The Kindling (28 page)

The pieces came together so loudly in Helene’s mind that she half expected the two women to swing around and search her out among the shadows.

Abel is coming. Here. Two months.

Only vaguely aware of milk sloshing over the cup’s rim and wetting her hand, she backed herself against the wall, closed her eyes, and told herself that the night’s revelation need not concern her. Only on occasion was she summoned to Broehne Castle, and rarer yet were the times John accompanied her. But that was no argument since the knights and men-at-arms in service to the baron did not confine themselves to the castle. After all, it was their duty to patrol and protect all of the barony, and that included the village of Tippet.

“John,” she breathed. Though Abel was not yet gone from her son’s thoughts, he
was
fading—slowly, but going the way of all things too long absent.

As Helene lifted her lids, she saw that Lady Beatrix and her sister-in-law had disappeared. Had they told more when Helene had gone into herself? More that would have aided in determining what she must do to protect her son’s heart as well as her own?

In the next instant, she almost laughed, for she was not so ill prepared that she had not considered alternatives to remaining upon the barony of Abingdale. And there was one in particular in which Durand might aid her. Turning her thoughts to her friend who, several times these past months, had journeyed to Tippet from a neighboring barony, she recalled the kindness and regard he had shown her son during those brief visits that, just as Baron Wulfrith had done, had impressed upon her the importance of a man in John’s life. But, again, not just any man and, with Abel coming to Abingdale, not one who dwelt here.

Pushing off the wall, Helene determined she would send word to Durand. Though she did not doubt he would come as soon as he was able to take leave of his lord, there was the question of whether or not he would grant the boon she had hoped she would not have to ask of him. Still, she would ask and, if God willed, He would provide the answer she sought.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Wulfen Castle, England

April, 1158

Sir Abel,

It is many months since I sent word of having kept my vow to see the healer safely returned to her village. Now, in sending this missive and one to Baron Lavonne, I break faith with Helene who is no longer of Tippet. Days past, she requested I attend her, whereby, upon my arrival, she asked a boon of me that I granted when she would not be persuaded otherwise. Thus, I escorted her and her son to the barony of Wiltford and settled her in the village of Parsings that lies two leagues distant from Firth Castle where I serve. As Parsing’s healer is aged and may not be much longer in this world, methinks Helene will quickly prove her skills and find her place amongst her new neighbors. As for John, he is understandably upset at leaving his home. However, when I visited him and his mother this day, he was in better spirits and told of having made a friend—a girl adept at wielding a stick against the wooden sword you fashioned for him. All that told, I must reveal that, previous to granting Helene this boon, I had informed my liege of my intention to leave his service at the beginning of May, and I shall yet do so if you do not reply. Thus, I end this missive with these words: Do with this what you will. ~ Sir Durand

The missive told no more than the first time Abel had read it, and though he was tempted to read it through a third time, he slowly rolled it into the coil that had been delivered to him.

“Your frown does not bode well, brother,” Everard said from where he reclined at the large table across the solar, hands clasped behind his neck as he waited to resume a conversation that had hardly begun before being interrupted by the missive’s delivery.

Foregoing the temptation to deny the answer that was asked of him that he might all the sooner attend to the tidings imparted by the parchment, Abel met his brother’s gaze. “Sir Durand tells that, at the healer’s request, he has taken her and her son to the village of Parsings upon the barony of Wiltford where they now reside.”

Everard sat forward and propped his elbows on his knees. “You think she caught word you are bound for Broehne?”

If she had, her message was clear. Trying not to think too deeply on it for what more his face would reveal, Abel focused intently on his brother. He did not like that Everard knew more about Helene than he ought to know. Indeed, at times like these, he almost wished more dissent existed between their family members—such that they did not care much for one another. But they did, and this was what one reaped of such familial ties that their mother would call blessed—Lady Isobel who, as reported in the missive received two days past announcing the birth of Gaenor’s son, was ill but recovering.

