The Kindling (7 page)

Blessedly, it was not much longer before the meal ended and the thump of goblets, scrape of benches, and pound of feet rivaled the voices of those whose bellies had been filled.

Helene stood.

“Helene,” Lady Beatrix called as she approached, “pray, join my mother and me at hearth.”

Could she refuse? “I had thought to see to Sir Abel.”

The lady halted before her. “I know my brother’s mood well enough that I can say with certainty he will not mind another half hour of solitude.” She hooked arms with Helene. “Come.”

A deeply held breath served Helene well as she was led off the dais and across the hall that was fast emptying to accommodate those who were moving the tables and benches against the walls to make room for pallets upon which the castle folk would sleep later this eve.

Ahead of Lady Beatrix and Helene’s arrival at the cavernous fireplace, two servants hastened to arrange five chairs in a half circle before the hearth.

Helene groaned inwardly. It was asking much for her to yield a half hour to Lady Beatrix and her mother, but others were to join them as well?

Accompanied by her son, Baron Wulfrith, Lady Isobel reached the hearth first. As she lowered onto a cushioned seat, she gestured for Helene to sit beside her.

Helene hesitated, for the chair she indicated was centered between the others. Such regard was unknown to her, and she could not help but wonder how she would feel had her life been far different and she had become accustomed to such privileges.

Forsooth, I would not be me. I would not be John’s mother.

She glanced past the lady, but already the woman’s son had claimed the chair on that side of her. And Lady Beatrix and her husband were taking the chairs to the right. Grudgingly, she seated herself between mother and daughter and focused on the fierce flames that were just distant enough to make the heat tolerable.

“Something is amiss?” Lady Beatrix asked, leaning toward her.

Realizing she had allowed her thoughts to run across her face, Helene said, “I am missing my son.”

“I am sure my daughter, Lady Gaenor, is looking after him well,” Lady Isobel said.

Helene was surprised that she knew of the arrangement made for John’s care. Baron Wulfrith had surely told her, but it was curious that she had deigned to listen. Perhaps, for all of Lady Isobel’s noble bearing, she was not as untouchable as many of the noblewomen who had lived among the sisters of the convent.

Helene inclined her head. “Doubtless, you are right, my lady.”

But for the work of servants, silence crept in and, despite its discomfort, it gave Helene hope that she might all the sooner excuse herself.

“I am told,” Lady Isobel said, “’twas you who cared for that most foul being, Aldous Lavonne.”

She had hoped too soon. Reminding herself that Isobel Wulfrith had cause to dislike the old baron and was too human to soon put aside his sins against her family, Helene said, “Aye, Baron Lavonne gave his father into my care once Lord D’Arci withdrew his physician’s services—”

“With good reason,” the lady said. “The old baron sought my daughter’s death.”

Helene glanced at the physician. “I understand Lord D’Arci’s objections to tending him.”

“And you had no such objections yourself?” Lady Isobel asked.

Though Helene had been apprehensive—almost fearful—when the old baron’s care had fallen to her, she had also been quietly pleased, but that she could not tell. “Aldous Lavonne was in much pain and required regular care. Thus, it was my duty to Baron Lavonne to travel from my village to the castle near every day to tend his father.”

The lady’s compressed lips parted. “A most difficult and unwelcome task with a man as vile as he.”

Helene felt a spurt of resentment. “Nay, he—” She reined in her vehemence with another reminder of all the Wulfriths had suffered at the hands of her father and brother. “’Twas much work,” she amended, “but I was glad to ease his suffering.”

“I am certain Helene did not abide his abuse,” Lord D’Arci said.

Helene looked to him. “Though ‘tis true he was coarse, we came to an understanding, and it was well enough between us.” They did not need to know how cutting and cruel her father had been in the beginning, well before he had realized she was the child he had made with a commoner and sent away upon her mother’s death.

Silence again. And again it was broken by Lady Isobel. “For a man in as precarious a state of health as he is said to have been, ’tis hard to believe he allowed his illegitimate son to carry him away from the comfort of home.”

“He was eaten with a desire for revenge, Mother,” Baron Wulfrith spoke for the first time, “and never more so than when Christian Lavonne refused to reject the king’s decree that our families’ warring be remedied through marriage.”

