The Kindling (36 page)

She stared at him a long moment, then pressed her parched lips inward and closed her eyes. “Thus, you came,” she whispered in a rush that seemed borne upon relief.

“I did. But regardless of who you are not, still I would have come—unworthy though I am.”

Her mouth quivered as if toward a smile and, slowly, her fingers relaxed beneath his. However, as he began to ease the dagger free, she tightened her grip and opened her eyes wide. “’Tis true my John is safe?”

“He is with my sister at Broehne Castle.”

Once again, she delved his face.

“Helene,” Abel said in as soothing a voice as he could summon, “your son is safe, just as you are—and whether you want me or nay, ever shall you be. I give you my word.”

Her shoulders slumped and she sank more deeply into her heels. “I thank you.”

Abel loosed the dagger and slid what had once been exceedingly familiar to him—and would now be again—beneath his belt. Then he reached inside his mantle and retrieved his wine skin. However, before he could offer it, Helene leaned forward and laid a palm to his shaved jaw that made no secret of the scar there.

Unsettled by her touch, he removed the stopper from the skin and said tightly, “You must needs drink.”

“You look near the same as the last time you came for me,” she murmured.

The scar disagreed that the face of the one who had carried her beaten body from the cave was so unchanged, but he would not gainsay her. Instead, he repeated, “Drink.”

She removed her hand from his jaw, took the skin, and put the spout to her lips.

While she quenched her thirst, Abel searched out the darkening wood and saw Durand stride toward his destrier while, to the far right, Christian Lavonne and his mounted knights held watch over the villagers.

Feeling every day of every month in which he had longed for Helene’s forgiveness and the chance to begin anew, he looked back at her.

“The baron, too?” she said, having followed his gaze to the man who surely waited on her to confirm their kinship.

“Aye. He accompanied Sir Durand to Wulfen Castle to collect me that we might all bring you home to Abingdale.”

She gasped. “Durand is here?”

Her question momentarily stunned him. However, after what she had endured, it was understandable that though the knight had been the first to assure her of John’s safety, his had been but a voice that gifted her with an answer.

“He is here as well.” Abel jutted his chin at where Durand gathered his horse’s reins.

Helene peered over her shoulder. “Durand!” The name sounded from her with such joy it stopped the words Abel had been gathering behind his teeth.

As the knight turned, Helene rose to her knees. “I must go to him.”

To
him.

Something inside Abel began to crack, and out of those cracks seeped regret, sorrow, jealousy, and anger. But somehow he pushed them back before they could widen the cracks and undo him—and others.

Gripping Helene’s elbow, he raised her with him to standing and felt her tremble. Certain her ordeal had left her much weakened, he determined he would deliver her to Durand no matter how it cut him to do so. Thus, he braced her arm with his and led her toward the knight to whom he had likely lost her, the same who, despite his trespasses against the Wulfriths, had not failed her.

But though tempted to hate his old friend, Abel could not. It was he who had asked Durand to watch over her, and if she had transferred her affections to one who had remained within reach—who might have done so even had Abel not asked it of him—he was hardly to blame.

Let her go, Abel—

“Nay,” he breathed. One could not let go of what one did not have hold of, especially after so cruelly rejecting it. Thus, he passed Helene to Durand whose eyes widened when she flung her arms around his neck and began to spill words of gratitude against his chest.

Teeth so tight they throbbed, Abel pivoted and crossed to his destrier. Once more gaining the saddle, he avoided Christian Lavonne’s searching gaze as he guided his mount toward the herded villagers who, despite the farm implements carried by several and the knives and fists of others, would quickly drop beneath battle-tested men.

As Abel neared, a broad man who had only his fists with which to defend himself shouted, “The witch is ours!”

“She is not,” Christian Lavonne said loud, albeit with deadly calm.

The big man turned his wrathful countenance upon the baron. “She did kill a man!”

“And witched herself out of Jacob’s cottage!” called another who, despite the brave declaration, presented a hunted, fearful face brightened by the chill air.

