The Redeeming (24 page)

She lowered to the pillow and turned onto her side to face her husband. “I will not pray that, Christian, lest there is
a child growing in me.
Our
child.”

He stared at her.

“I will pray that, should our babe be born come spring, you believe me as you do not now.”

He stood from the bed, and she closed her eyes at the sight of him. “We ride again today,” he said, his footfalls revealing his clothes chest was his destination.

Gaenor was not surprised that he left her words unanswered, but still it made her ache.

“We may be gone many days,” Christian said amid the rustle of the clothes he donned. “God willing, when I return, all this will be at an end.”

Her hurt self wanting to deny him a response as he denied her, she reached for the blanket around her calves, pulled it over her to recapture the warmth she had felt in his arms, and closed her eyes.

You are stronger than this, Gaenor. You have to be.

She opened her eyes, sat up, and ventured a look at the foot of the bed. Christian was clothed, his tunic cut of a dark material that appeared to be nearer homespun than fine linen.

Holding the blanket to her chest, she said, “Garr will send men to aid you.” There was no question of it now that Wulfrith men had been murdered and a knight might soon be.

He dropped the lid on the chest. “I do not doubt he will.” If he resented it, his voice did not tell.

“And the king?”

“Henry has promised men, but methinks they will not appear.”

“Why?”

He glanced at her. “Though I do not doubt the king is eager to see my brother’s blood spilled, Robert is but a fly on Henry’s backside when there are matters far more pressing.” He turned a belt around his waist and bent his head to fasten it. “Then there is the issue of my defiance.”

“You defied the king?” Garr had done so in wedding Annyn. How had Christian?

“When my men pulled your injured sister out of the ravine and brought her to Broehne, I did not send word to Henry as was his due.”

“Why?”

He came around the side of the bed, retrieved the boots abandoned among the rushes on the night past, and dragged them on. When he straightened, he met her gaze.

“Though the proof was great that Beatrix had murdered one of my men, I knew that, as inclined as I was to believe it, others would as well. I wanted justice for the dead man, but it was certain that if I had any part in that justice, the conflict between our two families would turn to war. And if still Henry forced a union, there could be no hope for you and me.”

Was
there hope?

“Thus, I determined none would know Beatrix yet lived until I decided the best course.”

“What course did you decide?”

“I did not, for as she recovered, I began to doubt her guilt.” He turned up a hand. “Then she escaped.”

She blinked. “Did you allow it?”

His eyebrows rose. “I can only say I did not prevent it.” He turned away. “Take your ease another hour, then I will send my squire to pack for the ride.”

Gaenor had not realized he was missing the customary attendant. He had to have one, but the young man, whoever he was, had yet to come to her notice. But then, her husband was gone from Broehne more than he was present. And he was going again.

“Christian?”

At the door, he looked over his shoulder.

Why had she called to him? To beseech him to stay, to not allow Robert to keep him from returning, to believe her? All that and more, but it was best said in the fewest words. “I shall also pray that you see me again.”

His brow gathered, and his lips parted as if to naysay her, but realization was not far behind. Without further word, he opened the door and did not look back.

“I
t could be a trap.”

Abel nodded. “That is why I go alone.”

“What of Barone Lavonne?”

That could not be helped. Abel met the gaze of the young knight who, with a dozen men from Stern and a dozen from Wulfen, had been sent by Garr to uproot the murderers of the Wulfrith men-at-arms—welcome aid, for it had allowed Christian and Abel to divide into two contingents and cover more ground.

“Send word that our rendezvous must needs be delayed until I determine the truth of what the lad tells.” Abel looked past the knight to the boy who had appeared as their camp was awakening. Squatting before the fire, the messenger who was aged perhaps a dozen years, greedily tore into the biscuits he had been given.

It could be a trap, but it might also lead to what they had sought these past four days, two of which had been spent slogging over the sodden ground of a summer rain so hard and wet it threatened the harvest.

Most unfortunate, the boy claimed he did not know who had paid him to deliver to Abel—most curious, Abel alone—the whereabouts of the brigands. He knew only that the man was bearded and carried a sword. It was likely a brigand, but whether he had been sent by Sir Robert to bait a trap or sought to undermine his leader could not be known. What Abel did know was that no more Wulfrith retainers would die for that misbegotten knave’s perverse pleasure.

He pivoted toward his tent. “And now I shall require garments most foul.”

N
ot a trap.

Whoever had sent the boy was an ally. However, if he was among the dozens whose behavior spoke poorly of their leader’s ability to lead, it was impossible to say. Most of those idling about the disordered camp wore swords
and
an abundance of facial hair—including the red-headed,
red-bearded
Sir Robert.

As Abel watched the man emerge from the largest of the stained and tattered tents that likely lodged the old baron, he closed his hand around his dagger and calculated its range. Highly questionable. It was for the best, though, since to give in to the impulse to sever the man’s life would surely see Abel surrounded and his own life forfeited.

He uncurled his fingers from the hilt and once more considered the Wulfrith knight who was bound to the base of a tree. Though bandaged from whatever injuries he had sustained, Sir Mark appeared alert and more angered than pained. Obviously, the healer knew her craft.

Sir Robert called several men to his side. It was impossible to piece together the few words that made it to Abel’s ears intact, for whatever the man told, it was not for all to hear.

For the next quarter hour, Abel held his position, committing to memory the camp’s layout and determining the best approach to guarantee his men and Sir Mark did not reap as Sir Robert’s men would reap.

