by Tamara Leigh
But a little while, she assured herself.
Continuing to grip the meat dagger, she reached with her other hand and touched the hilt of Abel’s dagger, then turned her thoughts to where John and she would go when the new day was upon them. Back to the barony of Abingdale? One of the villages near the convent she had left so many years ago? Farther yet?
“Oh, Abel,” she whispered, “why did you have to view me through the sins of others?” Dropping her chin to her chest, she let months of stored tears empty from her eyes.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“I care not what any say,” Petronilla declared as soon as Helene closed the door to prevent muddle-eyed John from overhearing their conversation. “I would never believe it of you.”
Having left her son sitting cross-legged before the fire pit, yawning and staring at the bowl of porridge she had placed in his hands after awakening him, Helene motioned for her friend to follow her to the center of the scrap of land upon which her cottage was situated.
Drawing the hood over her head, clasping her mantle to her as she had done on the night past when she had stood shivering before Jacob, she glanced at the lightening sky. Providing there were no clouds in pursuit of the ones that had departed overnight, the sun would soon be risen—and her journey with John begun.
“I thank you, Petronilla, but you must know this talk of Amos’s death means John and I cannot remain in Parsings.”
The woman shifted her blanketed babe to the opposite shoulder and, eyes moist, said, “I shall be sad to lose you as a friend.”
Helene’s throat tightened. Though she was nowhere near as attached to Petronilla as she had been to Sister Clare whom she had also left behind, she had begun to feel a kinship with this woman. “As I shall be sad to lose you, Petronilla.”
“Where will you go?”
“Away is all I know,” Helene said, though once they were distant from Parsings she was fairly certain she would turn toward Broehne Castle where John’s safety and future were most readily assured.
“What of your knight?”
“I do not know if Sir Durand has received my missive, but he will come eventually and, when he does, I ask you to tell him that we follow the road west by way of the bordering wood.” The less likely to be seen.
“Do you think the village leaders will give pursuit?”
“I fear they might, though I pray they will be content with my leaving.” Helene reached forward and laid a hand on the young woman’s shoulder. “I must finish packing our belongings, and you must get your sweet babe inside where ‘tis warm.” And before her husband, Irwyn, awoke and noted her absence.
With a watery smile, Petronilla stepped near and, despite the babe that wriggled between them, embraced her.
Helene sank into the comfort of those arms. “All will be well,” she said. Pray, let it be well.
Petronilla turned her mouth to Helene’s ear. “Godspeed, my friend—”
“Helene of Parsings!”
Both women startled and pulled apart to face the knot of men who came around the bend in the road.
Too late! How have you survived this long to now fail your son, Helene?
“Oh, bless me!” Petronilla gasped.
Helene peered over her shoulder at the door of her cottage that shielded John from a sight that could prove more terrible than his witness of her abduction.
As the men advanced, she turned her face to Petronilla’s fearful one and said, “I shall go with them.”
“Nay!”
“There is naught for it. If I resist, John will hear and see what I would wish myself dead before having him witness. I beseech you, keep him safe until Sir Durand comes, which he will surely do ere long. When he does, give my son into his keeping—”
“Helene of Parsings!” the man called again.
“Tell him he must see John safely away from here ere he thinks to offer me aid.”
Petronilla’s chin bounced. “I shall tell him, and I will keep your boy near until then.”
Helene believed she would do so if possible, but still there was the woman’s husband to consider. He would not like his wife aiding a condemned woman. But it was Helene’s only hope for John.
“I thank you,” she said, then looked to the men and thought it peculiar that more than a dozen came for her, some carrying sticks and tools as if they truly feared she was so powerful a witch it would require all of them and arms to subdue her.
Wanting them no nearer the cottage, she stepped forward and felt the brush of Petronilla’s hand on her sleeve as if the woman thought to pull her back only to realize how futile it would be.
Though the men could well enough see her, Helene called, “I am here!” and stepped onto the road.
Had she hoped far enough ahead that her surrender would afford her a measure of civility, she would have been disappointed, for there was nothing gentle about the hands that seized her, that wrenched the hood from her head, that thrust open her mantle, that tore the belt from her waist and, with it, the meat dagger.
“Helene of Parsings, you are accused of consorting with the devil,” declared a narrowly built man with wiry gray hair whom she knew only by sight. “For the good of the village and its peaceful, God-abiding folk, you will stand trial for the murder of Amos the healer, the bewitching of Jacob of Parsings, your attack upon same, and the work of the devil into whose hands you have given your own hands. How say you?”
Beginning to perspire despite the crisp morning air, she glanced over her shoulder and found solace in the sight of Petronilla entering the cottage where, Helene prayed, John was yet too drowsy to heed the voices outside that had roused others in nearby cottages.
One of the men shook her, causing her head to snap forward. “Answer!”
“I say nay,” she gasped and gasped again when her mantle was whipped to the side and her hands wrenched together at her back. Then came the binding of her wrists, so tight she instantly began to lose feeling.
Dear Lord, what have I done to warrant Your silence? The back You turn to me? Pray, if You would grant one thing, deliver my John into Durand’s hands and see them safely away.
Rough hands swung her around, slammed between her shoulders, gripped her upper arm when she fell forward, and yanked her upright.
“Walk, else I shall drag you by the hair, witch!” snarled a man whose breath was so foul she thought some sickness must be eating his insides.
