The Kindling (35 page)

Fatigue tempting her to lie down, she opened her eyes wide, deeply filled her lungs, and pressed her aching shoulders together to ease the hunch from her back. Then she lifted her muddied skirts and ran toward the road she would follow from the cover of the trees as she made her way to Broehne Castle where, she had to believe, she would be reunited with her son on the morrow.

Providing you survive the night
, whispered a voice she dared not allow to accompany her on her journey.

Forcing herself to think ahead to the good so she would not lose hope, she told herself she would survive the night—and whatever else lay ahead.

How long she ran, she did not know, but she stopped only when she lost sight of the road. Cloud-darkened day yet upon her, throat and lungs burning, legs quaking, she leaned against a tree for fear she might not be able to rise again if she sat.

Searching out the wood that, for all the obstacles it presented, provided good cover, she found what she sought. There, visible between two trees, one darkened by rot though it yet stood, the other spreading a protective canopy of leaves over its departed companion, was the road.

Again, she ran, but it could have been no more than half an hour before she heard voices above the pound of her heart and wheezing of her lungs. She stumbled, righted herself, and lunged behind a thick hedge.
Swallowing hard, she peered around it. There was nothing to see, and yet the voices were becoming clearer—voices that likely belonged to those of Parsings, for who else would be out in such great numbers now that night was near upon them and, with it, the possibility of what could be the most fierce thunderstorm of the season?

Stay out of sight and ahead, and they will soon turn back, for surely they will not much longer risk their own lives to take yours.

She dragged the hood over her hair that would otherwise be a waving banner amid the browns and greens of the wood, then gripped the excess material at her throat with raw fingers and resumed her course. Grateful her mantle was of an earthy color and her once bright skirt muddied, she ran opposite the voices and did not look back—until the voices became shouts.

Her pursuers, numbering at least half a dozen and including the unmistakably tall Irwyn, were yet distant. However, they surely saw her as easily as she saw them. And from the angle of their approach, she knew how they had overtaken her. Whereas the uncertain footing of the wood had slowed her, they had come by way of the beaten dirt road. And now that they had seen her and abandoned the road, it would not be long before they had her.

If only I had taken the road. If only I had not wasted precious time burying—

No,
that
she had done right.

Deciding firmer footing would serve her better, even if only to delay the inevitable, she veered toward the road and spared a moment of wonder for how quickly she was yet able to move despite labored breathing and fear bordering on terror.

When her feet met the hard, packed dirt of the road, she released her hold on the hood, reached her legs longer, and wished her mantle flying out behind her would stay as near as her skirts that slapped her ankles and the Wulfrith—

The dagger. Could she use it? If she was to have a chance of getting back to her boy who needed his mother, she might have to.

Dear Lord, save me. For John, above all. For whatever good I can yet do and be.

There came more shouts and she glanced around. The men of Parsings had regained the road and drew near, Irwyn in the lead with his long-reaching legs. Indeed, if she abandoned her flight and all hope with it, he would be upon her before she could finish reciting the Paternoster.

She strained forward, wishing she had been born with longer limbs the same as Lady Gaenor—and greater strength, for the road ascended and she felt the strain in every muscle.

Promising her failing body there would be no rise over this one, she was slow to assign meaning to the vibrations beneath her feet and the pound of hooves, but as she crested the road and began the descent, she saw approaching riders round a far bend in the road.

Lord, I am bound ahead and behind!

Longing for night, no matter how cold or wet if it but afforded her the smallest chance of escape, she lunged to the left. The uneven, obstacle-strewn floor of the wood welcomed her back by once more testing her footing, but she managed to remain upright and moving forward. Still, terror was tight on her heels and she saw little more than what lay directly ahead, barely heard the breath that tore in and out of her chest, vaguely felt the cool air that swirled around her and the heat of her exertions rippling over her skin.

“Helene!”

