by Tamara Leigh
All the more reason to ensure those things were not lost to her.
Finding solace in the knowledge Helene would be safer in the days and months and years to come if these men were given no opportunity to pursue her—and that he would be the one to ensure her good future—Abel turned his left hand around his sword hilt. But he did not free the blade from the scabbard, for a part of him slipped back to that night in the chapel at Wulfen Castle.
Everard had said humility was not yet within the grasp of the youngest of the Wulfrith sons, that he clung to the belief that only he could turn a bad tide and would continue to choose violence when a less deadly means could achieve the same end. He had counseled Abel to focus on his own life and the lives of those he protected rather than the death of his opponents. And after he had revealed he asked the same things of God as did his younger brother—those things yet out of his grasp—Abel had laid Helene before the Lord. But now—
Once again, the villagers loosened their tongues. However, amid their voices another came to him.
“Abel?”
Realizing Helene’s arrival had given rise to the chattering, he looked around as Durand guided his destrier alongside. She sat sidesaddle before the knight, and it pained him that the arms holding her were not his own, and more deeply when she set her hand upon his that had yet to transform the sword into a dispenser of justice.
Helene glanced at the white-knuckled fingers beneath hers. Wishing they instead clasped her hand, foolish though the wish might be, she met Abel’s gaze and wondered at the distance between them. Because of the gratitude that had caused her to embrace Durand? Regardless, it had felt right to do so, and yet when the knight’s arms had come around her, she had longed for another’s arms. But, again, Abel had left her in Durand’s care.
Of course, what was it he had said? He was unworthy of her? Whether or not she wanted him, she would always be safe? Aye, he had given her his word.
She saw Abel glance at the man behind her whose arm about her waist held her to the saddle. A shadow of uncertainty, and perhaps even desperation, upon his brow, he said in Norman French, “They sought your death, Helene.”
“This I know.”
His nostrils flared. “And still they do.”
“’Tis true,” Durand said. “The danger is not past.”
She considered those who were surrounded by men bred to the sword. As she looked from one to the next, the villagers once more fell silent, but it was only Irwyn who would not meet her gaze. Still, though a few defiantly shone their hatred upon her, it seemed a strain for most to hold their chins high.
Helene knew Abel and Durand wished to justify what they believed was necessary to keep her safe, but though she had John to consider, it could not be justified.
She returned her attention to Abel. “It is over. What these men seek now is but the warmth and safety of hearth and family.”
His hand beneath hers tensed further. “If they could, they would yet slay you.” His voice was rough as if it traversed the sharpest of rocks to exit his mouth. “This very moment.”
It was true. Indeed, even if granted leniency, there were some who might risk death before abandoning what they believed was a just cause. Some. “Not all,” she said.
“Then you would have us release them that they might prey upon you and John another day?” Abel ground out.
His mention of her son stole her breath and, as she struggled to replenish it, she felt another’s eyes upon her. She looked to Christian Lavonne. From the concern upon his face, as well as his actions in riding to her aid, he also wished to guarantee her safety. And she could not help but feel affection for this man who had not pushed her to speak where she was not ready.
“As I have removed myself from Parsings,” she said, “I believe I need fear these men no longer.” Pray, let it be so, Lord. “Thus, I would see them returned to their families.”
Christian Lavonne inclined his head, but Abel…
Feeling his roiling in the hand that aspired to crush the steel beneath it, she once more turned to him. Despite the day that slid nearer night, his struggle was visible in the flicker of his lids and clench of his jaw, but he said, “Then it shall be so.”
Helene had but a moment to savor relief before he released the sword, pulled his hand from beneath hers, and turned his face away.
“The healer has spoken,” he said in the villagers’ language. “Thus, your lives are your own—providing you make no further attempt to harm this woman.”
The big man growled, “You overstep, Sir Knight. These lands and its people are not yours to command.”
“Hence,” Christian Lavonne said, causing the dissenter to swivel his head on his thick neck, “I, Baron Lavonne, shall ensure there are no misunderstandings between your lord and myself.”
“’Tis settled!” Abel shouted and urged his destrier aside to grant the villagers freedom. “Those who wish to leave this place whole and breathing, return to your homes now. Those who do not…stay.”
There was a moment’s hesitation as if the villagers were fearful of giving him their backs. Then, Irwyn in the lead, they surged into the opening between Abel’s and Durand’s mounts.
The big man and the aged one brought up the rear, leisurely treading the damp ground, as if unmoved by the urgency of the situation, as if night were not nigh and, with it, the possibility of chill rain that would descend well in advance of their return to Parsings. However, despite their baleful stares that made Helene’s heart lurch more out of fear for their lives than her own, Abel let them pass.
“Near a miracle,” Durand murmured as the men of Parsings headed toward the road. “You know not how much bloodshed there could have been, Helene.”
She peered over her shoulder.
He raised his eyebrows. “This may be the baron’s way, but it is not mine. More, ‘tis not Abel’s.” A wry smile bent his mouth. “See what love of you has wrought?”
