by Tamara Leigh
“Only true if I did not have a care for your wellbeing.”
Having no pouch in which to secure the missive, Abel tightened his belt and tucked the parchment beneath it. “All I require is to gain back what was stolen from me—and to attempt to wear out the knees of my breeches as devotedly as you do.”
“Admirable goals. But once you have attained them, what then? Will you go to her?”
Abel hesitated. “That is as I aspire to do, but much depends upon how well I progress these next months.”
“Then we should all the sooner return to practice.”
Abel pulled his sword from its sheath with his left hand and curled his right hand around the uncommonly thick hilt of the dagger Everard had caused to be fashioned to fit the grip of the injured hand. Because of the dagger’s light weight and short length relative to a sword, it could be wielded in further defense of his person—providing he did not lose control of it as sometimes happened.
Time is my ally, he reminded himself, only to question if that was so. After all, much could happen in the months ahead as he struggled to reassemble the warrior he had been. It would be far enough time for the man who had first kissed Helene and Helene who had said it was Abel’s mouth upon hers that she preferred, to test the bounds of their friendship—
Finding the point of a blade at his throat, Abel silently flayed himself for allowing jealousy to render him impotent. I must forget Helene.
Nay, not forget. Put her aside. For now.
Looking down the sword’s length, he met his brother’s gaze.
Garr raised his eyebrows. “I wonder which of our father’s lessons would best speak to this moment.”
“That would be three.” Abel recalled the blade at the center of his chest when, barely of a height to reach Drogo Wulfrith’s hip, he had been distracted by the laughter of his peers who had been given leave to quit the training field ahead of the baron’s sons from whom more was always required.
“For me, ‘twas lesson eight,” Garr said, then swung his sword aside, shouted, “Make ready!” and came again.
Abel fought him off as best he could, which was better than he had done on the day past. But eventually his left-handed grip betrayed him and the sword flew free, leaving him with only the short-reaching dagger to fend off Garr who, to Abel’s frustration, showed more mercy to a full-grown man than ever he had shown to a squire training toward knighthood.
“I am not a boy!” Abel shouted, then ducked beneath Garr’s sweeping blade and, before his brother could reverse his swing, lunged and drew a fine line of blood from his opponent’s cheek.
“Ho!” Garr jumped back and put his sword between them. “I underestimated you.” He drew a thumb down the cut, glanced at the blood, then inclined his head. “It hardly rivals your scar but, certes, you are no boy. Now retrieve your sword and prove just how grown you are.”
Abel could not have brought the weapon more quickly to hand.
Their clash lasted another quarter hour and ended only when Abel’s leg cramped so violently it dropped him to his knees, his bared teeth evidencing the shouts of pain he would not allow to pass his lips.
Blessedly, Garr let him be.
However, when Abel once more gained his feet, his brother said, “We are finished.”
“I am not finished!”
“Aye, for now.” Garr turned away.
“You!”
The eldest Wulfrith brother did not look around but called over his shoulder, “Push hard, Abel, but only so hard as benefits you and others.”
“Is that a lesson?”
“Only if it needs to be.”
Abel stared after him, knowing it would do no good to seek to change his mind. Garr was decided and, with the exception of his lady wife, Annyn, rarely deviated from a decision once it was made.
When he went from sight, Abel looked around the training field and considered the dozens of grouped young men separated by fences. Again, frustration rolled through him. He should be on the other side of the sword, not this side relegated to pages and squires subject to the commands and instruction of knights in full.
Such wounds to his pride he suffered each day to find himself an object of curiosity for the boys who had once looked upon him with due respect. However, it had been his choice to train among them, and one not easily arrived at, but which prayer and reflection had prompted him to embrace. Fortunately, with the passing of each day during which he perspired until his clothes clung, and his muscles burned and ached until arrested by cramps and fatigue, he was becoming of less interest.
He released a great breath and, as he resheathed his weapons, saw that the missive beneath his belt had fallen victim to his perspiration, smearing much of Durand’s writing. Though tempted to curse, he did not, for that was another ungodly tendency over which he sought to gain control—with much prodding from Garr.
“I must make better progress,” he growled and, with aching effort to minimize his limp, strode from the training field.
“Our little brother is in love,” Everard said where he stood alongside Garr on the wall watching Abel’s progress toward the portcullis. “Do you think he knows it?”
Garr did not move his gaze from his youngest brother. “Mayhap more the question is: how do you know it?”
Indeed, Everard mused. He turned to the side, leaned a shoulder against the battlement, and crossed his arms over his chest. “I know from what you have shared about this Helene of Tippet, but more from our brother who is a changed man and, methinks, not only due to his injuries. Of course, it also aids that I have observed the behavior of one brother in love.”
Garr’s mouth grew a smile that Everard knew was the result of his thoughts turning to the woman who had years ago come to Wulfen Castle in the disguise of a squire.
“So,” Everard said, “do you think he knows he is in love?”
“He knows it.”
“Is that good?”
“’Tis, especially if it causes him to sooner don the Wulfrith dagger he eschews.” Garr drew the back of a hand across his moist brow. “For as you have guessed, much of this he does for her when not so long ago he was morosely content to hate away his days.”