She gasped. Faint though the voice was, she had heard it. Had she not? Perhaps she merely hoped to hear the familiarity and concern in each sound from which her name was formed. It nearly stopped her, but from within and much louder she heard:
Do not stop! Not until you reach John!
Thus, when her ears again captured her shouted name, she did not turn aside.

But something else stopped her, catching her by the throat, snapping her head back, and slinging her to the ground. The force knocked the breath from her, but more than the need to breathe, she knew the need to bring the dagger to hand, even if there was not enough time or space, even if it would be turned on her.

Desperate sounds struggling to break from her throat, she fumbled at her skirts and closed her hand around the hilt. However, no sooner did she sweep the blade upward than her assailant fell upon her and reached for it.

It was Petronilla’s husband, his long legs that had outdistanced the others, he who had caught hold of her mantle and brought her to ground.

“Give over!” Irwyn barked, nearly making her gag when she finally filled her lungs with air tainted by the odors of his breath and body.

Though she did not believe she had any real hope of escape with the rest of her pursuers soon upon her, she hearkened back to Abel’s instruction on how to defend herself in close quarters—to use whatever means were available to her. As it was her right hand that held Irwyn’s attention where he stretched over her to seize hold of it, her left arm remained free and unguarded.

Helene bent it, put the greater part of her strength behind it, and arced her elbow upward. She did not know if she first heard or felt the crack of the man’s nose, but she saw the spray of crimson, his gaping mouth as he shouted with pain, and the topple of his body that freed her.

Holding tight to the dagger, she rolled to the side. And felt the pound and heard the sound of hooves. Then the voices. Everywhere. Shouts. Grunts. Curses. Cries.

“Helene!”

That
voice again, but it could not be. Telling herself time was better spent fleeing than wasted on wishes, she rose to her knees. And there, heading for her, were the others who came on foot. Just beyond them, sword edges catching what dull light remained of the day, were those who came on horseback—three, four, and more…

There would be no more running, but she forced herself upright and slid her gaze down the unsullied blade to her bloodless fingers that had become one with the jeweled hilt. It would be taken from her as Abel had warned, but not easily.

Drawing a deep breath, she raised her eyes and startled when she saw the scene before her had taken a turn, one so peculiar she could almost believe she had quenched her terrible thirst with an excess of wine.

Those on foot had changed course, veering to the right as if to flee those who were mounted. And, as she blinked in an attempt to set the scene right, three of those on horseback broke from the others and headed straight for her.

Again, she heard her name shouted, this time a moment ahead of movement to her left. She jerked her chin around and saw Irwyn had regained his feet. The lower half of his face and the neck of his tunic wet with blood that ran from his nostrils, he started toward her.

She thrust the dagger in his direction. “Go home to Petronilla, Irwyn!”

He hesitated, and she knew he longed to return to Parsings as much as she wished him to, but still he came, pulling an arm from beneath his worn mantle and, elbow to wrist, dragging it beneath his bloodied nose.

Helene shook her head. “I would do you no more harm, Irwyn. Pray—”

“Aye, best you pray, for ‘twas you who put my family in danger, and now I—”

“Aside, Helene!”

She snapped her chin around and beheld the face of one whose voice she
had
heard, who should not be here, whose teeth were bared as he urged his destrier forward, whose sword was drawn back to deal a blow from which his prey would not rise.

“Nay!” she cried and, a moment ahead of acknowledging the risk of being trampled by the beast’s hooves, lunged at Irwyn and fell hard against him.

Chapter Thirty

Merciful Lord!

As the destrier’s hooves cleared Helene by a sliver’s width—the blade a hand’s width—Abel experienced a moment of wonder at having first acknowledged the Lord in delivering this woman who might otherwise have been lost.

Her attempt to protect the miscreant best left for pondering when the danger was past, he yanked the reins. His mount whinnied and reared, but before its hooves landed, he was out of the saddle, as were Durand and Christian Lavonne.

Abel reached Helene first, but as he bent to pull her from atop the man, she rolled onto her back and threw her arms out to the sides to shield the one who lay wide-eyed and stunned alongside her.