Lady Isobel eyed Helene. “Do you think he went willingly with Sir Robert?”

There was plenty of air to breathe, and yet it felt scarce. As much as Helene preferred not to answer, it seemed wrong to refuse to fill in the places of a story these people had been forced to live and for which they suffered even now with regards to Sir Abel.

“During that first sennight,” she said, “ere camp was broken time and again that the brigands might stay ahead of their pursuers, the old baron seemed pleased to be away from Broehne Castle.” And had crowed over his imaginings of how his youngest son must suffer at being bested by his illegitimate brother and infirm father.

“And after that first s-sennight?” Lady Beatrix asked.

“His condition worsened. That was when he began to regret allowing Sir Robert to take him from his home.”

“Because of his own discomfort,” Lady Isobel said.

She was mostly right, but still there had been moments when his regret had seemed more for Helene’s suffering than his own, especially after the beating Sir Robert had given her when—

“I am told you tried more than once to escape,” Lady Beatrix said.

Unsettled at having the woman’s thoughts flow with her own, Helene hesitated. “Though I did not wish to leave the old baron without care, I feared for what had become of my son in my absence. Thus, I did seek to escape.”

“And nearly succeeded,” Lord D’Arci said.

When Sir Abel, lurking in the wood, had intercepted her flight. When he had accused her of forsaking her son for Aldous Lavonne. Before the brigands had come for her and she had refused to flee with Sir Abel. Before her would-be savior had known what was concealed beneath her skirts.

“’Tis so. I wove strips of cloth through the chain that ran between my ankles so it would not clatter and alert the brigands.”

“Clever,” Lady Isobel murmured.

“Desperate,” Helene said. “I made it to the stream ere Sir Abel appeared. Unfortunately, disguised in filth as he was, I believed I had as much to fear from him as the others and cried out when he took hold of me.”

“Alerting the brigands,” said Baron Wulfrith.

She glanced at him. “Aye, ’twas too late for me, bound as I was and given only to short steps.”

“But not too late for Abel,” Lady Beatrix said.

Helene nodded. “When I refused to go with him, he departed.”

“Certes,” Lady Beatrix said, “he did not know of the chain that bound you.”

“He did not.” Still, she was fairly sure he had watched from afar as the brigands had looked beneath her skirts that they might know the means by which she had made it so far from camp.

Lady Beatrix touched Helene’s hand. “What did Sir Robert do when he recaptured you?”

Helene glanced at the slender fingers that rested upon the backs of her own. Though the gesture seemed reassuring, the kindness further unsettled her.

Only then realizing how quiet it had become in the great hall, the servants having made quick work of their tasks, Helene told herself there was no reason not to reveal what had happened though all evidence had faded from her face and arms and was no longer felt in the simple acts of walking and sitting. Still, she struggled for words.

“He beat her,” a voice sounded across the hall. “
That
is what he did.”

Helene looked around with the others and saw the dark-haired man who had propped a shoulder to the wall at the entrance to the kitchen passageway.

Capturing her gaze, he said. “Not once, but twice.” He raised his eyebrows. “Is that not true?”

As she stared, he straightened, turned, and disappeared down the passageway.

Despite the warmth of the fire, Helene felt chilled. “Who was that?”

“Sir Durand,” Lord D’Arci said dryly, “also your patient.”

Of course it was him. Helene might have laughed if not that the knight’s words had so unsettled her. “He spoke as if he witnessed Sir Robert’s wrath.”

“He did,” Baron Wulfrith said.

She turned to him. “He could not have. Never have I seen him.”

“He was there.”

He had to be wrong. And yet—

She rose so suddenly that her chair scraped. “Forgive me, but I must needs speak with him.” Without waiting to be granted leave, she hastened across the hall and down the passageway to the door that yielded to the thrust of her hand.

The half dozen servants who were cleaning and preparing the kitchen for the next day’s meals paused to stare at her.

Ignoring them, Helene fixed on the one occupant of the breathtakingly heated room who was not here to serve but to be served.

