Stephen must have sensed her dismay, for he swiveled to face Helena squarely. “You cannot deny you intend to find your father’s murderer.”
“No,” she said stiffly, aware that Robert was watching and listening to them speak of her most private concerns.
“No matter the reasons that drive you to find that man, you do intend to see his life forfeit when you do, yes?” Helena could not speak the answer aloud. Instead, she nodded.
“That is an entirely personal action, Elen. If you intended to serve a greater purpose you would merely see the man brought to justice. But you want to spill his blood and it seems I cannot convince you of the lack of honor in that alternative.”
Stephen’s words hurt, for they were a truth Helena had managed to push aside for many long months. Then there was the overwhelming weight of his disapproval, which made the burden seem unbearable. She blinked back the sting in her eyes and remained silent. She could think of nothing to say.
Robert stood. He brushed bark from his tunic and straightened his cloak. “It seems to me, my lady, that an excursion to Ferndale is in order. Your companion would benefit from the edification that place will impart.”
Helena nodded dumbly, afraid to speak lest her misery voice itself.
“I expect to hear back from the scouts today or tomorrow. Once they have returned with their news, we will take Dinan to Ferndale. That is,” he said, turning to Stephen, “if your sense of rightness allows us voice to speak?”
Stephen stood to face Robert and for a moment Helena feared they would come to blows. Thankfully, neither of them was armed beyond their daggers. But Stephen bowed, surprising her. “From experience I fear I am right in this matter but I have discovered since my arrival here that I have much to learn. I will gladly go with you to Ferndale.”
They stood for a moment more, sizing each other up. Then Robert laughed and held out his hand. Stephen seized it and grasped Robert’s wrist with his other hand, also smiling. Robert clapped him on the shoulder, equal to equal and then turned and walked around the fire to where his men busily worked, pretending to be oblivious to the scene they had just witnessed.
Helena drew an unsteady breath and scrambled to her feet, intending to race for the privacy of her quarters in the cavern to nurse her hurt.
“Elen!” Stephen called.
Helena picked up her skirts and ran. The tears were too close for her to be able to turn back and face him. But Stephen caught her just short of the cavern mouth and pulled her back into the trees. He turned her to face him. “Elen, I can only speak the truth as I see it.”
Helena looked away before her tears were revealed. She blinked quickly, forcing them away.
“Elen.” Stephen’s fingers were on her chin, coaxing her to look at him. “Elen, don’t turn away from me.”
“I’m surprised you care that one with such a flawed heart cannot face you.”
His hand cupped her cheek but Stephen did not try to force her to look at him. His voice was low. “Elen, I have admitted I do not know all there is to know about this affair. I can speak only of what I have seen so far. I try merely to save you from a course of action I know will bring you misery.”
“The misery has already been delivered upon me,” Helena said bitterly.
“Elen.” It was almost a groan. “Elen, please don’t turn from me. If you turn away, then…” She felt the hand on her shoulder clench. “Elen, you are all I have left.” The confession seemed to be torn from him.
Helena looked at Stephen then, surprised.
He closed his eyes for a brief moment when her gaze met his and then kissed her forehead. “Thank you,” he murmured. His lips trailed down her face to her lips and Helena’s mouth opened under his touch. She put her arms around his neck and pulled him closer, offering herself. She felt his answering groan as his arms closed around her, holding her tight, while he plundered her face and neck with his mouth.
Stephen had lost everything but her. Without her, he would be alone. They were the same and must hold to each other.
Then even Helena’s thoughts faded under the onslaught of his lips and hands and the feel of his large body straining against her. She felt him move, bringing her with him. She clung to Stephen as he drew them both back to the cavern, to her quarters, where they might speak wordlessly of their frenzied need for each other and their differences could be ignored…for a while.
* * * * *
John strode into the chilly bedchamber without warning. Savaric straightened from the map with a guilty snap to attention, even though what he was doing would appear to be perfectly innocent.
But John spared only a single glance at the map. “Sherwood again, Savaric? You are remarkably single-minded about this. I thought I’d made myself clear about that matter?”
“Yes, Your Grace, you were very clear. I only study so that I may be prepared when you receive the information you spoke of at the time.”
John looked surprised. “Oh, that. Yes, I’d forgotten.” He shrugged. “I received word yesterday but you needn’t let it concern you. I came to tell you we’re leaving Nottingham.”
“Leaving?” Savaric repeated blankly. “But why? Nottingham is perfectly placed—”
“I’m sick of this place,” John said curtly. “I grow weary of England. I long for Aquitaine.”
He wants to go back to Eleanore, Savaric amended silently. “Your Grace—” he began gently.
“No more!” John barked, overriding him. “We return to Aquitaine immediately. Do you think I have any intention of being here when Richard returns?”
Ahhhh. Savaric mentally sighed as the reason for John’s sudden restlessness made itself clear. He feared Richard’s return, of course. Savaric well understood John’s unease. John’s activities in the last few years would not withstand close scrutiny. Neither would Savaric’s.
