Age of Faith 4 - The Kindling

by Tamara Leigh

  “The bruise must have been unsightly for your skin to remain so yellowed,” she said, “but methinks you are right.” She lifted her hands from him and drew the tunic back over his shoulder. “It has healed well enough that it requires no tending. Only praise.”

  That last word stirring Abel’s bitterness, he looked over his shoulder. “Praise?”

  “Aye.” She straightened. “You have much for which to thank the Lord. Had you been struck nearer the spine, you might have been forever rendered incapable of walking.”

  Determined that he would not engage again in talk of God, he shifted back around and leaned into the pillows. “I hardly walk now, Helene of Tippet.”

  “Something else we must needs remedy, but we shall soon enough.”

  Remembering the other remedy she sought—to deliver him a mirror that he might become acquainted with his new face, he thought how distant the first remedy was from the latter. Ever he had been satisfied with his looks, had even felt pride in them, but looks were nothing compared to how well a man commanded his body. A scarred face would not be the death of him, but a leg unable to match the strength and surety of its mate…

  “You ought to tie your tunic closed,” she said and returned to the tray.

  Abel considered the ties that straggled across his chest. “Will you not do it?” He looked to where she stood in profile before the table. “After all, ’twas you who undid me.”

  Hand hovering over the goblet, color seeping into her lightly freckled cheeks, she looked sidelong at him. “I am sure you can do it yourself. However, if my presence so greatly unnerves you that you require aid, then, by all means, wait until I am gone to undertake the most difficult task of knotting a bow.”

  Insufferable woman! But though he knew what she sought, her arrow having struck his pride, he gave it to her. Eyes on her face, he lifted his hands and, the left awkwardly compensating for what the right could no longer do, looped the strings and finished them with a sloppy bow.

  He expected her to compliment him, perhaps even exclaim over his accomplishment, but she spared him the condescension—and herself his anger—by turning back to the goblet.

  “Lastly, your sleeping draught.” She held it out to him.

  He took it and glanced below the rim. As hoped, the contents were blood red rather than milky white. “Well done,” he said. “There is no worthier sleeping draught than one delivered by way of wine.”

  “Most fortunate for you, it also aids in a good night’s sleep.”

  “Still…” He put his head back and, yielding to the temptation to loose an arrow upon her as she had done him—even if she sent one straight back—said, “…mayhap I ought not to indulge.”

  “For what reason?”

  He lowered his gaze over her. “It strikes me that, should you come to me again in the dark, early hours, it would be of certain benefit if I were fully present.”

  Once again, her face flushed, and it was some moments before her pressed lips eased sufficiently to allow words past them. “Be assured, Sir Abel, I had but one purpose in seeking your chamber whilst you slept, and it was well and truly met.”

  “Then you are no longer drawn to me as a woman is drawn to a man she finds pleasing?”

  He saw the startle in her eyes and sensed the birth of a lie. But then she sighed. “When I said that you are unlike others who require my services, it is because I am drawn to you—as well you know, Sir Abel. What you saw upon my face when you and Baron Lavonne came for the old baron and me was true though I knew naught could come of it.”

  Due to the disparity in their ranks?

  “And less so now, Sir Abel.”

  Because of what he had become—rather, no longer was, as evidenced by the Wulfrith dagger’s place of dishonor at the bottom of a chest of garments.

  She jutted her chin. “Drink so that we might put this night behind us.”

  Feeling the day’s every hour, he drained the goblet and handed it to her.

  She took it, set it alongside her pots, then lifted the tray and carried it across the room to the other tray that held the remains of his meal. With her back to him, she combined the contents of the two trays and fit the emptied one beneath the burdened one. Next, she fed the brazier.

  Not until she took the trays and crossed to the door did Abel remember what needed to be told for Beatrix’s sake. The healer would not like it. Indeed, if not that her hands were full, she might strike him as she had done Durand.

  “There is something I must needs confess,” he called.

  She turned. “Aye?”

  “I deceived you that you might lead me down a path longer than the one I was upon.”

  Her eyebrows drew near. “Pray, Sir Abel, do not make pretty words of an ugly deed.”

  He smiled apologetically. “My sister, Beatrix, has not visited my chamber this eve.”

  “What has she to do with—?”

  As realization transformed her face, he said, “’Twas my mother who visited and shared Sir Durand’s revelation that caused you to follow him to the kitchen. Ere you told that you had struck him, that is all I knew.”

  Despite the length of the chamber, he heard her sharply drawn breath.

  “Forgive me,” he said, “but just as you have questions you wish Sir Durand to answer, so I would know what goes in my absence.”

  “By trickery!”

  He did not like the word, but he nodded. “In this matter and under these circumstances, the most expedient means of keeping myself apprised of events.”

  “Pity that a knight—a Wulfrith knight—is reduced to such,” she snapped, then turned, stepped into the passageway, and once more left the door open behind her. And Abel to his brooding.

  Chapter Eight

  Unless one knew where to look and was attuned to her touch and the air about her, a person would not likely realize how affected Helene still was by what had transpired on the night past. Or so Abel thought as she efficiently and, with few words, performed her ministrations.

