The Kindling (38 page)

She inclined her head.

With a stride surer than when Durand and he had practiced arms at Castle Soaring, he advanced through the mist that hastily parted for him and halted within two feet of her.

As Helene let her eyes drift over the scar upon his face, she struggled to begin the conversation, but all she could say was, “The storm has passed.”

The corners of his mouth briefly lifted. “It would seem so.”

“Then today I will be with John again.”

“You shall.”

Silence again, though this time she found the words that were in need of an answer. “The Wulfrith dagger and scabbard?”

“It is here.” He drew back his mantle to reveal its place upon his belt. “I was gladdened to see you had kept it.”

“I did not mean to, but—”

Sound of movement from the cave averted his attention. “The knights are rousing.” He gently gripped her arm through the blanket and led her to a boulder that, beneath the canopy of leaved trees, would not soon lose the dark color imparted by the night’s downpour.

“A moment,” he said and released her to spread his mantle on the stone surface. Shortly, they sat side by side and, with a jut of his chin, he acknowledged the knights as they emerged from the cave.

Removing their hands from their weapons as he had done when he had seen it was Helene come upon him, they nodded and tramped opposite—doubtless, to relieve themselves.

“But?” Abel reminded her of what she had yet to tell.

She nearly revealed that she had kept the dagger because, in truth, she could not part with it for the memory of him. However, her heart was yet too bruised for her to lay herself so wide open. First she needed to know if Durand was right.

Glad that Sister Clare did not counsel her otherwise, she said, “I have questions of my own that I would ask, Abel.”

He slowly inclined his head. “I shall answer you.”

“Durand’s vow. What was it?”

He raised his eyebrows. “You heard.”

“I did. It has something to do with me, does it not?”

He gave a short, near bitter laugh. “Forsooth, there has been little in my life these past months that has had naught to do with you, Helene.”

Her hope rose, but as it would be too far to fall if she erred, she forced its wings closed.

“Ere you departed Castle Soaring, I knew the terrible wrong I had done you and that my behavior made me unworthy. Thus, I let you go, but not before I asked Durand to stay near you until Baron Lavonne’s return to Broehne Castle when you and John would once more be under his protection.”

Noting that though the sun had yet to appear, the shadows that remained of the night were waning, Helene said, “Durand kept his word and afterward gave himself in service to the lord of Firth Castle. You asked that of him as well?”

“I did not. I cannot speak to his reason for remaining near you, but when I received his missive last November with tidings that you and John were once more settled in Tippet and he had taken work upon the barony of Wiltford, I feared he did it for love of you.”

There had been times in the long, lonely months when she had wished it so and that she could grow such feelings for her friend, but Abel had remained lodged in her heart despite her attempt to send him forth and far away.

“Yet still you did not come,” she said.

A muscle in his jaw convulsed. “I could not. I knew that had I not forever destroyed your feelings for me, I had caused near irreparable damage. Thus, I believed my only hope of gaining your forgiveness, even if that was all you allowed me, was to prove myself worthy. And so, with nightly prayer, I have sought to cut out the festering wound dealt by the brigands; with dawn-to-dusk practice at arms, I have aspired to reclaim the warrior I once was.”

The wings rustled and strained, but Helene was not ready to let them unfold.

“And then, last month, another missive arrived with tidings that you and John were living in Parsings.”

She blinked. “Durand sent word I left Tippet?”

“He did, though it pained him to break faith with you.” Abel looked down and she startled when he set a hand upon her two that she had not realized she twisted amid her skirts under the blanket. “He did it for you, Helene, and I believe he did it for me.”

As she savored the comforting weight of his hand upon hers, she stared into his eyes and hoped—prayed—that at tale’s end there would be a new beginning for them.

“In closing his missive, Durand told that he had planned to leave the Lord of Firth’s service at the beginning of May and that I should do with the tidings what I would. I nearly came for you then, but I was not finished at Wulfen. Thus, I asked him to remain at Firth Castle until I arrived. That is the vow he fulfilled—and fulfilled it well.”