Standing alongside an immense table in the center of the kitchen, Sir Durand picked a morsel from a trencher and looked up as he tossed it in his mouth.

She stood taller. “Aye, twice. That is right,” she answered the question to which he had not awaited a response. “But you were not there, so you cannot know.”

Also paying no heed to the servants who had yet to resume their duties, he said, “I was there, Helene of Tippet.”

He knew her name. But then, as he was her patient, Lord D’Arci had surely told him. She crossed the kitchen, halted before him, and peered up into a face that might be handsome if not that it was drawn as if by long suffering and…bitterness?

She pushed aside her pondering. As thought, it was not a face she knew and, set with eyes of an unusual gold color, it would not be easily forgotten. “You cannot have been there, Sir Durand, for ere this day, never have I laid eyes upon you.”

He looked around the kitchen, causing the servants to return to their tasks, then fed himself another morsel. “That is because I did not wish eyes laid upon me. However, I am fair certain you did see me at a distance.” He licked thumb and forefinger clean of sauce and put his chin forward. “Though ‘tis understandable if you do not recognize me now that I am shaven.”

She tried to imagine him bearded, but even if his hair was also unkempt about his face, still she would know him by his eyes—providing he was near enough for the color to be seen. “At what distance would I have seen you?”

“A goodly distance.”

“At which camp?”

“No camp. Always, I was most careful not to be seen by the brigands.”

Maddening! This knight who had killed Sir Robert was surely aligned with those who had battled the brigands, and yet all he had done was observe their movements? Had seen her beatings and the only action he had taken was to now bear witness to them?

Heart beating so fiercely it made her feel unwell, she said, “Why would you simply stand by and watch?”

He pushed the trencher away. “I had my reasons.”

Though not moved to aggression unless first transgressed upon, this man who exuded arrogance alongside what seemed resentment, made her palm tingle as if already she had struck his clean-shaven jaw. “Pray, explain your reasons, Sir Knight.”

He heaved a breath. “’Tis late, and this is hardly the place to have such a conversation.”

“Then you should not have begun such a conversation!”

“You are right.” He turned and strode toward the door that accessed the garden.

Though Helene knew she would do well to let him walk away, she hurried after him and caught his arm as he reached for the door handle. “We are not done, Sir Durand.”

He pivoted and glanced at her hand upon him. “Aye, we are, and now I wish you good eve that I might take a walk ere bedding down for the night.” He pulled free.

Something possessed Helene, the presence of which she had not felt in the many weeks since she had been delivered from Sir Robert’s cruelty. All the times she had refrained from striking her captor for fear of losing her life now seeking release, she struck that smooth jaw with such force she stumbled back.

It fell so silent in the kitchen that the only sound to be heard was remembrance of the slap she had dealt him. She stared at him where he had not moved, neither to retaliate nor test the flesh that bore the imprint of her hand.

“Helene?”

The voice at her back was known to her as it was surely known to Sir Durand whose eyes widened an instant before he threw open the door and slammed it behind him.

Trying to slow her breathing before braving the woman, Helene did not move.

“Return to your duties,” Lady Beatrix instructed the servants.

Slowly, Helene came around and saw that the lady stood just inside the kitchen, her slight figure strangely sure and comfortable in this place.

“My lady,” Helene began. “I am sorry. I…”

Lord D’Arci’s wife smiled, though with something like sorrow.

Helene started to grip her hands in her skirts, but the one that had dealt the offense burned. “I know ’twas wrong of me to strike a knight, and I regret I did not control myself, but…” She splayed her hands. “I fear I have no pardonable defense, my lady.” She was, after all, but a healer.

Amid the servants’ din, Lady Beatrix crossed the kitchen and halted before her. “I am sure he deserved it. Indeed, methinks ‘tis likely what he sought.”

Helene blinked. “I do not understand.”

The lady sighed. “His sufferings are d-different from Abel’s, but he suffers nonetheless, and all the more deeply while he remains at Castle Soaring.”

“He is in service to Lord D’Arci?”

The lady’s eyes widened. “Nay, though once he was in service to my brother, Baron Wulfrith.”

“Then why does he not leave? He is well enough healed, is he not?”