“I do not believe he confided that in you.”
“At the risk of souring the wine in your belly, Everard, I know the lengths to which a man will go for the love of a woman. Indeed, if ever you determine to wed, I believe you will go as far—mayhap farther.”
Taking no moment to consider it, which he had long ago determined was the best course of action, Everard said, “My life is here at Wulfen Castle.”
“You have no desire to settle with a wife and grow your own family?”
Conscious of what his face might reveal, Everard shrugged. “I have thought on it a time or two, but that path does not seem cut for me. Too, there must always be a Wulfrith at Wulfen Castle to oversee the good work of providing England with worthy warriors, and I do not forget, as I am certain you do not, that our father was mostly unloved by our mother since he was rarely at Stern Castle other than to beget more sons upon her.”
After a long moment, Garr said, “’Twas more than his absence from our mother’s life that caused the division between them. After all, Stern is not so far that he could not have better divided his time between here and there.”
Everard frowned. “I suppose that is all you will tell me.”
Garr inclined his head. “’Tis not my tale, but mother’s. Suffice it to say, it could be done, Everard, especially as we are three strong whereas there was only Drogo.”
Everard lifted his face to the sun and felt the heat move from his shaved pate to his brow and cheeks. “Methinks it would be a disservice to our young men and their families if the keeper of Wulfen Castle was ever changing.”
“Then you underestimate those given into our charge, for much of the strength of a warrior lies in his ability to adapt to change, not only in his environment but in those to whom he must give a good account.”
Everard pushed off the battlement and clapped a hand to Garr’s shoulder. “It does me good to know you concern yourself with my happiness. However, as you will agree, it is Abel to whom we should direct our efforts. He is as fierce as ever, but not only must he strengthen his leg and learn to compensate for its shortcomings, he must train his left hand do what his right once did. Indeed, it puts me in a mind that, more than ever we have done, we ought to pursue our squires’ facility at arms using their non-dominant hands.”
Though the annoyance that flickered across Garr’s face evidenced he was loath to return to talk of Abel, he turned from the wall and said, “I believe you are right.”
As they traversed the walkway side by side, Everard said, “Certes, I am right. Thus, I shall task our knights with devising exercises to make it so.”
“You are truly content to be the keeper of Wulfen?” Garr nudged him back to where he did not wish to go.
“I am,” Everard said again as his brother preceded him down the winding stairs. “I make no promises, but I believe I shall remain here until your son is well grown and ready to take my place.”
“Providing you do not find yourself in love.”
Glad Garr’s back was turned to him, Everard said, “Little chance of that here—unless I manage to make an enemy of the sister of one of our young men as you did.”
Garr gave a grunt of laughter. “True, or you determine to befriend an abandoned boy and rescue his mother.”
Everard shook his head. “Not my lot, Garr. And, methinks, it never shall be.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Broehne Castle, England
Early April, 1158
The hard, life-giving work was done, and now a child—a boy of such good size it was most blessed that his mother was no thin-stemmed, bend-in-the-wind flower like her sister, Lady Beatrix.
Breathing in the joy that was a fragrance upon the air despite the scents of pain and straining and comings and goings of others that not even the wide open shutters could yet dispel, Helene felt herself revive after her own hard labor. It had taken nearly all the daylight hours to deliver Lady Gaenor’s babe, but now her nephew who had first come into her hands, was truly in the world.
Helene glanced at Baron Wulfrith’s wife whom she had come to stand alongside following the after-birth ministrations that had ended with the removal of the birthing chair. Lady Annyn was lovely, so much that when it was learned she had years ago posed as a squire to gain entrance to Wulfen Castle and work revenge upon the man to whom she was now wed, Helene had nearly laughed aloud. It was true that some men, especially the young, possessed less than masculine features, but Lady Annyn’s face was unmistakably feminine. Of course, she had been some years younger and her hair would surely have been shorn.
The woman who occupied Helene’s thoughts leaned over her sister-in-law, causing the plaits of raven hair upon her back to shift and settle along the curve of her shoulder. “’Tis a good beginning,” she said and pushed the perspiration-dampened strands off the new mother’s brow.
Lady Beatrix, who stood on the opposite side of the bed cradling the son of one and the nephew of the other three in the chamber, made a sound of protest, then exclaimed, “A good beginning?”
Lady Annyn looked up. “I have seen our Gaenor and her husband when they think no one watches, and there will surely be many more little Lavonnes crawling and running about the donjon, just as I believe you and Michael will be so blessed.”
Appearing undisturbed by a womb that, thus far, remained empty, Lady Beatrix said, “In God’s time,” then stepped near her sister and asked, “You would hold your son again?”
“Soon.” Lady Gaenor turned her head on the pillow. “I am ready for my husband, Helene.” He who had long paced outside the chamber and, on not a few occasions when his wife’s labors were most intense, knocked with great urgency to learn how she fared.
Further warmed to her unacknowledged brother, Helene nodded, crossed the solar, and opened the door.
Christian Lavonne pivoted where he had just passed the doorway and, before the words, “Your wife and son await you, my lord,” fully sprang from her mouth, he was past her.
