Age of Faith 4 - The Kindling

by Tamara Leigh

  “The lady would like to wager,” she announced and, despite the annoyance that some could not conceal, the men made a path for her.

  Abel looked to Durand and saw his gaze had gone to her, his longing and sorrow almost tangible.

  Though Abel did not want to pity the man who had betrayed their friendship and the Wulfriths by loving one sister and seducing the other, he felt a tug of that emotion—but only that, for a moment later Helene appeared at Durand’s side, her touch upon his arm causing him to shift his regard to her. And—curse all!—the knight’s expression eased when she smiled at him.

  “Highest roll,” Beatrix announced where she had lowered to her knees across from the man who had shared a trencher with Helene.

  “How much coin would you wager?” the knight asked.

  “None, for I am a lady, am I not?”

  Chuckles rose from the dozen gathered around.

  “I shall wager a favor for a favor”—she glanced over her shoulder—“if my lord husband is of a mind to cast dice with his wife.”

  Feeling his brother-in-law’s surprise, then his gaze, Abel looked to D’Arci who murmured, “Your sister is a clever and determined woman,” and strode forward. “I accept the challenge, Lady Beatrix.” He dropped to his haunches where the knight had been and, with a smile that brightened his features that had become drawn in recent weeks, said, “The favor?”

  “If I roll highest, come the m-morrow, you shall set aside your books and all other obligations and take me riding from…” Beatrix shifted her lips side to side. “…dawn until the nooning hour.”

  D’Arci’s hesitation reflected his reluctance to eschew his duties for the pleasure of spending time with her, but he slowly grinned. “I accept your wager, my lady.”

  She answered with a smile that made her more strikingly beautiful. “And what would you win from me if your roll betters mine?”

  “Come the morrow, my lady wife will set aside her sewing and all household duties and ride with me from dawn until the nooning hour.”

  Though it meant D’Arci would not be practicing at swords with him, Abel laughed with the others—excepting Durand whom Abel was certain would now absent himself from the hall. He was wrong, for the knight remained at Helene’s side as the dice were rolled twice, the last roll proclaiming D’Arci the winner.

  As a cheer went up, Beatrix’s husband stood, reached to his wife, and raised her beside him. “To the victor”—he bent down—“a kiss.” It was a brief meeting of lips, but Beatrix was happily flushed when he led her out of the circle.

  “Sir Abel,” she called as they neared, “’tis your wager now.”

  He stiffened as all eyes turned to him. But just as Durand had not retreated, neither would he. Putting the staff forward, he threw Beatrix a narrow-eyed look to which she tossed up her eyebrows.

  Shortly, he filled the space left by her and her husband and ground his teeth as he put as much thought into lowering to his haunches as was needed to spare himself humiliation and pity. To his relief, it was not as difficult as anticipated, though the discomfort exceeded his expectations.

  Stabilizing himself, he laid the staff beside him and nearly reached for the dice with his right hand. He scooped them up with the left, asked, “Who will wager me?” and felt a wiggle of the mischief to which he had been partial previous to his injury.

  “For a coin or a favor?” a man-at-arms called.

  “Regrettably, I have not my purse, so a favor it will have to be.” Of course, who in this gathering could grant him one that was worth the risk of what he would ask to be granted?

  “I will wager you a favor.” It was Helene, her voice pouring over him like warm oil.

  As a murmur rose from the gathering, she slipped between the men and halted before Abel.

  This he had not expected. Indeed, he would have thought her content to watch—and, likely, not long at that. He inclined his head. “Very well, Helene of Tippet, what favor will you ask of me?”

  The murmuring transformed into suggestive chuckles and throat clearings.

  Ignoring them, she lowered to her knees and seemed to search for an answer though he suspected she had been in mind of one when she put herself forward.

  “As I can think of no favor I am in need of”—she shrugged—“I suppose ‘twill have to be a future favor.”

  He frowned. “Future?”

  “Aye, to be named a day from now, mayhap a sennight, or whenever I find myself in need of one.”

  As the voices grew louder, Abel stared at her. Despite the innocent face she presented, he did not think there was anything innocent about her in that moment. “That is a dangerous wager to accept. One would have to be fair certain of winning to agree to such.”

  She put her head to the side. “I give you my word that whatever medicinal I ask you to take without complaint will prove beneficial, and if you must needs plug your nose to dull its taste, I shall take no offense.”

  “Accept the wager,” one of the men called and others heartily agreed.

  Abel heard the small voice that warned him to refuse, one he had often ignored in embracing the thrill of a win that he believed could as easily be his—and which had many times seen his purse considerably lightened—but what kept him from refusing Helene was what he would ask of her. As if the favor he wished granted had been scratching at the window all along, he let it in. “I accept.”

  She smiled. “What is your wager?”

  As she would not reveal hers, he determined that neither would he announce his, especially in the midst of an audience. “You will recall the favor I asked of you two days past.”

  Frowning, she shook her head.

  “More than once I asked it, and more than once you refused.”

