The Kindling (31 page)

“I would offer you my protection. I am respected—a village leader these past nine years—and if you were to become my wife, ‘twould put the villagers at ease.”

Years past, Willem of Tippet had proposed the same to her. However, Jacob of Parsings was a different man, nothing at all sweet about him, driven as he was by lust rather than love. Too, when she had accepted Willem, never had she expected to feel for any man what she had felt for Abel—

“How say you?” Jacob pressed.

She nearly laughed. “If you truly think I have bewitched you, why would you wish to wed me? And, do tell, how would it put the villagers at ease when, surely, your continued desire to take me to wife would serve as further proof I am a witch?”

Jacob’s brow bunched as if he had not considered this. But then, perhaps he had not, as eager as he and his daughter were to benefit from stirrings over the old healer’s death.

Dear Lord, what am I to do?

A moment later, Jacob stood near, his hands heavy upon her shoulders. “You
will
be my wife,” he said and yanked her forward and lowered his head.

With her arms crossed over her chest, Helene was pinned and unable to take hold of the meat dagger upon her belt let alone the Wulfrith dagger beneath her skirts.

Think, Helene! Remember what Abel said you must do!

Time and space was what she needed, and surprise would also serve her well. Deciding the last might aid in gaining the first two, she forced herself to relax and, within moments, Jacob eased his hold. Thus, she lowered her right hand, put a forward grip on the meat dagger’s hilt, and thrust herself backward.

She did not gain her release, but she did gain the space needed to put the blade between her and her assailant, only inches from his throat.

Jacob frowned over the dagger, then snorted. “That?”

It was feeble compared to the Wulfrith dagger, but it could inflict damage. “Aye.”

He was not handsome, though neither had she thought him unsightly. Now, though, even night could not disguise how ugly a being he was, this man who sought to force marriage upon her and might possibly debase himself further by way of ravishment.

“Loose me,” she said, “else I shall scream and mark you as one who forces his attentions on women.”

He narrowed his lids. “A kiss is all I want.”

“’Tis not all! And naught of what you want will I freely give. Now let me go!”

Fortunately, from her experience with Robert, she was not caught unawares by how swiftly a man could strike. Thus, when he released one of her shoulders and grabbed at her dagger-wielding hand, she found the opening she needed and twisted away and out from under the hand that yet held her.

For this, I thank you, Robert.

As she came back around, Jacob lunged for her. However, all he caught was her mantle, and she could not have been more grateful that she had not taken the time to fasten it at her throat.

“Go!” She swept the dagger before her. “Now!”

Stunned to find himself holding only her garment, he blinked. “I but wish to give you my name and protection, Helene!”

“I want neither!”

He growled, balled up the mantle, and flung it at her. Its flight momentarily obscured Helene’s sight, and when it dropped to the ground, she once more found herself face to face with Jacob.

She swung the blade and, to her surprise, he yelped and lurched back. A moment later, darkness seeped through the fingers he pressed to his jaw.

“What goes?” someone demanded and Helene looked to where Petronilla’s husband had come out of their cottage, a blanket draped over his shoulders.

Jacob snapped his chin around. “The witch cut me!”

Dear Lord…

Guessing it was only at Petronilla’s urging that Irwyn had interceded, Helene kept the dagger before her as she grabbed up her mantle and backed toward the door.

“Leave me be, Jacob of Parsings,” she said, then thrust the door open with her shoulder.

“Witch!” he shouted.

She slipped inside, barred the door and, praying John was not huddled in fear as when she had been stolen from him, peered across the room.

“Thank you, Lord,” she whispered when she saw he slept. But though she longed to lie down beside him and pull him close, she sank to the earthen floor and pressed her back to the door so she would sooner know if
—when
—those of the village came seeking justice for their departed Amos and bewitched Jacob.

Hoping Durand had received her missive, Helene silently entreated,
Make haste, Durand, else John and I will have to deliver ourselves free.

