by Tamara Leigh
“And so?” Everard pressed.
Was he emotionally ready to stand in so esteemed a position of authority, one that would be difficult—perhaps even impossible—to maintain? All these months, he had ground his teeth and quieted his tongue as best he could while Everard and Garr and others devised ways to strengthen the left hand that had been more than adept at wielding a dagger. In the end, the simplest means had yielded the best result—tying his disabled right hand behind his back during practice, thereby forcing him to think only with the one curled around the sword hilt.
As for his injured leg, one humiliating fall after another and another and untold others had motivated him to refine the balance required to keep both feet firm beneath him. Now, despite the limp by which he would ever be known, the leg was nearly as strong as the other.
He nearly laughed when, in taking stock of his injuries, his scarred face came to mind. Unlike the other injuries, it was of good benefit, as evidenced by the awe with which the young men regarded him when their eyes lingered too long upon his visage that served as visual proof he was no stranger to defending life and limb and, more, surviving. Still, his face was much improved as Helene had said it would be with proper care and the passage of time. Of course, a good portion of the ridged flesh was concealed beneath his beard, the growth of which he had hardly checked since the battle at Soaring.
“Your silence begins to worry me,” Everard said, “as it causes me to question how greatly diminished that lofty confidence of yours may be.”
Abel looked around. “Mayhap I merely practice at being humble.”
Everard snorted, a rare, unexpected sound. “Though you make progress there as well, I do not think mastery of humility when called for is yet within your grasp. Indeed, I would not be surprised if, when next you find yourself in battle, you once again determine that only you can turn a bad tide—and with violence when a less deadly means could more easily name you the victor.”
Abel also thought it likely, for it was no easy thing to change one’s person merely because one wished to. But as this was not a conversation he wanted to pursue any more than he had wanted to pursue it with Garr, he said, “All the more reason to submit to practice,” and, feeling the coarse hairs of his beard beneath the hand he had not realized he had put to his face, added, “Methinks it is time I also submitted to a shave.”
Everard eyed him, then smiled wryly. “I shall be happy to see you rid of that thing. Indeed, if you have not a very sharp blade with which to accomplish the task”—he drew a hand up his forehead and over his shaved scalp—“you have but to ask.”
It was years since Abel had questioned what had caused his brother to adopt a style that was far from popular and required much upkeep, but though tempted to inquire again, he did not believe Everard would be forthcoming. Thus, he said, “I may come begging for it,” then returned to the matter at hand. “As for the training of my young men, I am ready.”
This time, Everard’s smile had teeth. “It will be good to see you don the Wulfrith dagger again.”
That, of course, was not possible, but Everard would just have to accept its absence.
“Your squires shall be returned to you on the morrow.”
“Not this day?”
“Nay, this day you and I shall meet at swords well ere dawn and, I vow, you will be most threadbare when I am done with you.”
Everard and his night exercises…
“I shall warn you,” he continued, “though I know you favor training squires to—What is it? Think, feel, breathe, and embrace death when they are at arms?—’tis life to which I shall expect you to turn your senses. Your life and the lives of those you protect, rather than your opponent’s death.”
Abel nearly retorted that they were but different words for the same thing. However, he knew it would only sound like the excuse it was for the means by which he had trained up some of the most fierce warriors to pass through Wulfen. And so he held his peace.
Everard clapped him on the shoulder and stood. “When you are finished here, meet me at the gatehouse.”
As he turned away, Abel said, “I still do not know for what you pray.”
Everard peered across his shoulder. “For our family, of course—those of our blood and those with whom we have been entrusted here at Wulfen.”
“Aye, but what do you ask of Him for you?”
Everard chuckled, though there was not much merriment in the sound. “The same you ask of Him—those things that yet exceed your grasp. Now, I shall leave you to it.” He turned and Abel listened to his footsteps recede and the doors close behind him.
What eludes you, brother? At what do you grasp that exceeds your reach?
He grunted. Garr was easy to know compared to Everard who seemed, at times, almost a stranger considering how near he held his thoughts and emotions. Still, surely there was—or would one day be—a woman who eluded Everard, one whom he would wish to take to wife.
Abel raised his scarred right hand and curled the fingers inward as far as they would go. “I hope your journey is easier than mine, Everard,” he murmured, then bowed his head.
He offered up prayers for his mother’s return to good health, for Gaenor and her babe, for all Wulfriths by blood and marriage, and for those who worked and trained at Wulfen. Then he turned to those things yet out of his grasp and laid before the Lord the woman who eluded him—and might ever do so.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Parsings Village upon the barony of Wiltford, England
Early May, 1158
His attention was unwelcome, but no matter how kindly, sympathetically, or firmly worded were her requests that he look elsewhere for a wife to do his cooking and cleaning and caring for his children, he persisted. And Helene grew weary.