  When her eyes widened, he glanced at Durand and saw in the man’s darkening expression that he knew the nature of the favor. But it was not for him that Abel put it to Helene. It was for her—whatever was required to ensure she did not fall prey to seduction.

  “Do you accept?” Abel asked.

  All evidence of her smile gone, she said, “I do.”

  He was surprised and yet not. Did she believe Beatrix’s loss, if it could even be called that, put the odds in her favor? That this time it would be a woman who won? One thing was certain—whatever the identity of this future favor, it would cost him much.

  He reached the dice to her and she opened a hand and closed her fingers quickly around the cubes he dropped in her palm.

  “Roll,” he said.

  “When I am ready, Sir Abel, not before.”

  As their audience snickered, she peeled back her fingers, considered the dice, then covered and shook them. A moment later, she spilled the dice.

  “Eight!” someone shouted.

  Abel eyed the six and two before sweeping up the dice and rattling them within the cage of his palm and fingers. Before he released them, he looked to Helene and thought she must be holding her breath, which made it all the more imperative that he roll a nine or higher.

  He swept his hand forward, opened his fingers, and watched as the dice tumbled corner to corner and side to side before coming to rest near the hem of her skirts.

  “Eleven!” the same voice heralded.

  The din increased, and it occurred to Abel that, should his left hand not respond well to wielding a sword, at least it was good for dicing. The thought rousing a bitter smile, he looked to Helene whose expression was near stricken, and something told him it was not merely because she had lost. It was his smile.

  As he lowered it, she said, “It seems you are the victor, Sir Abel.”

  He inclined his head. “I am pleased with the favor granted me.”

  “I am sure you are.” She rose, turned, and slipped past the others.

  Pulling himself upright with the aid of the staff, Abel saw the back of her as she headed for the stairs. As for Durand, he was already gone.

  “Whatever you asked of her,” Beatrix said low when he started past her,
“you should not have.”

  He eyed her. “Nay, I should have, though I take no pleasure in her unhappiness.”

  “Sir Durand?” she asked.

  “Aye, no good can come of her being alone with him.”

  “I believe ‘tis only friendship between them.”

  “What do you think it was between him and Gaenor?” he retorted.

  She looked momentarily away. “I do not think it was friendship between him and our sister, Abel.”

  “That makes it all the worse then, does it not?”

  She sighed. “It would seem so, and yet I do not see Helene longing for him as our sister did.”

  Abel did not like the word ‘longing’ in regards to anything to do with Durand and Gaenor or Helene. “Regardless,” he said, “providing the healer keeps her word, I need worry no more about it, and that is all I want from her.”

  Beatrix harrumphed. “It most certainly is not all, but if it comforts you…”

  Abel glowered. “Sleep well,” he said and made greater strides with the staff than ever he had allowed himself.

  The stairs were unwieldy, but less of a challenge than they had been days ago, and when he entered his chamber, his breath was hardly strained. Partway across the room, he noted the tray was in its usual place upon the table beside the chair, evidence Helene had delivered it before appearing at Durand’s side in the hall.

  Guessing she would not be tending him this eve, annoyance flared, but he pushed it down with the assurance that he could see to himself. In fact, if not for the preparation of her medicinals and that she was useful to D’Arci in tending the castle folk, she could return to Tippet and John this very eve.

  “Unfortunate,” he muttered. Worse, though, was that he did not truly wish her to leave—that Beatrix was right. He wanted something from Helene beyond the comfort of knowing Durand lacked the opportunity to seduce her.

  Remembering her expression when she had lost, he lowered into the chair, removed his boots and belt, and applied himself to his injuries as he had seen Helene do often enough that he did not need direction in which pots to unstopper.

  When the sleeping draught was all that remained, he considered the goblet of wine. One last night of good rest?

  Leaving it untouched, he pushed up out of the chair and pulled his hand back from the staff he was too quick to reach for. Though he might not be ready to eschew it entirely, he could make it to bed without its abhorrent thump.

  Shortly, he lowered to the mattress, only to groan at the realization he had not put out the torch or candles. Still, he laid back and stared at the ceiling. And again saw Helene’s stricken face.

  He did not like that she believed he was smug over her loss. Had she rolled the higher number, he doubted the favor won from him would have caused her to smile so broadly. Not Helene of Tippet.

  He frowned. What favor would she have claimed had the roll gone her way? No matter her pretense, there was something she had very much wanted from him.

  He rose from the bed. Though he knew she might be asleep, he once more left the staff behind and crossed to the door, telling himself it would be good exercise and that the stairs to the tower room should present little difficulty since they numbered far fewer than those that ascended from the hall.

  Still, there was strain, and when he pushed open Helene’s door, his greatest hope in that moment was that the room held a chair.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Her dreams were not dark. That was not what awoke her and caused the fine hairs on her arms to rise and the sense of being watched to shoot a shiver through her.

  Forcing herself to remain still, she swept her gaze over the side of the room she faced. There was nothing to be seen by the brazier’s faint light, but perhaps on the other side—

  “Helene?”