“Do him no harm!” she commanded in the language of the commoner, hair wild about her smudged face, eyes large, fingers yet gripping that with which she had fended off the man she now shielded—the Wulfrith dagger he had given her and feared she would have long ago denied herself for the memory of him.

“Do not!” she said again.

Understanding well the treachery of men—that the one beside her could easily turn the situation to his advantage and end her life—Abel swept his right hand around her wrist against which the dagger’s pommel pressed, wrenched her upright and to the side, and swung his sword toward the man’s neck.

Helene dropped to her knees alongside Abel and dragged on her arm to try to break his hold which, months earlier, would have been possible. “’Tis of my doing,” she cried, “not his.”

He knew better than to hesitate, yet he stayed his hand despite the familiar—near comforting—rush of bloodlust that warned him to
think death
as he stared at the one who ought to be bleeding and spasming upon the ground rather than panting and trembling.

“She…” The man gulped. “…speaks true. I would not have given chase had she not put my Petronilla in danger.”

“Petronilla,” Durand said from over Abel’s left shoulder. “’Twas this man’s wife who stole John to the wood that I might take him from Parsings.”

“John!” Helene gasped. “He is safe?”

“He is,” Durand said as Abel looked to him and Christian Lavonne, both of whom stood with swords at the ready. And well beyond them were the baron’s knights who had surrounded Helene’s other pursuers—men who, believing their actions were justified, would have put her to blade, to fire, to frigid water.

Returning to the one whose life could be easily severed, Abel gripped the hilt tighter and set the point of his blade to the man’s flesh.

“Nay!” Helene strained against his hold. “Irwyn is a good man.”

Abel jerked his chin around. “He would have killed you!”

“He would not have. He but needed to protect his family from sharing my fate.”

Even if this man would not have killed her by his own hand, his capture of her would have aided those who meant to strike her down.

“Pray, Abel,” she entreated, “do not let the shedding of blood be the answer to all the ills of the world.”

Moved by the pleading in her eyes, pained at causing her more distress when comfort was what she needed, he struggled to push back against all that would have him push forward to assure one less threat, one less knife at her back, one less cause for him to rage at God, one less reason to turn his back on the Almighty.

Think life,
Everard urged from afar.

Believe in something above and beyond the swing of your sword,
Helene beseeched from half a year past when he had rejected her.
Believe in Him.

With a growl that, even to his own ears, sounded as if expelled from the throat of an animal of prey, Abel swept his sword aside and sent a prayer heavenward.
Lord, let me not regret this. Let the voices I heed this day be in accord with Your will. Above all, let Your will be to keep Helene and John safe.

When Christian Lavonne stepped forward and ordered the man, Irwyn, to his feet, Abel turned to where Helene knelt with skirts and mantle askew. Realizing she no longer strained against his hold, he released her and she sank back onto her heels and dropped her dagger-wielding hand into her lap.

He returned his sword to its scabbard, then lowered to his haunches and considered her rigid fingers that were as near to being one with the hilt as flesh and bone could come. Had her terrifying flight addled her?

“I thought—” She gasped. “When I saw the riders, I feared they also came for me.” She shuddered. “The water…‘tis so cold even this time of year.”

Anger against those who had sought to harm her once more pushed surface-ward. However, the tears that filled her eyes and glistened on her lashes held him to her side.

Sliding his left hand over hers upon the hilt, he said, “You are safe. Pray, give over to me.”

She lowered her chin and stared at their met hands upon the dagger. “I am not Rosamund.”

That she felt the need to say it cut nearly as deep as his wife’s blade had done. “This I know, Helene.”

He heard her swallow—a dry, labored sound—then she looked up. “I am not my father.” This time, there was anger in her tone. “I am not my brother.”

Though the dagger upon which she had yet to ease her hold was nowhere near his innards, he again felt its cruel edge. “Indeed, you are not.”

Her eyebrows drew near. “You are certain of that?”

“I am.”