Age of Faith 4 - The Kindling

by Tamara Leigh

  Helene sighed. “Then ’tis good I am reconciled to it serving as a threat.”

  “Such reconciliation could see you—or John—harmed.”

  His rebuke piqued her, but before she could argue further, he continued, “Too, the dagger lacks a guard, not only to keep your hand from slipping forward onto the blade but to deflect your opponent’s blade should one be set against you.”

  Helene did not know how to respond and was almost grateful when Abel stood from the bed. Hitch more pronounced, no doubt a result of his practice with Durand, he crossed to the chest against the wall. Shortly, he dropped the lid on its contents and, when he returned to her, he held not the sorry weapon meant to dissuade an attacker but an elaborately sheathed one fashioned to do far more harm.

  He lowered beside her and removed the blade from its scabbard.

  There it was, what he had yet to return to his person. “A Wulfrith dagger,” she murmured, sliding her gaze down its keen, glimmering length to the hilt visible above and below Abel’s grip to the pommel set with jewels that formed the cross of crucifixion.

  “Awarded to those knighted at Wulfen Castle,” he said. “No doubt you have seen the one worn by Sir Durand.”

  “I have, as well as that of your eldest brother and Sir Mark…” She trailed off, wishing she had not mentioned the knight whom Sir Robert had taken captive, for it did Abel no good to be reminded of her brother’s reign of terror upon Abingdale.

  “Of course,” he said and, to her relief, returned to the matter at hand. “This dagger is known as a misericorde, and you would do well not to test its blade as I tested yours.”

  “I would not think to,” she said and momentarily mulled the fate of the dagger that had been Willem’s.

  “There are things you ought to know about this sly weapon.” Abel turned it front to back, and Helene was struck by how strange it was that something so beautiful could make such a cruel end of life. “As lethal as it is, unless one is most proficient at throwing and making one’s mark, it is best employed as a last resort.”

  “Last resort?”

  “Aye, when other weapons have been lost or broken, for one must draw dangerously near an opponent to strike with a dagger. Thus, it is a warrior’s last resort, as it will be yours, Helene.”

  She frowned. “That implies I have a first resort.”

  “You do, and that is to run.”

  “I would prefer to do so, but if I cannot, should I then draw the dagger?”

  “Only if you have the time and space, for if you do not, it will likely be taken from you and your situation made far worse.”

  She drew back in disbelief, only then realizing how near she had leaned toward him. “So, lacking time and space, I should do naught to defend myself?”

  “That is not what I am saying. As a woman, your best defense is surprise, for few men would expect you to be armed. Thus, you should do everything you can short of pulling the dagger—until you are certain of having a good chance of using it. But beware, for even if your attacker wields no weapon against you, he might yet attempt to disarm you, going so far as to seize hold of the blade, especially if his hand is stoutly gloved. In which case, you must not hesitate. You must use whatever else is available to you—your other arm, your elbows, your knees and feet. You must strike. You must think death.”

  Imagining blood drawn by her healing hand, she swallowed hard. “I do not know that I can.”

  “Even if John’s life depends upon you doing so?”

  “In that case, would it not be better that I think life—that of John’s?”

  Abel gave a short, wry laugh. “You speak as my brother, Everard, speaks.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Though I know him not, I like him. So…” She nodded at the dagger. “…where would you have me strike if I find myself with no other choice?”

  “Wherever you can, for the first good strike will either kill or disable your assailant—providing, of course, you are armed with a blade such as this.”

  Which she would not be.

  “For that, I give it into your keeping.” He held it out to her.

  She quickly drew back. “But that is a Wulfrith dagger—your own.”

  “So it is, but until I am once more in need of it, it shall serve to keep you and John safe.”

  She was warmed by his concern, but she also thought it likely he did not believe himself worthy of it, for surely he could easily provide her with one as keen but far less embellished.

  She shook her head. “I cannot.”

  “You shall.” He returned the dagger to its sheath, gently unfastened her right hand from the material of her skirts, and set the surprisingly light weapon in her palm. “If naught else, think of it as gratitude for all you have done to revive me.”

  Helene stared at it. Though looking upon the sharp edges of the jeweled dagger made her blood course faster, his hand that remained upon it and turned around hers caused her heart to lurch. This meant something, did it not? Just as his kiss had meant something and his determination to regain his warrior skills so others might entrust their lives to him? And it was not as if he gave her the Wulfrith dagger in full, for he had said it was hers until he needed it again.

  Feeling his breath stir the hair at her brow, she lifted her gaze and considered his mouth. It would be so easy to kiss him…

  “Agreed?” Abel asked.

  She looked higher and met his eyes that seemed to reflect her own feelings. “Agreed,” she whispered.

  “I am glad.” He released the dagger and pushed his hand back through his hair. “Now methinks it is time I rest.”

  Feeling her face color again, Helene jumped to her feet. “Of course. I will leave you to it.” She stepped to the table, set the dagger on the tray, and lifted it.

  “Bear with me,” Abel said again as she hastened to the doorway.