It reminded Savaric that Richard’s return would strip him of any covert power he had over John, as well. He glanced at the map. All the more reason to follow his plan to the bitter end, quickly. “What was the news you received, Your Grace?” Savaric asked casually.
John frowned. “News about what?”
“About Helena and that Breton she is with.”
“Dinan? Oh, they’re with that band you spoke of. I’ve had word.” John dismissed the subject with a wave of his hand. “Get packing, Savaric. I want to leave by Sunday.”
“You know I cannot withstand winter crossings, Your Grace.”
“You’ll just have to put up with it,” John snapped. He turned to leave.
“Did you hear anything else, Your Grace? About Helena?”
John sighed. “Why? Do you plan to meet them in Ferndale when they arrive?”
Savaric hid his spurt of excitement and shrugged. “It is of no import, Your Grace. I just wondered.”
John gave an impatient snort and left.
Savaric whirled back to the map, delighted. He had three days and was perfectly placed to act and rid himself of one of his two problems. He found his destination on the map and marked it with his fingernail.
Ferndale.
Chapter Twenty-One
Helena and Stephen were roused before daylight the next day by a young child who insisted they follow him at once. Hastily, they donned clothing and cloaks, dressing warmly against the predawn chill. They crept through the cavern past slumbering bodies and fires burned low.
Outside, the air grabbed at their throats with cold, rasping fingers and they hurried to the big fire amid the trees.
On one of the fat logs around the fire, two men sat hunched against the cold, their hands spread toward the flames. Robert stood near them, one foot upon the log, staring at the fire. As Helena and Stephen reached them, Robert straightened.
“You’re here. Good.” He spoke French and waved to the two men. “My scouts have just arrived. I thought their news worth disturbing you.”
Helena glanced at the hunched men. One of them nodded. The other shivered and shuffled closer to
the flames. They must have traveled throughout the night to impart this valuable information.
“I am listening,” Helena assured Robert.
“The man you seek has been found.”
Helena caught her breath. “Where?”
Robert grinned. “It seems the lad got homesick. He has returned to his family for Christmas.”
One of the hunched men grunted. “Not Christmas,” he said in badly accented French. “It be Epiphany today. He’s come for Plow Monday.”
Stephen spoke. “Why risk returning home at all, if this fellow is as eagerly sought as he is?”
The scout snorted. “His Da died last year,” he said shortly, as if that was explanation enough. For Helena, it was but she knew Stephen would not understand the significance. She turned to him. “With his father dead, there is no one to plow the family’s field. If he does not return home and work the fields, the family will starve.”
Stephen was silent for a moment. “I see,” he said quietly. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
“What village is he from?” Helena asked Robert. This was the crux of the mystery, for once the man’s village was known, then he could be found.
“It is as we once speculated, my lady,” Robert replied. “The man’s name is Peter and his village is Ferndale.”
Helena nodded. That he was from Ferndale made sense. Who else but a local villager would have reason for wandering open fields at night where he might witness a murder in one of them?
“The people of Ferndale have reason for keeping his name and absence secret, even from me,” Robert said, echoing Helena’s train of thought. He turned to Stephen. “Accompany us, Dinan, and I will show you something that will explain to you why Helena thirsts for revenge.”
She saw Stephen’s chest rise as he took a deep breath. “How could I refuse?”
Robert clapped his hands. “Then we are for Ferndale, today.” He looked up at the lightening sky. “Six men and you, my lady. Dinan and myself. Not enough to draw too much curiosity about our departure among those we leave behind.”
Stephen pounced on Robert’s statement. “You fear your own people?”
“I fear those who are not my people but move among us,” Robert shot back. “Secrecy is one of my few defenses against the king’s men, who seem to anticipate my movements more often than I like.” He shrugged. “I am merely being cautious. It is a habit now, you understand?”
* * * * *
Ferndale was within Nottingham’s domain and lay much farther south. At sunrise, Robert’s handpicked band of men shouldered roughly bound packs and prepared to set out. Even Stephen was handed a pack and he slid his arms into the shoulder loops without protest. With no horse or other beast of burden, they must all carry their share of the provisions needed for a midwinter journey.
Elen also carried a pack. She was dressed once more in the patchy black gown but wore her fur-lined cloak for its warmth.
Stephen found himself frowning as he watched her readjust the burden. Ever since Robert had announced that the man she sought had been found, she had not spoken a word. It was as if a small black cloud hovered above her head.
He knew he should speak to her. He could lift the burden of conscience from her as easily as the pack she wore but did not move to her, for it seemed to him she had become a stranger. The dress and the practiced manner with which she armed herself with knife, bow and arrows helped give credence to this impression. Mostly, however, it was Elen who gave off an air of troubled preoccupation that did not invite confidences or intimacy. In this clearing full of people, she was completely alone.
Uneasy, Stephen turned away. Again the question that had plagued him voiced itself in a quiet mental whisper. What was the secret of Ferndale? What was so terrible that it could drive Elen to the lengths she had gone to avenge her father?
They set out shortly after dawn touched the tops of the bare trees, painting them in gold. They slipped into the cold, dark shadows beneath the winter canopy with no fanfare or farewells and hurried along silently.