  He had seen the darker shadows beneath her eyes when her surprise at finding him fully clothed this morn had made her halt just inside the chamber, had noted the jerk of her hands as she chose her pots and lifted and pushed aside his garments, had felt the tremor of her fingers as she applied her salves, had heard her uneven breathing. And, when she had handed him the goblet of milk and he had glared, he had sensed how tempted she was to empty it in his lap.

  Helene of Tippet remained deeply unsettled. And he could not fault her.

  “Ere I leave you to break your fast,” she said, “there is one more thing that falls to me to do.”

  He drew back the hand he had reached to the platter of viands and looked up at where she stood alongside his chair. Something about her compressed lips warned that he would not like this one more thing of hers. “Aye?”

  She turned back a folded cloth set alongside the platter. “I borrowed this from Lady Beatrix.”

  He did not hesitate to take the mirror she handed him, though only because he was certain it was what she expected him to do. Fortunately, as he turned the silver surface toward his face, she crossed to the window and busied herself with folding back and hooking the shutters, granting him privacy in which to gaze upon his ruined countenance.

  Feeling strain in his jaw, he looked at the reflection with which she insisted he become familiar. The mirror was small enough that, as near as he held it, he saw only the right side of his face—familiar, except for his unkempt beard, unwashed hair, and hollowed cheeks, the latter reminding him that he would do well to heartily break his fast.

  Slowly, he drew the mirror back and the unmatched halves of his face came together to reveal what his searching fingers already knew. He would turn the heads of far fewer women.

  Hearing himself swallow against a dry throat, he felt anger rise at the absence of wine with which to quench his thirst, though he knew his was less a thirst for liquid than revenge against those who had stolen much more than his loo
ks. “Rot in hell, Robert and Aldous Lavonne,” he growled.

  When the healer kept her back to him where she remained at the window, he dropped the mirror alongside the platter. “There, what fell to you to do has been done, Helene of Tippet.”

  She looked over her shoulder. “And?”

  “Can I live with it?” He snorted. “Better than I can live with a hand and leg ruined by far more than an ugly scar.”

  “You will live with those too. And well, I wager.”

  Under different circumstances, he would have grinned at her choice of words, for he was fond of wagering, much to his godly mother’s distress—and the groaning of his purse. “What would you wager?” he heard himself ask, though questions about how he might overcome his infirmity occupied the greater part of his mind.

  She blinked. “They were words only, Sir Abel—but meant to encourage you.”

  He flexed his right hand that missed the sword and felt the ache of his left leg that would evermore be subservient to the other. “I am better encouraged when the wager is something I want and can lay hands upon.”

  Though he had not meant to imply anything inappropriate, his words struck him as befitting a man set on seduction and, from the flash in Helene’s eyes, she read them as such. Before he could assure her of his meaning, he was struck by something else—the way sunlight favored her, warming her fair, lightly freckled skin and weaving its radiance through her hair such that what usually appeared dark red was almost fiery orange. And his hand that had longed for steel longed instead for the silken strands of her plait—to undo the thick tresses and slide his fingers through them.

  Lips pressed tight, Helene turned back to the window. And gasped. “Oh.” She leaned forward to look nearer upon something in the bailey, then turned and hastened opposite.

  “What is it?” Abel called.

  She halted just over the threshold. “I have much to do this day.”

  “That is not the cause of your sudden departure.”

  “It is not.” She raised her eyebrows. “But be prepared, Sir Abel, for when I return, we shall see to the exercise of your leg.”

  Letting irritation have its way with his face, he said, “Do you propose to lend me your arm? Your shoulder? Your back?”

  “Nothing so slight,” she said and hurried away.

  Abel pushed up out of the chair. But rather than seek to close the door behind her, he sought to discover what had so quickly taken her from him. Teeth clenched, he forced his unwilling leg to do its part in delivering him to the window.

  He did not have long to wait before Helene appeared below, the light of the recently risen sun once more brightening her hair. Nor did he have to look far to know her destination. Before the inner gate that accessed the outer bailey, Durand stood in conversation with a man-at-arms.

  Abel was not surprised that she should seek out the knight in search of the answers he had refused her on the night past, but that did not make him any more comfortable to see her hastening to his side.

  Durand seemed not to notice her approach, and only when she laid a hand on his arm did he turn his regard upon her. And then, as told by how quickly he pulled his arm from beneath her hand, it was no welcome he gave her.

  Helene turned her attention to the man-at-arms who nodded at whatever she said and withdrew. Then it was just Helene who stood in Durand’s long shadow.

  Tenfold more aware of the infirmity that held him to his chamber, Abel watched as the healer looked back at the knight and, with graceful sweeps of her hands, emphasized words that refused to rise above the distance and activity of the bailey.

  Durand appeared to heed her, curtly nodding and giving answer. Then, side by side, the two passed beneath the raised gate and out of sight.

  What had been spoken between them that allowed them to set aside their trespasses against one another? And what was their destination?

  Having tensed so deeply his injured hand and leg throbbed, Abel turned from the window. He was not jealous. Could not be. He did not want Helene of Tippet, certainly not in any meaningful way, and yet…

  He let out his breath. Neither did he want that most ignoble knight to want her.