  She halted upon the threshold and peered over her shoulder, but his eyes were once more closed.

  “I shall,” she said and left him.

  But will he bear with you when he learns the truth? that voice came at her again.

  She halted midway down the corridor and lifted her face heavenward. “Dear Lord, how do I tell him what needs to be told? And when I do, how will it change him?”

  After all, it was one thing for him to reject her, quite another if all the good she had done with her healing was to come undone and he sank back into that morass of self pity and brooding that had long held him to his bed. Aye, that was something to consider.

  ‘Tis not, the Sister Clare-Helene voice argued. You but search out a grain of good in a bucket of bad in order to justify concealing all that stands between you and an honest relationship. Tell him.

  “When he is much improved,” she whispered. “When he does not need me any longer. When he but wants me.” Hopefully, he still would.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The intensity with which the two men clashed did not abate, as evidenced by the amount of salve Helene daily applied to the injuries each gained off the other during practice in the meadow and, more recently, upon the training field now that Abel no longer carried a staff.

  A fortnight had passed since the knights’ first meeting over swords, and more good had come of it than she had dared hope. Though it could not be said their friendship had revived or ever would, there seemed something of a truce between them—not easy, but not uneasy either.

  Regardless, it was enough that Durand appeared at meals more often than not and the tension wrought by his presence was no longer thick.

  Helene was grateful to see prayers answered that she had feared would not be heeded, and though still the wager she had lost to Abel held, she was gladdened to know Durand’s loss of her companionship could not be as deeply felt now that he no longer held himself apart from others. It was good to see him laugh.

  Where she had paused in the kitchen passageway, she smiled as the knight’s teeth flashed at something another knight said.

  It was a pi
ty she could not ask him to go to the wood with her—not only for his sake but hers, for Baron Lavonne would arrive some time near the nooning hour as told by the messenger received from Castle Broehne on the day past. Considering what had happened between Durand and Lady Gaenor, it would surely be better for the former to make himself as scarce as possible, just as it would benefit Helene to absent herself lest her liege once more turned his question-ladened brow upon her.

  And what if he reveals his suspicions to Abel? Better the truth of your birth heard from you than another.

  Might Christian Lavonne broach the subject to his brother-in-law?

  Anxiety bristled through her, but she soothed it with a reminder of the character of the man with whom she shared a father. She did not know the baron well, but from what she did know, he did not seem one to speak idly of such things. Too, it was of a personal nature, which surely afforded her another hedge of protection. Of course, if he brought his wife with him, there would be cause to worry, for he had likely shared his suspicions with her. Blessedly, Lady Gaenor would not be accompanying him, as told by Lady Beatrix who had bemoaned that it was too long since she had seen her sister.

  Helene threaded her gaze among those who thronged the hall and paused upon the petite, yet commanding figure of the lady of Castle Soaring who directed the servants in preparations to receive their liege. And just in back of her, seated at the high table, was Abel, his head bent to the journal over which Lord D’Arci spoke.

  She almost smiled. Though she had been pleased that Abel had offered to assist with the books, from what she could tell from watching the two men these past few days, it was proving a chore for Lord D’Arci to educate one born to the blade in the keeping of numbers. Still, Abel persisted, and she was glad, for with each passing day, he grew more and more distant from the angry, resentful man who had tried to send her away that first day.

  Then your time here is nearly done.

  She momentarily closed her eyes, promised herself she would tell Abel soon, then stepped out of the passageway.

  The porter acknowledged her with a nod and opened the doors, letting in a slant of sunshine that boded well for her walk. Unfortunately, the captain of the guard would insist—at Abel’s insistence—that she be accompanied by a man-at-arms when she left the safety of the castle walls.

  She descended the steps and, as she wove among the castle folk in the inner bailey, someone drew alongside her.

  “I am most fortunate you are as impeded by a short stride as I am by this limp,” Abel said.

  She halted. “What are you doing here?”

  He turned to her. “Given the choice between quill and parchment and stretching my legs in your company…” He raised his eyebrows.

  She glanced at her basket. “I am going to the wood.”

  “I shall go with you.”

  She hesitated. Her attempt to keep distance between them beyond what was required of her as a healer was unspoken, but after all these days, he had to know it was a conscious effort she made. Too, she had hoped to linger outside the castle walls the longer to avoid Baron Lavonne. “I thank you for your offer, Sir Abel, but it is not necessary.”

  “However, an escort is, and so I shall serve as yours.”

  She could hardly refuse him, even though she was better armed than ever she had been now that she had the Wulfrith dagger strapped to her leg. Noting the sword on his belt that was now as much a part of him as the staff had been, she said, “As you will,” and resumed her course.

  As Abel had said, they were fairly compatible in the progress they made, though she sensed that, in spite of the hitch in his stride, he could have left her behind if she was not of a mind to increase her pace.

  “’Tis good of you to aid Lord D’Arci with his books,” she said as they entered the wood.