Still, she must tread carefully. Jacob of Parsings was not only well respected, but his youngest daughter, who was the same age as John, had been a good companion to her son these past weeks. Of course, much of the appeal of the dirty, scrape-kneed girl was her inclination to behave as if she had been born a boy and her ability to win nearly as many skirmishes with John as she lost to him. That Helene did not wish to take from him which, she feared, might happen if she did not find a way to convince Jacob she was not the wife and mother he sought.
“Lord, what am I to do without causing more offense than already I have done?” she muttered as she re-tied a bundle of herbs among the dozens suspended from the ceiling. “Though John needs a father, I shall not wed again unless there is love…”
The moment Abel rose to mind, she turned him away, but as usual, he slipped in as if by a hidden door and she gave herself over to him long enough to raise a hand to her lips in remembrance of his kiss.
She yanked her arm to her side. “I do not love you,” she rasped, certain the more often she spoke it, the sooner it would be so.
Was it truly six months since their parting? It seemed many times that, every day that passed doing so only after it dragged its lumbering self across her consciousness.
She sighed and returned to her work table and the medicinal that would soothe baby Ann whose mother did not change her cloths often enough to keep the sensitive skin of her nethers from turning a bright, blister-strewn red.
As Helene scooped the salve into a small jar, she resumed her prayers, asking the Lord to watch over the child and comfort her during her time of healing, for Ann’s mother not to forget to apply the salve often, and for the medicinal to do its good work.
She would have continued with her beseeching if not that something at the edge of her consciousness slipped through, parting her from her prayers and bringing her to the realization there was not only a brighter cast of light within the cottage but the breath of a breeze.
Clasping the jar in one hand, the spoon in the other, Helene pivoted and found herself watched by a young woman who stood in the open doorway.
“Margery!” she exclaimed, unsettled by the young woman’s presence and the possibility of having b
een overheard.
Nay, she corrected, it was not mere possibility, for these prayers had not been whispered since only John entered their home without first requesting permission to do so. Indeed, the last time someone had so trespassed was when Robert had stolen her from Tippet so she might care for their father.
Margery, perhaps fifteen years aged and looking more pleasantly plump than most of the villagers who were slower to recover from the scarcity of the winter months, put her head to the side. “With what words do you stir the air, healer?”
Unlike Jacob’s youngest daughter who had earlier invited John outside to play a game of hiding and seeking among the blossoming branches of spring, his oldest daughter was of a less agreeable disposition and prone to idleness, which was likely one of the reasons her father sought a wife and mother for his two other children.
Helene set the jar and spoon on the table and put her hands on her hips. “For what do you enter my home without invitation, Margery?”
“I must needs speak with you.”
“Ah, and you did not think to knock?”
She shrugged. “I am told I am rude that way.”
It was not an answer Helene expected, but she rose above her surprise and said, “If you wish to speak, come inside and close the door.”
With a pinched smile, Margery did as bid and crossed to the work table where her eyes picked over the items. “You have not told me what you were speaking when I entered.”
It was understandable the young woman would not recognize the words, for they had been Norman-French, the language Helene had few occasions to use in Parsings since she had only John and, occasionally, Durand with whom to speak it.
“I was praying.” Helene hoped she did not sound as nervous as she felt. “I call upon the Lord to bless the work of my hands and those who receive my medicinals.”
The young woman frowned. “Never have I seen Amos do that.”
She spoke of the aged healer. “’Tis as I was taught to do at the convent where I was given the gift of healing. So, tell me, what would you speak to me about?”
“I wish to marry.”
The words were so blunt—so lacking joy—that Helene could only stare.
“And you make it impossible for me to do so.”
Helene raised her eyebrows. “What say you?”
Margery huffed. “My sire has offered to wed you and give your boy a father—a generous offer that many women would snatch hold of—and each time you refuse him.”
Helene nodded. “So I shall continue to do, for I did not come to Parsings in search of a husband. I came in search of a home.”
The muscles in the young woman’s jaw tightened further. “He will not allow me to wed until he himself weds again, though now there is one who would take me to wife. However, if my father keeps telling him nay, he will choose another.”
Now Helene understood. Jacob was unwilling to release his daughter unless he had another who could take her place—more than take her place. She sighed. “I am sorry I cannot aid you in beginning a life of your own, but I will not wed your father.”
Margery’s upper lip drew back, but no sooner did Helene steel herself to be more forceful, than tears brightened the young woman’s eyes. “I am ten and four. I have served as mother to my brother and sister for nigh on five years. I beseech you, accept my father.”
Though tempted to lay a comforting hand upon her shoulder, Helene wove her fingers together at her waist. As much as she pitied Margery, she would not sacrifice herself, and most certainly not her son. “I cannot. I am sure, though, as you have told, there are other women who would happily make him a good wife.”
Margery’s face flushed. “Before you came to Parsings, he might have chosen another, but now he will have none but you. ‘Tis as if…” She sucked breath between the gap in her teeth. “…you have bewitched him.”
Helene’s heart shuddered, for such words were not to be carelessly flung about, especially in light of her profession. However, she maintained as calm a face as possible and said, “I do not wish to wed.”