An aged man raised a bony fist. “’Tis the Lord of Firth who ought to determine her fate!”

“Death to the witch!”

“Cease!” Christian Lavonne shed his calm.

The drawn bowstring of Abel’s emotions threatening to draw further back—to shatter the bow if he did not soon loose the arrow of retribution—he halted his destrier alongside one of the baron’s knights and moved his gaze over the villagers who stirred restlessly but held their tongues.

With few exceptions, their faces reflected the realization that the hunters had become the hunted. They feared as Helene had surely feared, felt death’s shadow as she had felt it. And he longed to meet their expectations, for though she was not lost body and soul, her heart was lost to him, and that acknowledgment made him want to strike out at those deserving of anger.

Thus, he took up the silent argument that underestimating the reach of evil was what King Henry had done when, following the attempt on Beatrix’s life, Sir Robert’s punishment had been mere imprisonment from which he had escaped to loose death and destruction upon the barony of Abingdale. Had the king instead embraced death with which he was certainly no stranger, Helene would never have been stolen from her son, beaten, and left to die. Never would Castle Soaring have been attacked and Beatrix’s life once more placed within reach of death. And…

Abel curled the fingers of his right hand inward as far as they would go.

…never would he have sustained injuries that, despite merciless months of training, still made him feel less than whole.

But never would you have known Helene or John. Never would she have reconciled with her father as she rejoices in having done. And now she has a chance at true affection that she might not have had, for Durand would have had no cause to watch over her and prove his devotion and constancy—as you failed to do. Now a husband she may have and a father for John.

All the more reason to ensure those things were not lost to her.

Finding solace in the knowledge Helene would be safer in the days and months and years to come if these men were given no opportunity to pursue her—and that he would be the one to ensure her good future—Abel turned his left hand around his sword hilt. But he did not free the blade from the scabbard, for a part of him slipped back to that night in the chapel at Wulfen Castle.

Everard had said humility was not yet within the grasp of the youngest of the Wulfrith sons, that he clung to the belief that only he could turn a bad tide and would continue to choose violence when a less deadly means could achieve the same end. He had counseled Abel to focus on his own life and the lives of those he protected rather than the death of his opponents. And after he had revealed he asked the same things of God as did his younger brother—those things yet out of his grasp—Abel had laid Helene before the Lord. But now—

Once again, the villagers loosened their tongues. However, amid their voices another came to him.

“Abel?”

Realizing Helene’s arrival had given rise to the chattering, he looked around as Durand guided his destrier alongside. She sat sidesaddle before the knight, and it pained him that the arms holding her were not his own, and more deeply when she set her hand upon his that had yet to transform the sword into a dispenser of justice.

Helene glanced at the white-knuckled fingers beneath hers. Wishing they instead clasped her hand, foolish though the wish might be, she met Abel’s gaze and wondered at the distance between them. Because of the gratitude that had caused her to embrace Durand? Regardless, it had felt right to do so, and yet when the knight’s arms had come around her, she had longed for another’s arms. But, again, Abel had left her in Durand’s care.

Of course, what was it he had said? He was unworthy of her? Whether or not she wanted him, she would always be safe? Aye, he had given her his word.

She saw Abel glance at the man behind her whose arm about her waist held her to the saddle. A shadow of uncertainty, and perhaps even desperation, upon his brow, he said in Norman French, “They sought your death, Helene.”

“This I know.”

His nostrils flared. “And still they do.”

“’Tis true,” Durand said. “The danger is not past.”

She considered those who were surrounded by men bred to the sword. As she looked from one to the next, the villagers once more fell silent, but it was only Irwyn who would not meet her gaze. Still, though a few defiantly shone their hatred upon her, it seemed a strain for most to hold their chins high.

Helene knew Abel and Durand wished to justify what they believed was necessary to keep her safe, but though she had John to consider, it could not be justified.

She returned her attention to Abel. “It is over. What these men seek now is but the warmth and safety of hearth and family.”