“As I did not ask Baron Lavonne to reveal my request to serve in his household, neither did I ask him to keep it in confidence, so I cannot know if she was told.”

Everard nodded. “Still you are determined to test your skills outside of Wulfen?”

“I am.” And not only because his decision to do so had also been meant to bring him in contact with Helene and John. Though hardly newly knighted, after such training as he had received these past months, it was upon him to prove the value of the long days that began and ended in the absence of sunlight, just as it was upon the young men who earned their spurs beneath the tutelage of the Wulfriths.

“You will leave Wulfen this day?” Everard pressed.

Though Abel’s first thought had been to hasten to the village of Parsings, he knew he was not yet ready to face Helene, especially if her leaving was a result of his coming. And as Durand seemed willing to serve as her protector a while longer, he said, “Nay, the time is not right. Thus, I ask that we speak later on whatever it was you wished to discuss so I might send the messenger back to Sir Durand with a reply.”

“Certainly.”

Abel pivoted and thrust aside the curtains that separated the solar from the great hall that would soon brim with boys and young men in dire need of sustenance after another grueling day of training.

A half hour later, the messenger’s thirst and hunger quenched in Wulfen’s kitchens, the man rode into the lowering of day with Abel’s request that Durand stay near Helene until the first of June.

Helene awakened him and, for a moment, he nearly believed she had stepped out of his dream and into his chamber—that his hand clasped hers to his chest, that her voice whispered in his ear, that her darkest blue eyes beheld his. But it was not so, and he deeply felt the loss.

Exchanging the dark of his room for the dark behind his lids, Abel summoned an image of the woman whose absence he keenly endured. However, too soon fatigue caused her face to waver and he felt himself sink into a softer mattress and smelled lavender and…blood.

He thrust up to sitting and searched the darkness that hung as heavy over the chamber as the chill.

I am at Wulfen. I am alone. Rosamund is but a plague of the mind.

Still, he lifted his tunic and slid his fingers over the aged scar, next the more recent one that had been tended by…

“Helene,” he breathed and felt his muscles and senses begin to relax in the knowledge that, by the eve of the day ahead, Durand would be in receipt of the reply that would ensure her and her son’s safety until Abel was ready to leave Wulfen Castle.

Seven weeks, he told himself. Then he could seek her out and, God willing, set things right. However, though the five arduous months behind him ought to make the weeks ahead seem like naught, they felt like more, for there was still much to master to reach the place where he was worthy of Helene—skilled and strong and free of the anger against Aldous and Robert Lavonne that had festered into the hatred that had granted him license to lay their sins upon an innocent woman.

Still, she might reject him as he had rejected her. He might lose her to another in the space between.

No less than you deserve.

Abel dropped his feet to the floor and, treading upon the crisp rushes Helene would have insisted on replacing, crossed to the door. The corridor was nearly as dark as his chamber, but there was enough light from a single surviving torch to illuminate his way to the chapel where a half dozen melted and pooled candles flickered before the altar.

Not until he knelt there with less discomfort than he had on months past did he sense what he should have known the moment he entered.

Here he was not alone. And he did not think it was the priest who shared the chapel with him, nor a devout squire. The one who lurked had far more presence—a deadly one.

“If Garr were yet at Wulfen,” Everard spoke from the left-hand side of the chapel, “he would be pleased to find his brothers willingly at prayer in the blackest hours of morn.”

Easing his tense jaw, Abel looked over his shoulder, but the shadows concealing his brother were impenetrable. “I do not doubt you know the reason I am here,” he said. “Unfortunately, I enjoy no such advantage over you.”

Everard’s booted footsteps preceded his appearance, which was more immediately apparent when candlelight ran over his shaved head. “It is no rarity for me to rise before others and begin my day in this place.” He halted alongside his brother.