  She dropped onto her back and flew her gaze to the dark figure in the doorway. “Abel?” she whispered, and only then realized she had spoken his name without title.

  “May I enter?”

  She gripped the coverlet to her chest. “Why?” After all, as she had told him, Sir Durand was not the one with whom she should be wary of being alone.

  “An explanation is owed, as well as an apology.”

  “Now?”

  “As I am without my staff and in need of a place to sit a few minutes, now is a good time for me.”

  But what of her? It was unseemly to invite him in, especially so late at night and with her abed.

  “While you think on it,” he said, “I will wait in yon chair.”

  Limp more pronounced in the absence of his staff, he entered, leaving the door ajar. As he crossed to the chair that sat in front of and to the right of the brazier, Helene sat up and clasped the bed clothes against her chemise that would surely be heavier than any his sisters or mother wore if not that hers was so threadbare.

  He dropped into the chair. “You told that I should exercise more,” he said.

  “Not in the middling of night, and not with my room as your destination.”

  Since the orange glow of the brazier mostly lit him from behind, it was difficult to make out his features, but there was no mistaking the white of his smile and she caught her breath in anticipation of his forthcoming defense.

  “I remember a night not long ago when you trespassed upon my chamber. And look, I am not anywhere near enough to touch you as you touched me.”

  Grateful he could not see the heat in her face, she said, “I came to you in the capacity of a healer.”

  “Be it so, though I believe we both know it was more than that, my intentions are as honorable.”

  She drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. “Very well, deliver your explanation and apology and be done with it.”

  He stretched his long legs out in front of him. “First, recall ’twas you who wished to wager.”

  She swallowed. “I had hoped to win.”

  “That is the hope of all who play at dice. I would strongly advise that, in future, you not wager something it hurts too much to lose.”

  “Believe me, Sir Abel, I have discovered that on my own.”

  “Then you highly prize the time spent with Sir Durand.”

  “I do. We have decided to be friends.”

  “Decided? Pray, how did you arrive at that?”

  “It suits me, that is all,” she said, loath to reveal the stolen kiss. “But tell me of your explanation and apology.”

  After some moments, he said, “First the explanation. I would have you know it was not my intention to make your loss all the more felt by appearing smug.”

  “Then you should not have smiled so.”

  “My bitter musing, not your loss, was responsible for that.”

  “I do not understand.”

  He was slow to answer. “It occurred to me that, should my left hand prove inept at wielding a sword, at least it is good for dicing.”

  Helene blinked. “Oh.”

  “As for the apology, that is for accepting your wager, certain as I was that you did not understand the risk.”

  Hope fluttered through her. “Then you will not hold me to it?”

  He chuckled. “Would you have held me to the wager?”

  That was the reason she had stepped forward. “I wish I could say nay, but I would have held you to it as best I could.”

  “Then you have your answer. I will hold you to it, Helene.”

  How she hated that Sir Durand would once more be alone, especially now that she knew of his heartache.

  “And now,” Abel said, “I would know what future favor you set your mind upon that was worth the risk of losing something you so highly value.”

  Should she ease his curiosity? Submit to his scorn? Though tempted to refuse, she said, “Unfortunately, even had I won, I do not know that I would have won.”

  “Am I to make sense of that?”

  She put her chin on her knees. “I would have had to win a wager with Sir Durand ere I could claim what I had
won from you. And I do not know that he would have accepted the wager.”

  “What was the favor?” Abel’s voice was rough with frustration.

  “That you practice at swords with him. And if you are angry at that, ‘tis no less than I expected.”

  Abel stared at the woman who looked small where she sat, though it was not as if the bed were of a grand size. What she had intended did stir his wrath, as felt by the chair arms even his right hand could well enough grip.

  “I need not part the shadows around you to know you are, indeed, angry,” she said.

  Were his emotions that forceful? Did they frighten her? That last pulled him back from the edge he found himself upon and made him rethink what she had sought to do. And he was struck that, as much as she valued what she had lost in the wager, she had risked it to aid him.

  Fatigue gripping him harder, he said, “I am not angry. Not anymore.” He sat forward, clasped his hands, and regarded her face that she probably did not realize was better lit than his own. Not that he could see the color of her eyes, though he knew they were the dark blue of a day that was nearly night, not that he could see her faint freckles, though he knew they were most familiar with her fair nose and the tops of her cheeks, not that he could see the precise outline of her mouth, though he knew its upper bow and lower fullness, but her hair…

  The light of the brazier picked out the dark reds and danced golden light across them.

  Dear Lord, is she indeed a witch that I should be so entranced?

  “Why are you not angry?” she asked, and he heard the wariness in her voice—that she did not believe he would so soon abandon the emotion. Not that it was entirely gone. It just no longer had control of him, and the ease with which he had let it go reminded him of how quick he had once been to cool his wrath.

  “If you truly enjoy Sir Durand’s company as much as you say, ‘twas a great sacrifice you made—for me.”

  After a long moment, she said softly, “I would see you restored as near as possible to the knight you were ere you stood against Sir Robert and his brigands.”