His hand beneath hers tensed further. “If they could, they would yet slay you.” His voice was rough as if it traversed the sharpest of rocks to exit his mouth. “This very moment.”

It was true. Indeed, even if granted leniency, there were some who might risk death before abandoning what they believed was a just cause. Some. “Not all,” she said.

“Then you would have us release them that they might prey upon you and John another day?” Abel ground out.

His mention of her son stole her breath and, as she struggled to replenish it, she felt another’s eyes upon her. She looked to Christian Lavonne. From the concern upon his face, as well as his actions in riding to her aid, he also wished to guarantee her safety. And she could not help but feel affection for this man who had not pushed her to speak where she was not ready.

“As I have removed myself from Parsings,” she said, “I believe I need fear these men no longer.”
Pray, let it be so, Lord.
“Thus, I would see them returned to their families.”

Christian Lavonne inclined his head, but Abel…

Feeling his roiling in the hand that aspired to crush the steel beneath it, she once more turned to him. Despite the day that slid nearer night, his struggle was visible in the flicker of his lids and clench of his jaw, but he said, “Then it shall be so.”

Helene had but a moment to savor relief before he released the sword, pulled his hand from beneath hers, and turned his face away.

“The healer has spoken,” he said in the villagers’ language. “Thus, your lives are your own—providing you make no further attempt to harm this woman.”

The big man growled, “You overstep, Sir Knight. These lands and its people are not yours to command.”

“Hence,” Christian Lavonne said, causing the dissenter to swivel his head on his thick neck, “I, Baron Lavonne, shall ensure there are no misunderstandings between your lord and myself.”

“’Tis settled!” Abel shouted and urged his destrier aside to grant the villagers freedom. “Those who wish to leave this place whole and breathing, return to your homes now. Those who do not…stay.”

There was a moment’s hesitation as if the villagers were fearful of giving him their backs. Then, Irwyn in the lead, they surged into the opening between Abel’s and Durand’s mounts.

The big man and the aged one brought up the rear, leisurely treading the damp ground, as if unmoved by the urgency of the situation, as if night were not nigh and, with it, the possibility of chill rain that would descend well in advance of their return to Parsings. However, despite their baleful stares that made Helene’s heart lurch more out of fear for their lives than her own, Abel let them pass.

“Near a miracle,” Durand murmured as the men of Parsings headed toward the road. “You know not how much bloodshed there could have been, Helene.”

She peered over her shoulder.

He raised his eyebrows. “This may be the baron’s way, but it is not mine. More, ‘tis not Abel’s.” A wry smile bent his mouth. “See what love of you has wrought?”

Helene feared the flutter in her chest. Abel had heeded her pleas for the villagers to return home unharmed, but had he done it out of love? Though she did not doubt he still cared for her, did his feelings go so deep? Had he meant it when he had agreed she was not Rosamund…not Aldous…not Robert?

…whether you want me or nay…

That was what he had said. And yet he again distanced himself.

“Of course, it is still to be seen if the admission can be dragged from him,” Durand continued, “but do not let his reluctance to speak make you believe less of his feelings for you.

“How do you know?”

“Do you forget, not only do I remember the boy who became the man, I have myself loved.”

He spoke of Beatrix Wulfrith. “And still you do?”

“To a lesser degree, for never was I given encouragement, and I have finally accepted that she belongs to another.” He jutted his chin in Abel’s direction. “For you, ’tis different. If you encourage him and assure him your feelings have not changed, methinks you will not be disappointed.”

How she wished her feelings
had
changed, for it would hurt her tenfold more deeply if Abel proved unable to accept that she was none other than Helene of Tippet, mother of John and healer.

She looked to him where he stared after the retreating villagers. “I do not know,” she whispered.

“You will soon enough.”

She opened her mouth to question Durand further, but out of the corner of her eye saw Baron Lavonne urge his mount toward them, the slight stiffening at her back confirming she was not the only one to note the approach of Lady Gaenor’s husband.

Though Helene tried to sit straighter, fatigue hung from her shoulders like a great, rain-soaked mantle.