by Tamara Leigh
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.
She refused him answer, but though he shook her, her mouth remained closed.
“Was it man or beast, woman?”
After a long moment, she said, “I fell.”
As if he did not believe her, the man turned his head and swept his gaze over the wood beyond the stream, and Abel knew his suspicions might see the camp dismantled sooner than intended.
Finally, the man returned his attention to the healer. “How’d you get out of ‘em?”
Out of what?
When she merely stared at him, he whipped up the hem of her skirt. And crowed. “Well, you are the clever one. Look here, boys, she wrapped it up nice and quiet.”
Abel strained to see what the man had uncovered and saw that something stretched between her ankles.
“Pity you could not run,” the brigand sneered.
As understanding slid into place, Abel muttered, “God preserve me.”
She was chained, and it explained much. Wrapped in cloth as the chain was, the rattle intended to alert her captors to escape w
as dampened such that Abel had not heard it despite how near he had been to her. It was the reason she had moved unhurriedly through the wood, her stride limited by the reach of the links. Further, because her scream had alerted the brigands, she had known there was no chance of escape. For that, she had rejected Abel’s offer to return her to her son. And sent him away, allowing him to believe ill of her that he might not also be captured.
Abel clenched his hands. He had stolen her chance of escape…failed her…failed John…possibly failed Christian. And there was naught he could do about it.
As she was tossed over the shoulder of the stoutest of the men and carried opposite, over and over he heard his father’s words. Lesson four, Abel, do what you ought to do, not what you want to do.
He would be back. God willing, the camp would still be standing.
Aimee and her bells.
As much as Gaenor longed to tell the girl to remove them, she was loath to do so. Not only had Aimee become more biddable in the days since Gaenor had gifted her with the bells, but they appeared to give her much pleasure.
Putting an elbow on the table, Gaenor pressed a hand over her left ear to muffle the sound. It helped, though not enough to allow her to fully concentrate on the numbers that Christian’s steward had been less than happy to lay out for her.
“You add naught to your position by allowing her such license, my lady.”
She peered over her left shoulder at where Sir Hector stood at the back of the dais in front of an enormous tapestry. She had known he was there, as he had been since she first sat down to pore over the barony’s books in an attempt to acquaint herself with her husband’s lands and dealings.
The aged eyes that met hers were kind. “Indeed,” he added, his voice at a register that would not carry, “you weaken your position.”
“I am sorry, Sir Knight?”
“She knows they annoy you.” He jutted his chin toward the hearth where Gaenor had set Aimee, Josephine, and another woman to mending the linens. “I myself am oft tempted to throw up her skirts and sever those accursed bells from whatever place she has sewn them.”
Gaenor smiled. She liked the man though it was rare he could be lured into conversation, and she thought he liked her too, even if it was by Christian’s orders that he watched over her. “And I, Sir Hector, am tempted to give you leave to do just that.”
His mouth curled, deepening the lines in the thin flesh beneath his cheeks. “If you order it, I shall do it, but methinks you would gain more by seeing to the matter yourself.”
He is right. I saw to Cook and he questions my orders less often now. And when he scowls, he does so with not nearly as much resentment.
“Your advice is well met, Sir Hector. I thank you.”
He inclined his head.
Gaenor turned back to the books. Unfortunately for the knight, who must wish to be anywhere but here, this would take hours. She returned her gaze to him. “Could I order it, I would release you from your obligation.”
His head listed right. “Of what obligation do you speak, my lady?”
“That which my husband imposes on you—to keep watch over me.”
“Ah.” He nodded. “Though the baron is not displeased with the arrangement, my lady, I would have you know he did not order me to it.”
She blinked. “Then who?”
“’Tis a task I undertake myself.”
“I do not understand.”
He looked momentarily away. “Then you do not know ‘twas I who failed your sister.”
Gaenor turned in her chair to fully face him.
His glance toward the hearth brought to her attention the uncommon quiet of the great hall—not a giggle or word or single bell to be heard. Those doing the mending listened.
Gaenor swept a hand to the chair beside her. “Draw near, Sir Knight.”
Regret furrowed his face, but he had said too much for her not to hear it all.
As he settled into the chair, she pushed a journal toward him so it would appear she consulted him on the numbers, then she bent her head near his.
“Tell me, Sir Hector.”
Gaze on the page, he said, “I was among those who gave chase last winter when you fled with your sister to avoid marriage. ‘Twas I who did not heed Lady Beatrix’s fear when Simon D’Arci captured her.” He looked up from the journal. “Despite misgivings, I left her with him that I might aid those who continued to search for my lord’s bride.”
Now she understood. Simon had nearly ravaged Beatrix and, amid her struggles, had fallen into the ravine with her and died, leading to the charge of murder over which Beatrix had barely prevailed.