Dear
 
Durand… “Surely you have found it in your heart to forgive him for what happened between your sister and him?” Helene ventured.

Abel did not hesitate. “How could I not? Though he erred grievously, he has done me the greatest service in keeping you safe. Too, as hard a thing it was to accept, I now recognize the vanity of seeking forgiveness for myself in the absence of a willingness to forgive others.”

As Helene searched his face, the first rays of dawn began to dispel the gloom of the wood. “Then you have also forgiven me for not sooner revealing the truth of my birth?”

His eyebrows drew together. “I have not.”

Her heart lurched, but just as the wings eased their struggle to unfold, he said, “What is there to forgive when it was I who made it matter what blood flows through you, when it is I who am in need of
your
forgiveness?”

She felt her chest swell. “Forgiveness is yours, Abel,” she said softly. “All yours.”

She expected him to smile then, but his mouth did not curve in all the places it should. “I thank you, Helene, and I wish that I did not have to speak next what I must, but you should know all.”

A chill went through her. “Tell me.”

“There is still much with which I must reckon, for though I know that what I did in leaving your pursuers’ lives intact ought to have been done more for God, ’twas nearly all for you that I did not slay them.”

Helene nearly sighed, for she did not require him to be a saint. “Some might call it blasphemy, but I do not believe God can be much displeased with the end result, Abel.”

“I pray you are right, but as for Aldous and Robert Lavonne… I know you would have me release them as I have released Durand, but though I aspire to forgive the ones responsible for my injuries and the ill done John and you, my anger and resentment toward them die a much slower death.”

Helene bit her lip. “But it does die, does it not? With time…”

“Aye, time.”

“At Broehne Castle?”

He drew a deep breath. “Though that is as I planned, whether I serve under your brother or return to Wulfen depends upon the reason you left Abingdale.”

She frowned. “I do not understand.”

“I cherish your forgiveness, Helene, but if I am to be near you and have any hope of being nearer still, I must know if word of my coming is the reason you asked Durand to deliver you to Parsings, or if you did so that you might be closer to him.”

For this, he had distanced himself after the rescue in the wood. “Ah, Abel, the reason I left Tippet had nearly all to do with you. Though ’tis true Durand is dear to me and I chose Parsings that John and I would not be entirely alone, my feelings for him have not changed. Friends we remain.”

Once again, his response surprised her, for relief did little more than flicker upon his face. “I am glad to hear it, but now I must ask why you ran from me.”

That she also understood. Had she left in order to protect a heart unable to purge its feelings for him? Or, having purged it too well, had she been unable to bear the thought of being so near him upon Abingdale?

Before she could answer, Abel sighed harshly. “I have no right to tread so cautiously. ’Tis I who should speak first—reveal my feelings no matter my pride.”

Helene waited.

“Though I determined to come to Abingdale to prove myself worthy of your forgiveness, beyond that…” He lifted his hand from hers, slid it up her neck, and curved it upon her jaw and cheek. “…I did it for love of you, a woman I hardly deserve.”

One moment, the wings were pressed tight, the next spread wide and ascending. Leaning near, Helene said, “Then you should know that I kept the Wulfrith dagger ever upon me because, try though I did, I could not part with it for the memory of you.”

This time, the expression of his relief was more than a flicker.

“Last eve,” she continued, “’twas you who came to me in the dark of night.”

Abel’s mouth began to curve. “And your hand that placed mine upon your heart.”

“I am here…” she whispered. “That is what you said.”

“You bid me stay.”

“I did.”

Finally, he smiled. “Now that you have my heart, Helene of the Wulfriths, what will you do with it?”

Of the Wulfriths… Turning her mouth into his scarred palm, she pressed her lips to it. “I will keep it close, for you I have loved. And evermore shall.”

With a groan, Abel gathered her close and held her as she had longed to be held. Then he kissed her. There was no morning chill then, no night’s memory of raging thunder, blinding lightning, and keen-edged rain, no deathly pursuit through the wood, and no long, barely bearable months apart.