  “Trying is what it is. Though my training at Wulfen included the management of household finances, I put as little effort into it as possible, resentful as I was of the time that could be better spent improving my skills at arms.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “But for all that, aiding Lord D’Arci has been a good distraction these past days and has helped to pass the time when I am not at practice with Sir Durand.”

  Catching sight of a promising patch of plants growing alongside a low-lying shrub, Helene veered to the right. “You seem satisfied with your progress,” she said as she bent to examine the green, lightly fuzzed leaves and stems.

  “I am.” He halted alongside her. “Obviously, I should not have been so averse to placing myself in your hands or losing a wager to you. You have done me much good.”

  Pleased, she kept her head down so he would not see her smile, then removed her meat dagger from her girdle and cut a handful of the plant she would use in a preparation to alleviate the discomfort Cook suffered in his joints. Tucking it in her basket, she straightened. “You will soon return to Wulfen Castle, then.”

  “I shall.”

  And then what? she longed to ask. Instead, she ventured deeper into the wood and set her mind to the half dozen ingredients she hoped to take back to the castle.

  Abel followed, and she directed their conversation toward the plants she plucked and cut, listing their healing properties, which ones required careful handling, which parts were useful, and the dangers of improper use that could cause patients more harm than that for which they were being treated.

  “All this you learned at the convent?” he asked as she uprooted a fragile plant with flowers not much larger than the point of a quill.

  “Aye, I was told healing came naturally to me, that it was a gift bestowed by God and I should honor Him by setting my hands and mind to giving relief to those who suffered.” And with Sister Clare’s encouragement, she had done so. The unexpected blessing had been that, though her training in the infirmary overlapped her other lessons, Sister Clare had set aside time each evening to work with her. Just the two of them.

  Helene smiled and held up the plant, roots and all. “This will make a most bitter drink, but one that, if it can be held long enough in the belly to pass through—and sometimes it cannot—will aid a woman during her monthly…” She grimaced. “That lesson will not serve you in any measure.”

  He shrugged. “‘Tis interesting.”

  They continued on, but the next half hour yielded no further bounty. If not that she was loath to return to the castle, certain Baron Lavonne would soon arrive had he not already, she would have started back.

  You are being a coward.

  So she was.

  “If it would not lower me too much in your estimation,” Abel said, “I would rest my leg ere we venture farther.”

  “Of course.” She gestured at a large, moss-mottled stone. “We can sit there.”

  Shortly, they lowered to the tilted surface and Abel stretched out on his back. “’Tis cool,” he said, and she realized she had also warmed during their walk. But tempted as she was to lie back, she drew her knees up and wrapped her arms around them.

  “Tell me about your husband, Helene.”

  She looked around and saw Abel had closed his eyes. “I do not understand how Willem could be of interest to you.”

  “Do you not?” He opened one eye and considered her. “He was wed to you and fathered John.”

  “Aye.” Though wary of speaking of her departed husband, she was also hopeful his interest meant that, in all the days that had passed, he yet sought to make a place in his life for her and her son.

  “Did you love him?”

  She swallowed. “I married him.”

  “That does not mean your heart was his, just as my heart was not my wife’s though vows were spoken between us.”

  “Then you never loved her?”

  His chest rose with a deep breath, and he returned to the dark behind his lids. “I did not. ‘Twas a marriage for alliance and lands, though I had hoped…” His laugh was sharp. “’Twas your marriage we were discussing, not mine.”

  “Nay, we were not discussing my mar
riage.”

  After a long moment, he said, “No wager, but a bargain, hmm? I shall tell you what I can about Rosamund and trust that you shall then tell me about Willem.”

  It was heartening that he offered to speak first, but still she hesitated, for unraveling one piece of her past might leave surrounding pieces frayed such that they would begin unraveling on their own before she was ready to reveal the large, frightening swatch at her center that bore the names of Aldous and Robert Lavonne.

  “Rosamund was lovely,” Abel said, taking her silence as agreement, “and appeared to have all the grace and talent of a well-raised lady, but when I first met her—only days before our wedding—I glimpsed something in her eyes and manner that unsettled me. But always her mother or father or a maid was at her side, giving us no moment alone in which to converse that I might confirm it was not shyness that made it difficult for her to hold my gaze nor prayer that caused incoherent words to whisper from her lips.”

  Helene remembered his reaction to her whispered prayers when he had come upon her working with mortar and pestle. “Her mind was not right,” she said.

  “’Twas not, and though I argued that the nuptials be postponed, my concerns were waved aside. Thus, rather than break the betrothal as I should have done no matter the consequences, I spoke vows with her.”

  “Was there no joy at all in your marriage?”

  He lifted his lids and peered at her. “To my surprise, during those first weeks I was almost glad our families had pressed us to wed, for though she was mostly quiet and reserved, at times she was so happy and vibrant I began to believe she merely needed time to adjust to being a wife. I even thought I might come to care deeply for her, perhaps venture as far as love.”

  Helene shifted around to ease the strain in her neck. “What happened?”

  “The others inside her began to uncoil.”

  “Others? Inside her?”

  “So it seemed. ’Twas if she were possessed by demons.”

  A shiver went through Helene.