The Kindling (26 page)

“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?”

“Only true if I did not have a care for your wellbeing.”

Having no pouch in which to secure the missive, Abel tightened his belt and tucked the parchment beneath it. “All I require is to gain back what was stolen from me—and to attempt to wear out the knees of my breeches as devotedly as you do.”

“Admirable goals. But once you have attained them, what then? Will you go to her?”

Abel hesitated. “That is as I aspire to do, but much depends upon how well I progress these next months.”

“Then we should all the sooner return to practice.”

Abel pulled his sword from its sheath with his left hand and curled his right hand around the uncommonly thick hilt of the dagger Everard had caused to be fashioned to fit the grip of the injured hand. Because of the dagger’s light weight and short length relative to a sword, it could be wielded in further defense of his person—providing he did not lose control of it as sometimes happened.

Time is my ally
, he reminded himself, only to question if that was so. After all, much could happen in the months ahead as he struggled to reassemble the warrior he had been. It would be far enough time for the man who had first kissed Helene and Helene who had said it was Abel’s mouth upon hers that she preferred, to test the bounds of their friendship—

Finding the point of a blade at his throat, Abel silently flayed himself for allowing jealousy to render him impotent.
I must forget Helene.

Nay, not forget. Put her aside. For now.

Looking down the sword’s length, he met his brother’s gaze.

Garr raised his eyebrows. “I wonder which of our father’s lessons would best speak to this moment.”

“That would be three.” Abel recalled the blade at the center of his chest when, barely of a height to reach Drogo Wulfrith’s hip, he had been distracted by the laughter of his peers who had been given leave to quit the training field ahead of the baron’s sons from whom more was always required.

“For me, ‘twas lesson eight,” Garr said, then swung his sword aside, shouted, “Make ready!” and came again.

Abel fought him off as best he could, which was better than he had done on the day past. But eventually his left-handed grip betrayed him and the sword flew free, leaving him with only the short-reaching dagger to fend off Garr who, to Abel’s frustration, showed more mercy to a full-grown man than ever he had shown to a squire training toward knighthood.

“I am not a boy!” Abel shouted, then ducked beneath Garr’s sweeping blade and, before his brother could reverse his swing, lunged and drew a fine line of blood from his opponent’s cheek.

“Ho!” Garr jumped back and put his sword between them. “I underestimated you.” He drew a thumb down the cut, glanced at the blood, then inclined his head. “It hardly rivals your scar but, certes, you are no boy. Now retrieve your sword and prove just how grown you are.”

Abel could not have brought the weapon more quickly to hand.

Their clash lasted another quarter hour and ended only when Abel’s leg cramped so violently it dropped him to his knees, his bared teeth evidencing the shouts of pain he would not allow to pass his lips.

Blessedly, Garr let him be.

However, when Abel once more gained his feet, his brother said, “We are finished.”

“
I
am not finished!”

“Aye, for now.” Garr turned away.

“You!”

The eldest Wulfrith brother did not look around but called over his shoulder, “Push hard, Abel, but only so hard as benefits you and others.”

“Is that a lesson?”

“Only if it needs to be.”

Abel stared after him, knowing it would do no good to seek to change his mind. Garr was decided and, with the exception of his lady wife, Annyn, rarely deviated from a decision once it was made.

When he went from sight, Abel looked around the training field and considered the dozens of grouped young men separated by fences. Again, frustration rolled through him. He should be on the other side of the sword, not this side relegated to pages and squires subject to the commands and instruction of knights in full.

Such wounds to his pride he suffered each day to find himself an object of curiosity for the boys who had once looked upon him with due respect. However, it had been his choice to train among them, and one not easily arrived at, but which prayer and reflection had prompted him to embrace. Fortunately, with the passing of each day during which he perspired until his clothes clung, and his muscles burned and ached until arrested by cramps and fatigue, he was becoming of less interest.

He released a great breath and, as he resheathed his weapons, saw that the missive beneath his belt had fallen victim to his perspiration, smearing much of Durand’s writing. Though tempted to curse, he did not, for that was another ungodly tendency over which he sought to gain control—with much prodding from Garr.

“I must make better progress,” he growled and, with aching effort to minimize his limp, strode from the training field.

“Our little brother is in love,” Everard said where he stood alongside Garr on the wall watching Abel’s progress toward the portcullis. “Do you think he knows it?”