“I am sorry, my lady. ‘Twas a grave mistake I made.”
“And now you watch over me not to report my movements to my husband but to ease your guilt by ensuring no ill befalls me.”
“In large part.”
She ought to be angered with him for his abandonment of Beatrix, but considering his contrition and how he had sought to redeem himself, she could not. “Are you not the one who saved my sister’s life when her escort was attacked en route to the trial?”
“I stepped in.”
“And you spoke for her at trial.”
He glanced at the women at the hearth who, though they were once more talking among themselves, did so with less volume than before. “I did.” He returned his attention to the journal.
Gaenor stared at his profile as she struggled with what to say. How could she ask what she needed to? More, could she believe his answer? He was Christian’s man.
“I should not presume, my lady”—he glanced at her as he turned the page—“but methinks you wish to know of the bargain made between my lord and your brother.”
The man was not to be underestimated. “I do.”
“Have you asked your husband?”
“I have.”
He sat back. “Then I can be of no help, for you have your answer.”
Did she? Or was this but loyalty?
“All I will add,” he raised his voice slightly as those at the hearth laughed over something, “is that I am more honored to serve the son than ever I was honored to serve the father—even when Aldous Lavonne’s path was more straight than crooked as it turned following the death of his eldest son. Do you believe me?”
Gaenor lowered her chin and considered her long-fingered hands. “Aye, though methinks I knew it already. ‘Tis just not easy to trust myself when no one makes a better fool of me than I do.” She sighed. “And how my pride rails to be so humiliated by my feelings.”
“Pride,” he murmured. “I wrestle with it daily and many a match I have lost to it. It is called sin for good reason.”
At least she was not alone in that.
The bells sounded again, and a glance across the hall revealed Aimee was on her feet and shaking out the bed curtain she had mended.
“My lady?”
Gaenor met Sir Hector’s gaze.
“I would see Christian happy,” he said, “and I believe you can make him so.”
She wished she had such faith.
“I also believe you can bring him back to God.”
Faith again, though in this instance she would have laughed if not that it was more sad than funny that her husband’s training for the Church made him more qualified than she to show the way to God. “Sir Knight, you ask much of one who is not always certain she even knows where her Heavenly Father is.”
He smiled. “At least you are looking for Him in the right place.”
He referred to her morning visits to the chapel, though she knew the place she ought to seek Him more often was on her knees.
I shall. I promise. Just, Lord, help me to prove worthy of what Sir Hector believes of me.
Aimee’s bells rang vigorously. Now she was dancing around the other women, holding the curtain above her head and letting it fly out behind her.
“You should know that the resentment the girl bears you is her sister’s,” Sir Hector said, ha
ving followed Gaenor’s gaze.
“How is that?”
“As the old baron was behind Sir Robert’s attempt to murder Lady Beatrix at trial, your husband tried to contain his father’s malfeasance by removing from him all means of communicating with those yet willing to do his bidding. That included Aimee’s sister.”
Gaenor leaned toward the knight. “She aided Aldous Lavonne?”
“Aye, beyond his daily needs for which she was well paid. Having allowed him to use her as a bridge between his bed and his plotting, there was no longer a place for her within these walls, especially with a Wulfrith bride soon to be in residence. Thus, she blames your family for the loss of her work here.”
Gaenor shook her head. “Then why would Christian give her sister to serve me?”
“Aimee lived with the woman following their father’s death, so she could not help being influenced by her sister or becoming the recipient of her wrath. A sennight after the old baron was isolated, the healer—Helene of Tippet—appealed to Baron Lavonne to intercede when Aimee was nearly thrashed to death.”
Gaenor looked to Aimee. Though her slight body bore no evidence of the terrible beating her sister was told to have dealt, she imagined the bruises, cuts, and swellings that could have seen the girl laid in the cold ground. Such imaginings made it difficult to begrudge Aimee her bells.
“Thus, your husband removed her from her sister’s household and brought her here.”
Christian who was not like his father or brothers. But then, God was surely in her husband’s every pore despite whatever had happened to make him wish He was not.
“Be assured, my lady, though Aimee’s kinship makes her feel obliged to resent you, she is more inclined to like you.”
“I pray you are right.”
Another rash of bell ringing.
Sir Hector grunted. “But that does not mean you should not curb her behavior when it offends. As respect for God grows into love, so does respect for one’s mistress.”
And husband. Gaenor looked down. Lord, I do not want to love him. It pained me to not have Sir Durand return my love, but to never have Christian feel for me?
“My lady, are you well?”
She sat back and laid a hand on his arm. “Better now that you have honored me with your kindness and friendship. I thank you.”