Surprisingly—though not truly—he did not first go to his heir. Rather, he gained his wife’s side with the aid of Lady Annyn who quickly stepped aside to make room for him.
Helene’s heart expanded further in her chest when her brother leaned down and touched a hand to his wife’s cheek. “You are well?”
“More well than I can say.” She kissed his palm. “Now meet our son.”
He brushed his mouth across hers, then made quick work of the strides required to reach Lady Beatrix on the opposite side.
As Helene crossed the rushes to the foot of the bed, Christian stared into the cloths that bundled his son. Then, voice tight with emotion, he said, “May I hold him, Beatrix?”
Her laughter was reminiscent of the tiny bells worn by Lady Gaenor’s servant, Aimee, when the young woman had bustled around the solar, eager to play a part in ushering her mistress into motherhood. “You need not ask permission to hold your own son, my lord.”
“Indeed.” He reached as if to take him, paused, and splayed his hands in silent question.
Lady Beatrix stepped near, eased the babe into his arms, and placed his hands where they would best support it.
“He is so small,” Christian murmured.
Now it was Lady Annyn’s turn to laugh. “That is no small babe, Baron Lavonne, and no small task was it for your wife to deliver him unto you.”
He looked to Lady Gaenor. “Truly, you are well?”
She smiled. “Quite.”
Sensing he required further assurance, Helene said, “Two days, my lord, and your lady wife will be out of bed. Two days after that, she will be about the castle again.”
Christian turned his face to her. “Thank you, Helene. Again, my family is in your debt.”
His family, though if she would but tell what always his eyes asked of her—and what he had given her plenty of opportunities to reveal—it would be her family as well. But she could not, though time and again she promised herself that she would for John’s sake. John whose years would soon number six and who not only continued to aspire to the sword, but had taken well to the written word during the long winter months that were finally behind them.
She drew a deep breath. “I will leave you now, though I shall pass the night in your hall should Lady Gaenor have need of me.” She shifted her regard to Christian’s wife, inclined her head, and left the chamber.
The corridor was empty and, as she traversed it, she let the day’s miracle wash over her, hoping it would also wash away the angst to which she often succumbed when in close quarters with her brother. It did not.
You should tell him and be done with it.
It was Sister Clare whose words came less often with the passing of each month that distanced Helene from the nun’s death and the departure from Castle Soaring.
Aye, I should tell him, Helene agreed, but Abel—
Abel from whom she had not heard in all the months since she had left Castle Soaring, though she told herself it was to be expected and a good thing. Still, in the heart of her, though she had pushed it down deep, was a fragment of the hope she had taken with her the day they had bid farewell—that she would see him again and he would be healed in all ways. But it was just a fragment, and jagged-edged at that.
But should I see him again, and if he still bears me ill will, it will pain me all the more. Thus, acknowledging to Christian that his father was also hers would only make it more difficult to extricate John and herself from Abingdale should exposure to the Wulfriths—and Abel—become unbearable. Indeed, the ties that bind could become the ties that choke.
“Cease!” she whispered as she began her descent to the great hall where she hoped John, who had accompanied her to Broehne Castle, caused no mischief with his wooden sword. However, as she came off the last step, the sight of him dr
opped her back into the midst of her dilemma.
Somehow, her son had managed to engage the attention of Baron Wulfrith who had arrived a sennight past with his wife, Lady Annyn, that they might be present for the birth. Though Lord D’Arci, Lady Beatrix’s husband, did not also wield a piece of kindling against John’s sword, he stood near the raised dais upon which trestle tables would soon be erected for the lord and those of highest rank to partake of supper. Goblet in hand, the physician watched as the giant to John’s sprite met swing with swing and jab with jab.
Finding her voice, Helene called, “John!”
If he heard her, it was not enough to incite him to lower his sword. However, Baron Wulfrith did look around and, in the next instant, fell victim to a blow delivered to his knee with such force the sound went around the hall.
Fearing the baron would not take kindly to being struck, especially by one of common birth, Helene cried, “Nay, John!” and ran forward.
Though her son’s next aim was for Baron Wulfrith’s abdomen, this time the little boy reacted to the sound of her voice by swiveling his head around—only to find himself gripped about the waist and swept into the air.
Facing out where he could do his opponent no further injury, John flailed a moment before the fight went out of him and he began to laugh so joyfully Helene stuttered to a halt.
Baron Wulfrith slanted a smile at her where she stood ten feet away, then peered up at her son. “And there is a lesson for you, young John. Let no man—or woman—distract you from your purpose.”
John looked down over his shoulder at the man who held him aloft. “But I got you first—and good!”
“True, and I shall feel that ache for no few days. But only one of us is now at the mercy of the other, hmm?” The baron raised his eyebrows, and Helene thought it beyond likely John had landed the blow only because it had served the purpose of a man who was rarely—if ever—distracted from his purpose.
Her son pushed out his lower lip, but when his feet once more touched the floor and he was loosed, he ran to Helene. “Mama!” Eyes bright, he gripped her skirts. “Did you see? Did you see?”