The first day they moved as quietly and quickly as Robert could urge them, with frequent breaks for rest, when he coaxed them to drink water liberally. Stephen recognized what Robert was doing. This was a forced march. It was a military tactic designed to move a troop, an army, to some distant place in the quickest time possible and have them arrive fresh enough to fight, if necessary. It was a strategy invented by the Romans and still practiced in this modern day and age. Even Richard had used it in the Holy Lands.
Robert was drawing on his training as a knight and his experience in the Crusades to bring his men to Ferndale as quickly as possible, ready to face whatever might greet them there. This was an implied warning that Stephen acknowledged and let sink into his bones, giving birth to ever-present caution.
That night they ate well, all except Elen, who watched them with a detached impatience. After the meal there was no idle chatter around the fire. They built the flames high, rolled themselves tightly in their cloaks and furs and slept.
Stephen copied them. He closed his eyes but sleep was a poor companion. He was conscious of Elen, lying just a little away from him, silent and still. He would have liked her by him but she had shown no inclination for his company.
Troubled, Stephen dozed, to awake with a start some time later when he felt hands at his shoulder. He pulled back and reached for his knife. A soft hand touched his mouth.
“Shhh.” It was Elen. Stephen lifted the furs and welcomed her into the warmth beneath. He felt a contented glow as her body nestled against his. He closed his eyes again, feeling sleep already claiming him now that she was there.
When Stephen woke in the morning, Elen was already gone. Men stretched and stirred around him, as alone as he. When he found her, silently eating a cold pastie on the other side of the fire, she did not speak of the night. Stephen understood that this was the way it must be.
They started out as soon as they had eaten but their progress was slow. Robert sent two three-man parties ahead. Scouts, Stephen assumed but when they returned carrying freshly killed rabbits and a deer, hung from a branch carried between two men, he realized his error. They had been hunting and Robert kept the main party to a speed that would not spoil the hunt.
The amount of fresh meat seemed an exorbitant waste for the size of their band but Stephen kept quiet. Because of Elen’s silent distance and the mysterious, well-practiced routines of Robert and his men, Stephen was aware that his experience as a warrior, knight and leader of men was of no use here. Their ways were honed by conditions with which he’d had no experience.
After dealing with the game, Robert picked up the speed of the group again and they hurried on as they had the previous day. Late in the afternoon, when the sun was below the tree line, Robert called the men to a halt with a lift of his hand. They were in a thick copse of trees and Robert gave whispered orders in English. He pointed to Stephen and Elen and beckoned them forward as the other men dropped to the ground with tired sighs.
They crept a dozen feet forward, to a crease in the ground that looked like some ancient god had long ago buried a gigantic axe. It had thrown up a mound of dirt on the other side and they lay against the incline and looked over the top.
The trees halted just beyond their mound, giving way to cultivated fields. Beyond them was a small village, with a dozen or so cottages huddled around a tiny square. There was no manor house. The village itself seemed deserted.
Ferndale, Stephen realized.
Despite the lateness of the day, peasants still worked in the fields. It was the plowing season but these men were not coaxing horses or oxen. They turned the hard, cold earth by hand, using a variety of poor instruments.
Stephen was shocked. What sort of liege lord would allow men to work without benefit of a beast? Even the most cold-hearted lord would understand that speed was critical when it came to the first plowing of the year, or the summer crops would not be planted.
“I see no garrison
,” Elen murmured to Robert, apparently unperturbed by the peasants’ situation.
“But we will be cautious all the same,” Robert returned. “You take Stephen to Warren’s house. We’ll stay back here in case of trouble.”
Elen nodded and handed her bow and quiver to Robert. She edged backward until she stood without her head appearing over the top of the mound. “Stephen?” she asked, apparently waiting for him.
Mystified, Stephen followed her lead, sliding back down the mound until he too, could stand without detection.
Elen picked her way down the middle of the gully until it petered out into a boggy ground, which she skirted. The trees again thinned but this time they continued until they stepped out upon the narrow road that ran straight as an arrow’s flight from the village and continued deep into the forest.
Elen turned toward the village. Stephen caught up with her.
“We can talk now. It looks more natural if we do,” she told him.
“Why must we look natural?”
“We’re cousins, visiting Warren from the next village, to trade seed for implements and cloth, if we can.”
Stephen frowned. “Why would anyone care who we are or what our business here may be?”
Elen grimaced. “There is every chance we might be questioned.”
Stephen looked ahead to the squalid little village. “What is this place?” he murmured.
“Did Robert not tell you that coming here would answer all your questions?”
“Yes but so far I have found more questions than answers.”
“Patience,” Elen replied, with a small smile that faded quickly. Her eyes were clouded with anguish.
They walked to the town square, passing two cottages on the way. The cots were badly cared for. The thatch had been left to rot for several seasons and now grew green and moldy. Snow from a recent fall still clung to the lee side of the roofs, with long icicles hanging from the eaves.
From this close distance, the village was as deserted as it had appeared to be from the trees. There wasn’t even the sound of movement. The place was still and deathly silent until a child’s wail shattered the peace.
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