse a prideful response. “Durand!”
His old friend looked around.
Speak it! It was as he longed to do—the better to ensure Helene would be well, that she would as effortlessly as possible resume the life she’d had before Abel Wulfrith tread upon it—but pride welled up and the only words he could squeeze past it were, “Deliver her safely.”
That is not all!
As he struggled to form elusive words, Durand said, “I am pleased you trust me to do what you would not have a fortnight past.”
A fortnight past he would not have trusted the knight alone with her, but now… “I believe you will act honorably.”
A smile crept onto the knight’s lips. “You do not know how your words lighten one who feared dishonor was to be his lot and a blot upon the reputation of Wulfen Castle.”
Abel inclined his head, then swallowed the lump of pride and said, “There is more I would ask of you beyond seeing Helene safely home.”
Durand raised his eyebr
ows.
“I know not what your plans are, but I would have your word that you will stay near her until she is well and truly settled back into her home—at least until Baron Lavonne returns to Broehne Castle.”
Durand hesitated, albeit briefly. “My plans bend easily enough. If ‘tis your wish, I will make myself available to her if she or her son need anything. I give you my word.”
“I thank you.”
A moment later, Durand was gone.
That is the end of it, Abel told himself. Not a good end, but a place from which to start anew if ever you shall.
He would. At Wulfen Castle, with hard work and determination, he would rise above his body’s failings to once more prove himself a warrior—one well able to protect his lands, people, wife, and children.
Those last two made him stiffen and resist what his mother urged from across the many leagues separating them. He was not ready, he silently argued. It could not be forced. He would do it when the desire was all his own. However, in the end, he closed his eyes.
Lord, I have too much anger, too much hatred, and it eats me through. Gaenor is right. And—of all people!—so is Durand. I am a fool. Unworthy. Help me.
It was the first time in a long time that he had more than glancingly turned to prayer, and it was uncomfortable and awkward, like asking a boon of one whose companionship he had eschewed and only now sought for his own gain and because there was no place else to turn.
Though the Lord did not speak to him as some said He spoke to them, while Abel continued to confess and entreat, he felt his angst begin to unwind, not to such an extent that he was near to being at peace, but enough to admit his anger was not Helene’s due. He had wronged her terribly, possibly unforgivably, and if he was to make amends, an apology alone would not suffice. More was required of him, far more than he had believed when he had sent for John. Though he had thought he was sufficiently recovered physically to commit to Helene and plan a life together once his retraining was complete, he was not emotionally ready, as evidenced by the vengeful anger that had caused him to turn on her.
Helene would go back to her village and he would once more make Wulfen Castle his home. God willing, when he proved worthy, in body and mind, she would not reject him. And that, he realized, was the reason he had refused the return of the Wulfrith dagger. Some part of him beyond his misbegotten anger had known how terribly he wronged her, that he could not easily disavow her, that there might come a time when he would be able to set things right.
It was a risk to let her go—one he would not wish to wager upon—but he would not try to hold her to him with promises lest, in the end, he was unable to subdue his pride, anger, and lust for vengeance and hurt her all the more. If she later denied him or he lost her to another, it was no less than he deserved.
He lifted his head, opened his eyes, and looked to the window that evidenced the sun had brought forth a cloudless new day. Very soon Helene and her son would depart Soaring, and it was not likely John would understand the urgency that denied him and Abel a proper parting.
Setting his jaw, Abel reminded himself it was for the best, that it was not as if the boy were his son. And yet he hated that it should be thus.
Christian Lavonne’s eyes asked what his mouth would not as he handed John up to Helene where she sat atop the palfrey that Lord D’Arci had provided for the ride to Tippet.
Murmuring her thanks to the uncommonly tall man whom none would guess was a relation of hers, she settled her son on the fore of her saddle.
“When next you are at Castle Broehne,” the baron said, “I would speak with you on a matter of import.”
She swept her gaze back to him. Was he done waiting on her? Worse, might he no longer have reason to wait because Abel had revealed her secret?
“I do not want to leave,” John repeated what he had many times spoken since she had roused him from his feather-bed sleep, but this time she was grateful for his grumbling that provided an excuse not to respond to Christian Lavonne.
She looked into her son’s upturned face and inwardly sighed over his down-turned mouth. As she could not better explain the need to return to Tippet—that the village had been too long without a healer—and weary of the effort she had thus far expended to satisfy he who seemed determined to be dissatisfied, she said, “I am sorry, John. We must go.”
“But I want Sir Abel.”