“Not even the knight who visits you?”
“He is my friend. Only that.”
“Some say he is more—that you are his leman.”
The fear that had been crouching at the base of Helene’s spine crept up her back and slid its fingers around her neck. She knew there were whispers about Durand who had delivered her to Parsings and who had visited John and her several times. For that reason, they had been careful to keep their visits above reproach by making them short and visible in the light of day. But now to hear the speculation spoken aloud…
She put her chin up and shifted her shoulders in an attempt to send fear back down the way it had come. “Those who speak such things ought to seek God’s forgiveness for their lies.”
“If they are lies!” Margery hissed, flecking her with saliva.
Helene drew herself up to her full height and crossed the dirt floor the young woman had so recently traversed. “I bid you good day,” she said and pulled the door open.
The nasty expression fell from Margery’s face. “He will be angry.”
Helene blinked. “Did your father send you?”
She shook her head. “I myself offered to speak with you.”
But Jacob knew she had come. “How angry will he be? Might he strike you?”
Margery’s chin snapped up. “He is a good man and would make you a good husband.”
Though Helene had seen no evidence of abuse upon his children, there was something about Jacob that bothered her beyond his persistence at gaining her for a wife, and so she asked again, “Does he strike you?”
“Only when punishment is deserved,” Margery snapped and strode forward.
Helene caught the young woman’s arm as she drew alongside. “I am sorry, Margery. Though I will aid you however I can, I will not do so by taking a husband.”
She jerked free, said, “I pray you choke on your pity,” and stepped outside.
Helene watched her take quick steps across the barren ground and go from sight, then closed the door and leaned back against it. Had she made a mistake in coming to Parsings? Would her conversation with Margery bring an end to Jacob’s pursuit or cause him to increase his efforts?
More, what would his daughter do with her resentment, fueled as it might be by her belief Helene had bewitched her father. And, of course, there was the suspicion over Durand.
She closed her eyes. “Lord, let it not have been a mistake coming here. Let us know peace and acceptance in Parsings. Above all, keep my John safe.”
Deciding she would speak with Durand about the situation when next he came, which would surely be within a sennight, she raised the hem of her skirts, put a foot forward, and was comforted by the sight of the jeweled dagger she continued to strap just above her ankle. Hopefully, never would she be forced to use it.
Chapter Twenty-Five
No ill had come to pass in the five days since the encounter with Margery, but still its presence was felt just over Helene’s shoulder, its breath sometimes so hot and foul that she longed to run.
Never had she been more aware of the stares of others and the looks that passed between them, nor more tense when her path was crossed by Jacob who had, blessedly, not proposed marriage again. Indeed, he did not even allude to such an arrangement on the fewer occasions they had spoken since Margery’s visit to her cottage. But then, those exchanges had been as curt on Jacob’s end as they were rare.
Though hopeful it meant his pursuit was at an end, it made Helene wary—and eager for Durand’s visit. Thus, this day she had sent a missive to him at Firth Castle by way of a villager who had left at dawn to deliver cloth to the lord’s wife.
“Tilda is come!” John announced where he had stood at the crack of the door for the last quarter hour.
Grateful Jacob’s daughter continued to seek her son’s company, Helene said, “Don your mantle and you may go out to her.”
“’Tis not s
o cold as that,” he protested.
Actually, it was, for it was yet early, the breeze upon the air hinting at being coaxed into something less gentle, and the sky hung with clouds so thick and deep there was little chance of sunlight slipping through. Still, providing chill rain did not fall upon Parsings, her active son would soon enough generate enough warmth. “Very well,” she said, “but stay near lest it rains, hmm?”
“I shall!” He lunged outside and yanked the door closed.
From beyond the warped and weathered planks, Helene heard the excited chatter of her son and his friend as she struggled to finish her bowl of pottage that had cooled and gone thick.
Chastising herself for having allowed herself to be spoiled by the wondrous viands of Castle Soaring—though that was hardly the root of her lack of appetite—she rose from the stool before the fire pit and turned her thoughts to the day ahead that had little hope of passing quickly.
Since requests for her services had sagged these past days, she had only to prepare a few medicinals. The most pressing one was for the young wife and mother whose cottage was situated beside hers and who sometimes suffered such terrible aches of the head that she was confined to her pallet with the shutters closed to keep out the light. Petronilla was her name, and she had become a friend since, with God’s help, Helene had snatched the woman’s infant daughter from a coughing death shortly after her arrival in Parsings. Unfortunately, though Helene felt she had proved her skill as a healer, Petronilla’s husband continued to regard her with suspicion and urge his wife to seek the services of the old healer. Hardly faint of heart, his wife refused.
A half hour later, with the sound of John’s and Tilda’s laughter and shouts slipping through the cracks of her wattle and daub walls, Helene decided against her mantle as her son had done and stepped outside with her friend’s medicinal in hand. Immediately, she halted, for a lad of ten and some years ran toward her.