Helene feared the flutter in her chest. Abel had heeded her pleas for the villagers to return home unharmed, but had he done it out of love? Though she did not doubt he still cared for her, did his feelings go so deep? Had he meant it when he had agreed she was not Rosamund…not Aldous…not Robert?
…whether you want me or nay…
That was what he had said. And yet he again distanced himself.
“Of course, it is still to be seen if the admission can be dragged from him,” Durand continued, “but do not let his reluctance to speak make you believe less of his feelings for you.
“How do you know?”
“Do you forget, not only do I remember the boy who became the man, I have myself loved.”
He spoke of Beatrix Wulfrith. “And still you do?”
“To a lesser degree, for never was I given encouragement, and I have finally accepted that she belongs to another.” He jutted his chin in Abel’s direction. “For you, ’tis different. If you encourage him and assure him your feelings have not changed, methinks you will not be disappointed.”
How she wished her feelings had changed, for it would hurt her tenfold more deeply if Abel proved unable to accept that she was none other than Helene of Tippet, mother of John and healer.
She looked to him where he stared after the retreating villagers. “I do not know,” she whispered.
“You will soon enough.”
She opened her mouth to question Durand further, but out of the corner of her eye saw Baron Lavonne urge his mount toward them, the slight stiffening at her back confirming she was not the only one to note the approach of Lady Gaenor’s husband.
Though Helene tried to sit straighter, fatigue hung from her shoulders like a great, rain-soaked mantle.
Christian Lavonne halted his destrier to the left of Durand’s. “How fare you, Helene?”
She raised her chin. “I am well. For that, I thank you. More, I thank you for taking in my son.”
“’Twas no hard thing. What will be hard is the ride ahead with Sir Durand and Sir Abel, f
or if we are to ensure your safety, you must be gone from these lands this night.”
Something nearly slipped past her, but it caught on a remnant of reasoning that had yet to succumb to the trials of these past days. “What of you?” she asked.
“I shall journey to Firth Castle to meet with its lord and put this matter to rest—in his eyes that it might be so in his villeins’ eyes.”
Her chest tightened as, with the ebbing of fear, she realized she was not alone in the world. Her brother, albeit unacknowledged, her friend, albeit shunned for errors of the heart, and Abel, albeit once more placing himself out of her reach, had set aside all—risked all—for her.
Mouth once more dry, she swallowed. “I thank you, my lord.”
He shifted his gaze to the man at her back and considered him before returning to her. “Am I your lord, Helene?”
She startled, for there was more to the question than it sounded. However, she shied away from it. “I would return to Tippet if you will still have me.”
“That is not what I ask,” he said low, though without anger or threat.
She longed to deny him again in favor of a better time and place, but perhaps there was none better. “This I know,” she said.
“And?”
Weariness seeking to bend even her bones, she inclined her head. “’Tis so what you ask of me.”
As his shoulders lowered, the corners of his mouth rose. “I am glad to know it. Most glad.” He put his head back and eyed the bits of sky amid the canopy of leaves that, save for shades of billowing gray and black, knew no color. “Those clouds will not long hold their peace. We ought not tarry.”
Helene also sensed the coming torrent, and more intensely than when she had passed through these woods alone.
“‘Tis time I give you into another’s care,” Durand said.
Catching her breath, she peered over her shoulder. “You are leaving me?”
He looked to Christian Lavonne whose face evidenced he had also been taken unawares. “I shall ride with you to Firth Castle, Baron Lavonne, for I am yet in service to its lord and shall request my leave now that I am done here.”
Then he had stayed near for John and her?
“As you will,” the baron said and turned his destrier away.
“Where will you go?” Helene asked.
Durand shrugged. “There is coin aplenty for a Wulfen-trained knight, mayhap even with the king if he deigns to overlook my past offenses.” He swept his gaze to the baron who guided his mount to where Abel and their escort continued to watch the villagers’ retreat. “Of course, there is always France.”
Where he had told her he had family. “I shall miss you, Durand.”
He chuckled. “Fortunately, not as your brother fears.”
“What do you mean?”
“’Tis obvious he is wary of our feelings for one another, for if there was something other than friendship between us, it would be awkward. Far better his sister wed his wife’s brother than her…”
Jolted by his belief that Abel would take her to wife, it was some moments before Helene filled in what he left unspoken—better Abel than the man by whom Gaenor had first been known.
“Alas,” Durand said, urging his destrier forward, “I shall miss you as well, Helene.”
As they drew near the others who had watched the last of the villagers go from sight, Abel looked around and she glimpsed pain in his eyes, though only for a moment, and then it was Durand who captured his regard.
“You intend to ride with the baron to Firth Castle,” he said.
“I do.” Durand halted his horse alongside Abel’s. “Thus, I give Helene into your care.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Abel reached for her.
She went into his arms, wishing she did not so badly want to be there—that she did not so strongly feel the rise and fall of his chest when she settled back against him, that she did not savor the strong arm he turned around her, that she did not relish his breath that warmed her ear.