She regretted that he had not had the opportunity to bid farewell to the man he adored. Still, it was best that Abel had not come belowstairs, whether because he was unaware of their departure or had determined it was easier for all if he stayed away. Regardless, no promises would he have to make that would not be kept, nor would he further impress himself upon a boy who would only miss him all the more.
John glanced at the others who had come to the stables to see them away from Soaring—Lady Gaenor, Lady Beatrix, and Lord D’Arci where they stood just beyond Baron Lavonne. “Why is he not here?” he asked.
How she hated questions whose answers hurt, but though she would not postpone the inevitable with a lie, he was too young and unaware not to be spared the hardest truth. “Though I know Sir Abel would want to see us away,” she said, “he is still recovering from his injuries and, as it was a long day for him yesterday, he is likely still abed.”
“I am not.”
Helene could not contain her startle that was nearly as violent as John’s jerk of excitement. “Sir Abel!” he exclaimed as the knight took the last, halting stride forward and claimed the place that Baron Lavonne yielded to him.
Helene glanced at Durand who sat upon the destrier that he had taken from her brother, Robert, months ago and thought he seemed unsurprised by Abel’s appearance. Indeed, the tilt of his mouth made him appear almost pleased.
“I wish to stay and practice swords with you,” John said with less whine than moments earlier, then leaned sideways in an invitation to be lifted down.
With a slight smile, Abel laid a hand on her son’s leg. “I would like that, but I shall soon depart Soaring myself.”
“Why?”
“Now that I am sufficiently healed, ‘tis time I began retraining at arms, and that I shall do at Wulfen Castle—and more.” He briefly met Helene’s gaze, and she wondered if she was mistaken in believing his anger of the day past had waned. If so, perhaps—
Nay! Accept that it is done, else it will only hurt more in the end, just as it hurts more that he has come to see you away.
Still, for John’s sake she was glad that Abel was here—providing this truly was the last time they parted. And it might not be. After all, as Gaenor and Beatrix resided on the barony of Abingdale, he would likely visit again.
“I want to go to Wulfen Castle and train to be a knight!” John announced.
Abel lifted his eyebrows. “Mayhap one day you shall.”
Only upon stiffening further did Helene realize how rigid she had become. It was wrong of him to give her son false hope, and when he looked to her again, she did not mask her feelings over his trespass—until her son snapped his chin around.
“I could be a knight, Mama!”
Abel’s chuckle made Helene’s heart hurt. “For now, sit tall in the saddle, young John,” he said. “Your mother is depending upon you to keep her safe.”
Her son gripped the wooden pommel at his waist. “I have my sword, Sir Knight.”
“And know well how to use it.”
“I do!”
“Then I bid you and your mother”—Abel looked past John and Helene—“and Sir Durand Godspeed.”
His sisters and brother-in-laws echoed the sentiment and Helene smiled as best she could, then urged her mount after Durand’s while John craned his neck and waved.
Chapter Twenty-One
Wulfen Castle, England
Early November, 1157
Sir Abel,
By this missive, know that Helene and John are safely returned to Tippet where they were eagerly welcomed home. In keeping the vow made you,
I remained in the village three days to ensure mother and son were well resettled. On the fourth day, I departed for the barony of Wiltford, a half day’s ride to the east, where I have given myself in service to the Lord of Firth Castle. Though I do not know how often I shall have occasion to visit the healer and her son, I would have you know of my intention to do so in the capacity of a friend. ~ Sir Durand
Abel did not read the missive through a second time. Though the tidings were welcome in that his old friend had kept his word, the last sentence so quickly stained his gratitude with jealousy that he feared a second reading might cause him to crumple the parchment.
Above the din of sword on sword, shouts, and the grunts of those who bettered the skills that would one day see them knighted, Garr said, “Unwelcome tidings.”
It was not a question, and Abel did not doubt his brother had caught every twitch and jerk that had moved upon his face. However, as there was no reason other than belligerence not to share the contents, he nodded, causing perspiration to more rapidly course his face. “’Tis from Sir Durand. He tells that the healer is safely returned to Tippet and resettled in her home.”
Sword upon his shoulder where he had propped it when the messenger had interrupted their training, Garr strode toward him across the fenced training field. “And?”
“Sir Durand has sold his sword arm to the keeper of Firth Castle.”
“Just over Baron Lavonne’s eastern border, then.”
Abel inclined his head. “Near enough that he intends to visit Helene and John on occasion—in the capacity of a friend, he tells.”
“And that troubles you.”
“I cannot say it does not.”
Garr halted before him. “You still do not wish to discuss what passed between you and Helene following my departure from Soaring?”
“What more needs to be told than what I am sure our sisters have already gleaned and imparted to you?”