Indeed, they would leave this night if not that it was so damp and she was so ill prepared. But how she longed to take the chance. Unfortunately, it would not be much of a chance since John would have to be carried—at least at the outset—which would leave them both vulnerable to the night. And so they must remain in Parsings a while longer.

But a little while,
she assured herself.

Continuing to grip the meat dagger, she reached with her other hand and touched the hilt of Abel’s dagger, then turned her thoughts to where John and she would go when the new day was upon them. Back to the barony of Abingdale? One of the villages near the convent she had left so many years ago? Farther yet?

“Oh, Abel,” she whispered, “why did you have to view me through the sins of others?” Dropping her chin to her chest, she let months of stored tears empty from her eyes.

Chapter Twenty-Six

“I care not what any say,” Petronilla declared as soon as Helene closed the door to prevent muddle-eyed John from overhearing their conversation. “I would never believe it of you.”

Having left her son sitting cross-legged before the fire pit, yawning and staring at the bowl of porridge she had placed in his hands after awakening him, Helene motioned for her friend to follow her to the center of the scrap of land upon which her cottage was situated.

Drawing the hood over her head, clasping her mantle to her as she had done on the night past when she had stood shivering before Jacob, she glanced at the lightening sky. Providing there were no clouds in pursuit of the ones that had departed overnight, the sun would soon be risen—and her journey with John begun.

“I thank you, Petronilla, but you must know this talk of Amos’s death means John and I cannot remain in Parsings.”

The woman shifted her blanketed babe to the opposite shoulder and, eyes moist, said, “I shall be sad to lose you as a friend.”

Helene’s throat tightened. Though she was nowhere near as attached to Petronilla as she had been to Sister Clare whom she had also left behind, she had begun to feel a kinship with this woman. “As I shall be sad to lose you, Petronilla.”

“Where will you go?”

“Away is all I know,” Helene said, though once they were distant from Parsings she was fairly certain she would turn toward Broehne Castle where John’s safety and future were most readily assured.

“What of your knight?”

“I do not know if Sir Durand has received my missive, but he will come eventually and, when he does, I ask you to tell him that we follow the road west by way of the bordering wood.” The less likely to be seen.

“Do you think the village leaders will give pursuit?”

“I fear they might, though I pray they will be content with my leaving.” Helene reached forward and laid a hand on the young woman’s shoulder. “I must finish packing our belongings, and you must get your sweet babe inside where ‘tis warm.” And before her husband, Irwyn, awoke and noted her absence.

With a watery smile, Petronilla stepped near and, despite the babe that wriggled between them, embraced her.

Helene sank into the comfort of those arms. “All will be well,” she said.
Pray, let it be well.

Petronilla turned her mouth to Helene’s ear. “Godspeed, my friend—”

“Helene of Parsings!”

Both women startled and pulled apart to face the knot of men who came around the bend in the road.

Too late! How have you survived this long to now fail your son, Helene?

“Oh, bless me!” Petronilla gasped.

Helene peered over her shoulder at the door of her cottage that shielded John from a sight that could prove more terrible than his witness of her abduction.

As the men advanced, she turned her face to Petronilla’s fearful one and said, “I shall go with them.”

“Nay!”

“There is naught for it. If I resist, John will hear and see what I would wish myself dead before having him witness. I beseech you, keep him safe until Sir Durand comes, which he will surely do ere long. When he does, give my son into his keeping—”

“Helene of Parsings!” the man called again.

“Tell him he must see John safely away from here ere he thinks to offer me aid.”

Petronilla’s chin bounced. “I shall tell him, and I will keep your boy near until then.”

Helene believed she would do so if possible, but still there was the woman’s husband to consider. He would not like his wife aiding a condemned woman. But it was Helene’s only hope for John.

“I thank you,” she said, then looked to the men and thought it peculiar that more than a dozen came for her, some carrying sticks and tools as if they truly feared she was so powerful a witch it would require all of them and arms to subdue her.

Wanting them no nearer the cottage, she stepped forward and felt the brush of Petronilla’s hand on her sleeve as if the woman thought to pull her back only to realize how futile it would be.