Despite all, peace swept over her then that was more comforting than the softest coverlet beneath which she might curl in upon herself. Her lids lowered and would not lift again, not even when the first raindrop found her cheek…when Abel drew his mantle around her…when Durand said, “I have done as you asked, Sir Abel. I have fulfilled my vow.”
What had been asked of him? What vow fulfilled?
“Know if never I see you or your lady again, I wish you long life and happiness.”
If never he saw Abel or…his lady again?
A small sound slipped from Helene’s lips as she sought to remain in the world, but she was lost to it, her questions sliding away like the raindrop that became but a streak upon her cheek.
Chapter Thirty-One
He appeared to her amid the din of a night whose edges were jaggedly bright and stingingly wet. But for all that, she could not raise her lids long enough to focus upon his face, not even when the flashes of light followed one after the other.
Something was different, and her body knew it, though it revealed it only when the rain upon her face ceased, the whipping wind became a breeze, and the lightning viewed mostly through her lids softened. The jarring rhythm of a horse’s long-reaching, four-legged gait was now but a memory to muscle and bone. Instead, she was carried upon two legs whose gait was not quite even and held by two arms, rather than the one that had curved about her waist during the ride. Had they reached Broehne Castle?
Straining to lift her lids, she called, “John!” and gasped when her voice returned to her.
“You are safe, Helene.”
Abel’s voice…
“We are returned to the barony of Abingdale and have stopped to take shelter until the storm passes.”
Though soothed by his words and presence, something that went beyond the echo of this place pecked at her slippery consciousness. The smell…
“Find the driest kindling you can,” Abel ordered as he lowered her to the hard ground, and she frowned to hear his raised voice return just as hers had done. “We require a fire. And soon.”
“It will be done, Sir Abel,” answered another.
Grateful it was not she who must seek the least sodden branches and twigs, Helene sighed. Here it was blessedly dry and the cracks of thunder and flashes of light were muted enough that they did not rattle her senses. The only thing worse than what they had come in out of was the smell, though it was not entirely unpleasant. It but reminded her of—
She flung her eyes open, and though her fear loosened its hold when she recognized Abel’s briefly lit face, it tightened again when she glimpsed rock on all sides of him. “Nay!” She tried to rise. “Not here!”
“Fear not.” He gently pressed her back to the ground. “All is well.”
She sought him with her gaze, but darkness had once more descended. “The cave…”
“It is not the same as that one.”
“My father…”
“In the past, Helene.” A heart-stopping crack sounded and light once more allowed her a glimpse of the concern upon Abel’s face. “Not even a shadow can he cast upon you,” he said with such sincerity she feared she might cry.
Staring into the absence of light, she yearned for more flashes that she might see him.
As if in answer to her longing, he drew his hand up her shoulder, over her neck, and cupped her face, then he bent so near that his breath was in her ear. “I am here. Now sleep.”
She wanted to, but when she awakened, would he still be here? Determined to keep him near, she pulled a hand from beneath her mantle and clasped it over his upon her jaw. Then, lowering her lids, she drew his hand downward and pressed it to her heart as he had done hers that first night when she had come to him at Castle Soaring.
“Stay,” she whispered and once again fell under sleep’s spell.
Kneeling beside her, reliving hazy memories of that night too many months ago when it was he who had needed assurance that the darkness would pass, he fou
nd hope in Helene’s gesture and her entreaty that he stay. Perhaps she could, indeed, forgive him.
While the two knights given to him by Baron Lavonne for the return to Broehne Castle secured the horses and built a fire near the cave entrance to better allow the smoke of the temperamentally damp wood to escape, he remained at her side. Only with great reluctance did he finally give up the beat of Helene’s heart.
Sliding his hand from beneath hers, he started to stand but paused when firelight slipped past him and played over her dark red hair. Tempted to touch the wild tresses, he closed his fingers into his palms and was only distantly aware that the right hand was less willing to do his bidding than the left.
“My lady,” he murmured, daring to claim what Durand believed belonged to him and what, he prayed, she had owned to in placing his hand upon her heart. Telling himself he would know soon enough—too soon if Durand was mistaken—he straightened and turned to the packs that had been removed from his saddle. Shortly, he spread the thickest of two blankets near the struggling fire and returned to Helene.
She did not awaken when he eased the damp mantle off her shoulders and examined her gown, which was mostly dry despite heavy mud stains. And when he carried her to the blanket, she hardly stirred. However, when he applied salve to the abrasions on her hands and wrists and wound the latter in strips of linen, she roused sufficiently to speak.
“What was it?” she whispered, then something else that was too murmured and slurred to more than allow him to pick the word “vow” from it.
Did she speak of Durand’s parting words when he had said his vow was fulfilled? Though Abel had thought Helene had passed into sleep, perhaps not.
She made a sound of distress and, again, he assured her, “I am here,” then drew the blanket over her upper body.
He removed her muddied shoes, next the empty sheath strapped to her leg. Pausing over the latter, he told himself that her having kept the Wulfrith dagger upon her all these months represented more hope, then he tucked the blanket around her legs and stood.