A short while later, they were once more astride. As on the day that Abel had broken the chain binding Helene to her dying father and carried her from the cave, he once more set himself the task of reuniting her with her son. This time, however, there were no brigands descending upon Castle Soaring to turn him from his purpose. Thus, it was he who delivered her to John and stood back as she clasped her boy close, he to whom John ran when he wiggled out of his mother’s embrace.

Think life, Abel. Life.

Chapter Thirty-Two

The Lord of Firth had not been pleased to learn of the incursion upon his lands, nor that the knight in service to him had instigated it. But neither was he inclined to take great offense once he considered the circumstances that had delivered to his hall the Baron of Abingdale who was not only a Lavonne but now kin to the Wulfriths.

One who liked his peace well, the Lord of Firth declared that only a fool, which he most certainly was not, allowed pride and posturing to tempt him to take up arms against so worthy an opponent over so trivial a matter. However, that he not appear delinquent in performing his liege duties and to ensure a good end to the matter, he had summoned the villagers to give an account of the charges against the healer.

Those who appeared were of a different mind regarding the triviality of the matter, but they were also reduced to three men, the others who had pursued Helene having made their peace when they had escaped mortal retribution in the wood. Grudgingly, their lord agreed to allow the men to call witnesses who, they assured him, would prove the healer should be returned to Parsings and tried as a witch.

What they did not expect was what the young woman who was said to have come upon Helene speaking incantations over her “potions” would tell. Appearing wan from what was told to be the result of a stomach ailment from which she was slow to recover, Margery had leaned upon her father’s arm until he had passed her into the chair brought for her. Then she had recanted her story, saying she had mistaken Helene's prayers spoken in Norman French for a conversation with the devil.

Ignoring the outraged protests of her fellow villagers, she had next spoken for her father who stood at her back, lips pressed and eyes downcast. Though she had thought his unrelenting pursuit of Helene was proof the healer had bewitched her sire, Jacob of Parsings had admitted to being driven by desperation to provide his younger children with a mother. As for Helene's attack upon him, it was a misunderstanding only. And with that, Margery’s father gruffly requested permission for him and his daughter to take their leave.

Once they were gone, all that remained was to address whether or not Helene had played a role in the old healer’s death. Though the villagers had clamored to convince their lord it was so, he dismissed their arguments with a sharp reprimand, saying that even he knew old Amos had been fast expiring previous to Helene’s arrival. Thus, he declared her innocent of murder as well. With great muttering and resentful glares directed at Baron Lavonne and Sir Durand, the villagers had exited the hall.

All this Christian related to those who joined him at table—as well as tidings that Durand had been granted release from service to his lord and, when he and Christian had parted this morning, had ridden opposite Abingdale.

“Then ’tis over,” his wife, Gaenor, said where she sat beside him.

“It is.” Christian looked down the length of table to where Helene shared a bench with Abel. “Your life is yours to do with as you please, Sister.”

She startled at his first public acknowledgment of their kinship. But it appeared she was the only one discomfited by it. Not even Lady Isobel, who was said to have arrived at Broehne Castle a month ago following the departure of her eldest son and his wife, showed surprise where she sat at the far end of the table cradling her new grandson. Indeed, the smile that rose upon her lips when she met Helene’s gaze seemed genuine.

Had Abel shared with his mother the truth of Helene’s birth? There had been time and occasion to do so since he and Helene had entered the castle walls on the day past and she had been installed in a chamber abovestairs where she had slept away the remainder of the day. Indeed, not until the sun was well risen on this day had she roused well enough to receive Abel, accompanied by John, at bedside and acknowledge that if this was all a dream, it was one come true—even if Lady Isobel yet believed that the rank of the one whose hands in her lap were made calm by the larger one laid over hers was insufficient to merit her son’s attention.

“Helene?” Christian prompted.

Returning her gaze to him, she struggled for a response, but she could not recall what, if anything, he had asked her.