  If there were magic in the world, Helene thought a sincere apology would be among its most powerful spells. And her apology had been sincere. True, the man at her side had sorely tested her, and she still did not like how forthcoming he had been in revealing his knowledge of her beatings only to slam the door on her questions. However, during a restless night upon her pallet amid a din of snores and other bodily sounds, she had concluded Lady Beatrix was correct. He had not meant to torment her. Sir Abel, however—

  Nay, neither had he meant her ill. And he had asked for forgiveness. Still, it was hard to grant such, sure as she was that he would likely resort to trickery again if he thought it would gain him an advantage.

  “I apologize,” Sir Durand repeated his request for forgiveness that had followed her own after she had told the man-at-arms she needed to speak with the knight in private.

  Since his regret over his behavior on the night past had seemed true enough, she said, “As told, you are forgiven.”

  “I thank you.” He looked sidelong at her. “But now I speak of the aid I did not give when you were Sir Robert’s captive.”

  “Ah.” Would he now explain it? Though she knew it might be better if she did not pursue the tale, still she longed to know the reason a man trained to arms and battle had merely observed the abuse that she and the captive Wulfrith knight had suffered.

  As she waited for him to continue, she was forced to leave his side to avoid a puddle outside the smithy, the muddy water of which would have wet her slippers and the hem of her gown.

  Pondering the knight’s inattentiveness, her thoughts drifted to Sir Abel. Perhaps she was wrong, but it seemed that, despite his morose state, he would have had enough care for her to adjust his course so she would not have had to skirt the puddle.

  When she regained Sir Durand’s side, he said, “You should know that I do regret my inaction all those weeks and that it was difficult to do naught when that devil’s spawn beat you before all.”

  She tried not to take offense at the name he gave Aldous Lavonne’s eldest, albeit misbegotten son, but it pinched in spite of her brother’s many sins.

  “However, I had reason not to intercede.”

  “And will you still deny me that reason?” she asked.

  His jaw clenched, and he did not speak again until they reached the outer gatehouse where those upon it and the flanking walls watched them with interest. “Suffice it to say”—he turned to her—“many more lives were saved, including that of the lady of Castle Soaring, than would have been saved had I championed your cause alone.”

  Though still he denied her, she grudgingly acknowledged he would have been but one man against many. Indeed, his fate would have been far worse than a beating. Even so, though Sir Abel had revealed it was Sir Durand who had freed the Wulfrith knight held by Sir Robert, why could he not have done it sooner? Or have himself carried word of the brigands’ location to Baron Lavonne or Baron Wulfrith? Why—?

  Stop, Helene. You will only work yourself into a state and say things sure to knock out the supports of the bridge you have only begun to build with him.

  She drew a deep breath. “I am sure you are right, Sir Durand.”

  “But still you question my honor.” The gold of his eyes was more intense out of doors, and she could almost believe them capable of peering into her mind.

  “Let us discuss it no more.” She jutted her chin at the land beyond the drawbridge. “You told you were going to the wood. Since that is also my destination, would you serve as my escort?”

  He frowned. “For what do you wish to go there?”

  “I seek a rare herb that lessens the severity of scarring and a suitable branch that can be fashioned into a staff.”

  “For Sir Abel, then.”

  “Aye, ‘tis time he left his chamber and bega
n again as you appear to have done.”

  “Past time. Still, I do not go to the wood to stroll among the trees. I go there to train.”

  She considered him anew. “By yourself?”

  “Aye, though the man-at-arms with whom I spoke ere you came upon us has agreed to meet me there at noon that we might practice at swords.”

  “And until then?”

  “I shall run and climb and practice stealth as I was taught to do at Wulfen Castle where I was trained into a knight.”

  She smiled. “A good use of your time and one Sir Abel ought to embrace as well.” She tilted her head to the side. “Mayhap once his leg is strong enough, the two of you—”

  “Nay,” he barked as if he no better liked the one who disliked him. But as if to amend his reaction, he added, “By then, I shall likely be gone from Soaring.”

  “Then you expect to soon receive word from the king.”

  His eyes lit. “What know you of that?”

  “Only the little revealed by Lady Beatrix last eve when she defended your behavior. She told that you wait on word from King Henry, and it is all that holds you here—that you are eager to leave.”

  “As I am sure she is also eager for me leave,” he muttered.

  One curiosity after another…

  “Aye,” he said, “‘tis the king’s pardon I await, though ‘tis not certain whether such a pardon will be delivered or if it is I who will be delivered—to Henry’s prison.”

  Prison? This knight who was told to have thwarted Sir Robert’s attack on Castle Soaring? “I do not understand, but I suppose you do not intend to explain that either.”

  The muscles in his jaw working, he said, “I do not,” and strode beneath the raised portcullis and onto the drawbridge.

  Helene lifted her skirts and followed, but hardly had her feet touched the planks than he swung around. “I have not the time to serve as your escort, Helene of Tippet.”

  She halted and shaded her eyes against the sun’s glare at his back. “Then I shall not impose upon you, but still I have need of those things that only the wood can provide.”