The Kindling (12 page)

She knew she should not feel as if caught in an illicit embrace rather than an innocent conversation, but guilt unfurled, and it was only with effort that she was able to keep her feet from retreat.

“I thank you, but nay,” Sir Durand called. “My hunger has already been satisfied.”

A moment later, Helene heard the scrape of a boot as he pivoted. And how she wished she could follow him away from these curious eyes!

Stepping into the hall, summoning a measured stride that she hoped would disguise her fluster, she walked forward.
Despite the invitation to sit at high table, she searched out the lower tables that were occupied by knights, men-at-arms, and others in service to the lord. However, as she veered toward an empty length of bench, Lady Isobel said, “I would be pleased for you to take your ease at my side, healer.”

It could be worse, Helene thought as she changed course, for Sir Abel sat to the far right of Lord D’Arci and Lady Isobel sat to the far left alongside her daughter. Withholding her gaze from Sir Abel, Helene lowered to the bench beside his mother.

Lady Isobel pushed a platter toward her. “I cannot eat it all.”

And Helene did not wish to eat any of it, though the ache at her center did not agree with her head. Fortunately, her belly was not the only one that hungered and the other occupants of the hall soon returned to eating.

“Remarkable,” Lady Isobel said low as she leaned toward Helene.

Hand hovering over the platter, Helene looked around and confirmed she was, indeed, the recipient of that single word. “My lady?”

The woman bent her head in the direction of her youngest son. “I speak, of course, of what you have accomplished in little more than two days that my beseeching and prayers—even my silence—could not move Abel to do. Why is it, you think?”

Helene knew there was more behind the woman’s question than what anyone else might guess and wondered if she was being taunted. However, as when she had previously looked close upon Lady Isobel, she saw no ill in her gaze. Of course, perhaps the woman had mastered what might be but a game to her.

Helene reached for the goblet of wine a servant had delivered and took a sip. Those few moments before answering the lady decided her against playing the game if that was, indeed, what it was. She lowered the goblet. “Though I believe your son wishes not to feel anything for me, Lady Isobel,” she said low, “I think that is not quite possible.”

The woman stared, and this time there was definitely something in her eyes. Disbelief? Dismay? Disgust? “What of your feelings?” she asked.

Helene forced a smile. “Worry not, my lady. I know what can and cannot be.”

She heard the woman swallow. “I am glad you are so wise, Helene. As little as I know you, I like you too well and appreciate too much what you have done for my son to see you hurt.”

Helene’s heart convulsed. Already she was hurt, though it was her own fault. The hope of Sir Abel was but a foolish moment in time. After all, how could one so soon love another, especially a man who had looked upon her with such revulsion that first time in the wood when she had refused to allow him to return her to her son?

Still, as determined as she was to remind herself often of her foolishness, memories overshadowed those reminders, most recently of Sir Abel inquiring after John. Something inside her had soared when he had finally asked, and yet it had also made her ache knowing it would be easier to empty him from her heart and mind had he not shown that he still cared for her boy.

Lady Isobel sighed. “I fear that Abel…is not for the taking.”

Not by one believed to be of lowly birth, and certainly not by one whose past it would be too hard to reconcile with her son’s losses.

“My lady,” Helene said, “I pray you will excuse me, for I have much to attend to this day.”

Lady Isobel looked to the platter. “You have not eaten.”

“I shall later.” She started to rise.

“Will you see us away?” At Helene’s frown, Lady Isobel added, “Baron Wulfrith and I depart Castle Soaring this morn.”

Helene imagined standing among those wishing them a good journey, perhaps even alongside Sir Abel. “As I cannot be certain of what I will be doing when you depart,” she said, “methinks it best I wish you Godspeed now.”

The lady smiled. “I hope we shall meet again.”

Helene rose and, ignoring the eyes that marked her early departure from the meal, descended the dais and left the hall with a heart so burdened that she regretted again and again having agreed to stay.

“I do not understand.” Helene turned in the center of the small tower room and met the lady’s bright gaze.

“My older brother makes use of it when he is at Castle Soaring,” Lady Beatrix said, “but now that he has departed, I can think of no better use than for you to make it your own while you are among us.”

Helene nearly sighed at the prospect of sleeping on a real bed as she had never done—and the blessed quiet away from the murmurings, grunts, snores, and digestion of the many who slept in the hall.

“’Twill be far more comfortable than a pallet,” Lady Beatrix added as if she thought Helene needed convincing. “Too, as the room is but a s-stride and a dozen stairs up from my brother’s chamber, it will be easier for you to tend him.”

As if he needed close tending. As if he was still bedridden and dependent on others to have his most basic needs met. Weeks ago, the tower room would have been of great benefit to his caregiver, but now…

Now it was just kindness and gratitude. However, Helene would not reject it, for it was a wonderful gift, the likes of which might never again find its way to her.

“I thank you, Lady Beatrix. I do not doubt I will enjoy resting here.”

“It meets with your approval?”

Helene nearly laughed. “How could it not?”

“Good.” The lady stepped past her and smoothed a hand over the beautifully stitched coverlet upon the bed. “It has been made more comfortable than when I passed days and nights here.”

Helene frowned. “This was your chamber?”

“Aye.” She looked around. “Ere my husband and I loved, this was my prison.”

Her words surprised, not only because of what they told, but that the lady had shared them. Thus, it was with great effort that Helene kept her jaw from seeking her chest. “Lord D’Arci held you captive?”

“He did, though, in his defense, had I done that of which I was accused, he would have had good cause to do so.” A smile touched her lips only to fall away. “I am wrong to make light of it, for it was a dark time for us both. But now… We are blessed.”

They did appear to be fond of one another, certainly more fond than Helene had been of the man she had wed and had lost to an accident during harvest years earlier. But then, her marriage had been one of necessity—at least, her side of it. And her sweet Willem had known it and assured her he was content.

“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…