Garr did not move his gaze from his youngest brother. “Mayhap more the question is: how do you know it?”

Indeed,
Everard mused. He turned to the side, leaned a shoulder against the battlement, and crossed his arms over his chest. “I know from what you have shared about this Helene of Tippet, but more from our brother who is a changed man and, methinks, not only due to his injuries. Of course, it also aids that I have observed the behavior of one brother in love.”

Garr’s mouth grew a smile that Everard knew was the result of his thoughts turning to the woman who had years ago come to Wulfen Castle in the disguise of a squire.

“So,” Everard said, “do you think he knows he is in love?”

“He knows it.”

“Is that good?”

“’Tis, especially if it causes him to sooner don the Wulfrith dagger he eschews.” Garr drew the back of a hand across his moist brow. “For as you have guessed, much of this he does for her when not so long ago he was morosely content to hate away his days.”

“I do not believe he confided that in you.”

“At the risk of souring the wine in your belly, Everard, I know the lengths to which a man will go for the love of a woman. Indeed, if ever you determine to wed, I believe you will go as far—mayhap farther.”

Taking no moment to consider it, which he had long ago determined was the best course of action, Everard said, “My life is here at Wulfen Castle.”

“You have no desire to settle with a wife and grow your own family?”

Conscious of what his face might reveal, Everard shrugged. “I have thought on it a time or two, but that path does not seem cut for me. Too, there must always be a Wulfrith at Wulfen Castle to oversee the good work of providing England with worthy warriors, and I do not forget, as I am certain you do not, that our father was mostly unloved by our mother since he was rarely at Stern Castle other than to beget more sons upon her.”

After a long moment, Garr said, “’Twas more than his absence from our mother’s life that caused the division between them. After all, Stern is not so far that he could not have better divided his time between here and there.”

Everard frowned. “I suppose that is all you will tell me.”

Garr inclined his head. “’Tis not my tale, but mother’s. Suffice it to say, it could be done, Everard, especially as we are three strong whereas there was only Drogo.”

Everard lifted his face to the sun and felt the heat move from his shaved pate to his brow and cheeks. “Methinks it would be a disservice to our young men and their families if the keeper of Wulfen Castle was ever changing.”

“Then you underestimate those given into our charge, for much of the strength of a warrior lies in his ability to adapt to change, not only in his environment but in those to whom he must give a good account.”

Everard pushed off the battlement and clapped a hand to Garr’s shoulder. “It does me good to know you concern yourself with my happiness. However, as you will agree, it is Abel to whom we should direct our efforts. He is as fierce as ever, but not only must he strengthen his leg and learn to compensate for its shortcomings, he must train his left hand do what his right once did. Indeed, it puts me in a mind that, more than ever we have done, we ought to pursue our squires’ facility at arms using their non-dominant hands.”

Though the annoyance that flickered across Garr’s face evidenced he was loath to return to talk of Abel, he turned from the wall and said, “I believe you are right.”

As they traversed the walkway side by side, Everard said, “Certes, I am right. Thus, I shall task our knights with devising exercises to make it so.”

“You are truly content to be the keeper of Wulfen?” Garr nudged him back to where he did not wish to go.

“I am,” Everard said again as his brother preceded him down the winding stairs. “I make no promises, but I believe I shall remain here until your son is well grown and ready to take my place.”

“Providing you do not find yourself in love.”

Glad Garr’s back was turned to him, Everard said, “Little chance of that here—unless I manage to make an enemy of the sister of one of our young men as you did.”

Garr gave a grunt of laughter. “True, or you determine to befriend an abandoned boy and rescue his mother.”

Everard shook his head. “Not my lot, Garr. And, methinks, it never shall be.”

Chapter Twenty-Two

Broehne Castle, England

Early April, 1158

The hard, life-giving work was done, and now a child—a boy of such good size it was most blessed that his mother was no thin-stemmed, bend-in-the-wind flower like her sister, Lady Beatrix.

Breathing in the joy that was a fragrance upon the air despite the scents of pain and straining and comings and goings of others that not even the wide open shutters could yet dispel, Helene felt herself revive after her own hard labor. It had taken nearly all the daylight hours to deliver Lady Gaenor’s babe, but now her nephew who had first come into her hands, was truly in the world.