When he had seen enough and was assured there was no evidence the camp would be relocated any time soon, he surveyed the wood around him. He would steal out the way he had stolen in. As he had come on foot, it would take two hours moving fast to make it back to his men, but by noon the brigands would know the Wulfriths’ wrath.

Abel considered his quarry one last time, marked well the betrayers’ faces, paying special heed to those in Sir Robert’s confidence, then started to turn away. As he did so, he caught movement at the tent out of which Christian’s brother had come. He paused.

The shoulder that turned back the flap was followed by the figure of a woman whose hooded head revealed just enough of the hair beneath to give an impression of red. The healer? It must be, though her son’s hair was most fair.

Resentment welled in Abel as, basin in the curve of an arm, she straightened and looked around the camp at those who seemed too intent on what was not being shared by Sir Robert to pay her heed. Here was the woman who, apparently, had left her needful son to tend a sadistic old man. As if at her leisure, she moved unhurriedly around the tent to the rear where, doubtless, she emptied the basin.

Abel waited for her to reappear, but she did not for some time, and when next he saw her, it was not much more than a glimpse of her distant backside as she picked her way through the thick wood.

Guessing her purpose was to fill the basin rather than empty it and the stream was her destination, he wavered between what he knew he ought to do—rarely the wrong course, as taught to him during his training at Wulfen—and what he wanted to do. Accursed woman!

He could have overtaken her sooner since he knew where the outlying sentries were posted but, lest she resisted, he determined that the farther from the camp the better.

Nearing the stream, he circled around to the side and ahead of her. Thus, when she reached the bank, he was waiting. Unwilling to risk hysterics, the sounds of which would carry to the camp, he did not come out from behind the tree until she stepped past him.

Her mouth was the first to feel the weight of his hand, her waist the next. As she cried out against his palm and began to flail, he swung her around, pushed her back against the tree, and held all five feet and few of her there with the length of his body so he would not take a knee to the groin.

“Be still!” he rasped in her language as her slender form arched and wide blue eyes flew over his face. A moment later, her teeth closed on the soft flesh of his upper palm. He was ten times a fool to react as he did, but unaccustomed as he was to those who did not wield blades or pikes or maces—excepting Garr’s wife, Annyn—perhaps he could be forgiven for wrenching his hand away.

She screamed.

Perhaps not. As loud and high-pitched as her cry was, it would alert those in the camp, but if he could quiet her, the brigands would not have an easy time locating whence the cry issued. It would buy him some minutes, and he needed every one of them.

As he sought to close his bloodied hand over her mouth, she snarled, “I will not let you ravish me, cur!”

Having aggressed upon her, and clothed as he was in coarse stinking garments the better to travel without drawing attention, he was not surprised it was not Sir Robert’s enemy she feared but her own.

Recapturing her mouth, cupping his hand slightly to evade her vicious teeth, he ground out, “I am not what I look, Helene of Tippet.”

She startled and her seeking teeth stilled, next her body.

“I am Sir Abel of the Wulfriths. I but intend to return you to your son.”

After a long moment, her warm breath huffed against his palm.

Listening for the sound of the brigands, he slowly removed his hand. It was his first real look at the woman, the hood having fallen down around her shoulders to reveal dark red hair, its uniform waves evidencing it had recently been released from plaits. She was nothing beautiful, but she could be said to be pretty—in a spotty way if one did not mind freckles. He certainly did, though—

“You speak of my John?” she breathed, this time not in her own language, but his.

Unfortunately, there was no time to delve this English-speaking commoner’s facility with Norman French. “Aye, John, the same who thinks to make of me his wet nurse.”

“He is well?”

“Well enough. Now we must—” He swept up a staying hand and listened. There. To the right. “They come.” He grabbed her arm, but as he pulled her forward, she yanked free and stumbled back against the tree.

“I cannot go with you.”

Anger stirred in Abel’s gut. “You choose Aldous Lavonne over your own son?”

Her breath caught, but she put up her chin. “Go now, else I shall scream again, and they will know all the sooner where to find you.”

Abel considered knocking her unconscious and carrying her away, but there were voices and the crash of undergrowth coming from the left. Even if she came willingly, the chance of escape was narrow. Fortunately for him, she was not worth saving. With such a mother, John was better off an orphan.

“God forgive you, Helene of Tippet,” he growled and swung away. As the only way out was forward through the stream, he started toward it.

“Sir Abel!”

He had no intention of wasting another moment on her, and yet he looked over his shoulder.

“Tell my boy I love him.”

“I am no carrier of lies,” he snapped and, with the voices and pound of feet growing louder, splashed through the stream to the opposite side.

As he wove himself into the wood that he wished was more dense, he recalled the last image of John’s mother and thought it strange that her eyes glistened and that where she crouched at the base of the tree she looked more like cornered prey than a woman who had abandoned her child.

“I see her!”

Abel took cover behind a tree. The four brigands approaching from the left reached her ahead of those coming from the right. Seven in all. If she pointed them in his direction, it would take a miracle for a man armed with only a dagger to escape with his life. And for this, one ought never to choose what one wanted to do over what one ought to do.

A gaunt man with wiry hair and beard dragged Helene upright. “Sir Robert is none too happy with you, girlie.”

Abel frowned. She had been going for water. What was there to be unhappy about? Then he remembered the basin she had cradled when she had come out of the tent. It had not been in her possession when she reached the stream.

“What was it made you scream?” the man’s grating voice once more made it to Abel’s end of the wood.