Though the men could well enough see her, Helene called, “I am here!” and stepped onto the road.

Had she hoped far enough ahead that her surrender would afford her a measure of civility, she would have been disappointed, for there was nothing gentle about the hands that seized her, that wrenched the hood from her head, that thrust open her mantle, that tore the belt from her waist and, with it, the meat dagger.

“Helene of Parsings, you are accused of consorting with the devil,” declared a narrowly built man with wiry gray hair whom she knew only by sight. “For the good of the village and its peaceful, God-abiding folk, you will stand trial for the murder of Amos the healer, the bewitching of Jacob of Parsings, your attack upon same, and the work of the devil into whose hands you have given your own hands. How say you?”

Beginning to perspire despite the crisp morning air, she glanced over her shoulder and found solace in the sight of Petronilla entering the cottage where, Helene prayed, John was yet too drowsy to heed the voices outside that had roused others in nearby cottages.

One of the men shook her, causing her head to snap forward. “Answer!”

“I say nay,” she gasped and gasped again when her mantle was whipped to the side and her hands wrenched together at her back. Then came the binding of her wrists, so tight she instantly began to lose feeling.

Dear Lord, what have I done to warrant Your silence? The back You turn to me? Pray, if You would grant one thing, deliver my John into Durand’s hands and see them safely away.

Rough hands swung her around, slammed between her shoulders, gripped her upper arm when she fell forward, and yanked her upright.

“Walk, else I shall drag you by the hair, witch!” snarled a man whose breath was so foul she thought some sickness must be eating his insides.

Though tempted to keep her chin down, Helene kept it up and did not avert her gaze when those who had come for her looked her way or those who ventured out of their homes stared as she was herded down the road. And she was glad of it when she neared Jacob’s cottage and saw him and Margery standing outside the door.

She looked first to the daughter whose mouth supported a slight smile but whose eyes quickly slid away, then to Jacob whose face was heavily bandaged despite what was little more than a deep scratch upon his jaw.

He stared as hard at her as she stared at him, looking away only when little Tilda stepped outside and, noticing the spectacle upon the road, tugged on her father’s tunic. Then they were past Jacob’s cottage and there were others who gaped and some who jeered.

It seemed an hour before she was pushed ahead of her captors into the village stables, though the walk could not have taken more than five minutes.

“What is this?” Helene turned to face those who clambered into the decrepit building’s rank confines.

“Your jail,” said the one with wiry gray hair, “where you can work none of your darkness on our folk while we wait for the lord of Firth to return to his castle and mete out justice.”

She blinked. She had not expected the villagers to give their lord his due by allowing him to decide her fate, and in that there was hope. Durand served their lord and, surely, had not answered her summons because he was traveling with him. When the villagers dragged her before the keeper of Firth Castle, Durand would be there as well and, perhaps—

“Come!” She was yanked forward and down the aisle between stalls, most of which held the animals for whom the stables were intended, several of whom nickered and whinnied as if in welcome.

The end stall on the right proved her destination, and when she stumbled into it, she was relieved to find it had been cleared of its straw bedding which, though it would have made a more comfortable place to stretch out upon as opposed to the dirt floor, might otherwise have been strewn with the refuse of its previous occupant.

To her surprise, a more gentle hand fastened around her arm and tugged her toward the far wall. The man—Hugh, who had sought and been provided relief from sores upon the soles of his feet two weeks past—unbound her hands despite the protests of several who crowded into the small space.

“Not guilty ‘til found to be,” Hugh retorted, then more loosely bound her wrists in front of her and secured the trailing rope to a ring set halfway up a corner post of the wall, leaving just enough length to allow her to sit if she chose. “She is going nowhere,” he said and turned toward the others.

Flexing her fingers in an attempt to return feeling to them, Helene looked from one man to the next. “You are wrong about me,” she said, determined she would not be cowed into silence. “I am but a healer and Amos’s time was at hand.”