Though Abel’s pride railed at being looked down upon and demanded that he gain his feet, he reminded himself that not only was Everard kin, but to be humble was a good thing to wield against a pride as sizable as his own—something Garr had tried to impress upon him over the years and, more determinedly, these past months on the occasions he journeyed from Stern Castle to Wulfen.

Learn to humble yourself before God,
his older brother’s words resounded through him,
and you will learn to humble yourself before men worthy of being shown deference.

It was the same lesson Garr imparted to the young men he had trained over the years, and yet it always seemed out of Abel’s reach—in opposition to what he was certain had kept him alive every time he swung a blade.

“Are you yet dissatisfied with your progress?” Everard jolted him back to the present.

Was this the matter he had wished to discuss before the messenger had delivered Durand’s missive? “I could be better pleased,” Abel said. “Though I am hardly the wounded warrior I was upon my return to Wulfen, neither am I as capable of defending my person and others as once I was.” He glared up at Everard. “Do you intend to strain my neck indefinitely or join me at prayer?”

“My prayers have been prayed.” Still, Everard knelt but, rather than bow his head, said, “I believe you are ready.”

Abel narrowed his eyes. “Of what do you speak?”

“‘Tis time you relieved those of our knights who took on the burden of training your squires in addition to their own.”

Abel stiffened. It was not the first time Everard had pressed him to resume his duties—twice last month, in fact—but under the present circumstances…

“Do you forget, Everard, I depart Wulfen seven weeks hence.”

“I do not forget. Indeed, I am most aware. And because you are leaving, ‘tis of greater import that your squires once more avail themselves of your training.”

Abel turned his face toward the altar and grappled with what was left unspoken that truly did not require words. Had he not decided to seek service with his brother-in-law, the next step would have been to resume training his charges. However, the possibility of being bettered by young men made his pride rear. But that was Everard’s point. Though training others would reinforce and strengthen Abel’s own skills, it was second to the matter of his pride. If he was to be truly humbled, it would be beneath the blade of one of far less experience—one he had himself trained from a boy who could yet be moved to tears to a young man ready for battle.

“And so?” Everard pressed.

Was he emotionally ready to stand in so esteemed a position of authority, one that would be difficult—perhaps even impossible—to maintain? All these months, he had ground his teeth and quieted his tongue as best he could while Everard and Garr and others devised ways to strengthen the left hand that had been more than adept at wielding a dagger. In the end, the simplest means had yielded the best result—tying his disabled right hand behind his back during practice, thereby forcing him to think only with the one curled around the sword hilt.

As for his injured leg, one humiliating fall after another and another and untold others had motivated him to refine the balance required to keep both feet firm beneath him. Now, despite the limp by which he would ever be known, the leg was nearly as strong as the other.

He nearly laughed when, in taking stock of his injuries, his scarred face came to mind. Unlike the other injuries, it was of good benefit, as evidenced by the awe with which the young men regarded him when their eyes lingered too long upon his visage that served as visual proof he was no stranger to defending life and limb and, more, surviving. Still, his face was much improved as Helene had said it would be with proper care and the passage of time. Of course, a good portion of the ridged flesh was concealed beneath his beard, the growth of which he had hardly checked since the battle at Soaring.

“Your silence begins to worry me,” Everard said, “as it causes me to question how greatly diminished that lofty confidence of yours may be.”

Abel looked around. “Mayhap I merely practice at being humble.”

Everard snorted, a rare, unexpected sound. “Though you make progress there as well, I do not think mastery of humility when called for is yet within your grasp. Indeed, I would not be surprised if, when next you find yourself in battle, you once again determine that only you can turn a bad tide—and with violence when a less deadly means could more easily name you the victor.”

Abel also thought it likely, for it was no easy thing to change one’s person merely because one wished to. But as this was not a conversation he wanted to pursue any more than he had wanted to pursue it with Garr, he said, “All the more reason to submit to practice,” and, feeling the coarse hairs of his beard beneath the hand he had not realized he had put to his face, added, “Methinks it is time I also submitted to a shave.”