Though tempted to keep her chin down, Helene kept it up and did not avert her gaze when those who had come for her looked her way or those who ventured out of their homes stared as she was herded down the road. And she was glad of it when she neared Jacob’s cottage and saw him and Margery standing outside the door.
She looked first to the daughter whose mouth supported a slight smile but whose eyes quickly slid away, then to Jacob whose face was heavily bandaged despite what was little more than a deep scratch upon his jaw.
He stared as hard at her as she stared at him, looking away only when little Tilda stepped outside and, noticing the spectacle upon the road, tugged on her father’s tunic. Then they were past Jacob’s cottage and there were others who gaped and some who jeered.
It seemed an hour before she was pushed ahead of her captors into the village stables, though the walk could not have taken more than five minutes.
“What is this?” Helene turned to face those who clambered into the decrepit building’s rank confines.
“Your jail,” said the one with wiry gray hair, “where you can work none of your darkness on our folk while we wait for the lord of Firth to return to his castle and mete out justice.”
She blinked. She had not expected the villagers to give their lord his due by allowing him to decide her fate, and in that there was hope. Durand served their lord and, surely, had not answered her summons because he was traveling with him. When the villagers dragged her before the keeper of Firth Castle, Durand would be there as well and, perhaps—
“Come!” She was
yanked forward and down the aisle between stalls, most of which held the animals for whom the stables were intended, several of whom nickered and whinnied as if in welcome.
The end stall on the right proved her destination, and when she stumbled into it, she was relieved to find it had been cleared of its straw bedding which, though it would have made a more comfortable place to stretch out upon as opposed to the dirt floor, might otherwise have been strewn with the refuse of its previous occupant.
To her surprise, a more gentle hand fastened around her arm and tugged her toward the far wall. The man—Hugh, who had sought and been provided relief from sores upon the soles of his feet two weeks past—unbound her hands despite the protests of several who crowded into the small space.
“Not guilty ‘til found to be,” Hugh retorted, then more loosely bound her wrists in front of her and secured the trailing rope to a ring set halfway up a corner post of the wall, leaving just enough length to allow her to sit if she chose. “She is going nowhere,” he said and turned toward the others.
Flexing her fingers in an attempt to return feeling to them, Helene looked from one man to the next. “You are wrong about me,” she said, determined she would not be cowed into silence. “I am but a healer and Amos’s time was at hand.”
“Our lord will determine the truth of it,” the gray-haired one said where he stood at the stable door, hands on hips, “and I do not doubt you will float if he decides to allow God to show us the truth of you, witch.”
A cold water trial, then. If she floated when dropped in the chill water, it would be seen as a sign of her guilt. If she sank, she would be pronounced innocent—most likely after she was pronounced dead.
Though tempted to curse him and the others, she held her tongue, not only for God’s sake but for the sake of John who must remain forgotten to them.
Pressing her lips against further words that would serve her no better than what she had already spoken, she leaned back against the stall wall.
The men filed out, the last one slamming the chest-high gate closed and securing its latch.
Helene hoped they would leave her, but a younger man of an imposing size stationed himself at the gate and, from time to time, peered over his shoulder at her.
Not until she lowered to sitting, the length of rope causing her bound wrists to be suspended before her face, did her guard ease up on his watch and also assume a sitting position that took him from her sight.
And that was a blessing, for had he remained standing while she attempted to make herself comfortable, he might have seen what her wriggling caused to be revealed when her skirts rode up her calves.
Wondering how she had escaped a thorough search that would have brought the Wulfrith dagger to light, she swept her leg back beneath her skirts. Of course, bound as she was, how was she to retrieve the weapon? And if able to do so, how was she to use it to free herself beyond severing the rope?
She had used the meat dagger against Jacob, but she did not believe her guard would be much moved by a cut that required no stitches. And though Abel had said she ought to think death, she could not. Only with proper provocation, such as in defense of John might she be able to harm another so terribly, and only then without forethought or intent to take life.
Beginning to feel the cool air that seeped through the walls of the stables, Helene shifted again in an attempt to better position her skewed mantle that, thankfully, had not been taken from her.
The creak of the gate was preceded by the reappearance of the guard. “Be still,” he barked, sweeping his gaze over her, “else I will bind your feet as well.”
Which would bode ill for what was beneath her skirts. Inclining her head, Helene forced herself to relax against the rough wall.
If you wish to live through this, she told herself, be still and think.
And pray, Sister Clare came again.
It was worse than he had feared. Rather, worse than he had allowed himself to fear upon belatedly receiving Helene’s missive that his lord’s steward, a disagreeable old man, had withheld until this morn. But now that he had John safely away, temporary though the measure was, he would demand—at sword point, if necessary—to speak with Helene.
Purposely reckless in speeding his destrier down the street that wound through the village one end to the other, knowing the more fierce he presented the more likely he would be received with respect and fear—he swept past the villagers who pointed and stared and hastened out of his path. Only when he caught sight of the stables where Petronilla had told him Helene was held did he slow.
The villagers were taking the threat of a witch in their midst seriously, for several men were positioned around the structure and were armed with the farm implements of those who tilled the soil.
Durand reined in and turned his mount sideways to look down upon the broad, somewhat hunched man who advanced on him. Eschewing Norman-French for the commoner’s English, he said, “I am told you hold Helene, the healer.”
“The witch,” the man corrected with a jut of his chin. “That we do and shall continue to do until our lord returns and receives the accused at Firth Castle.”
Two days, Durand assured himself to counter his longing for the sword and a swift end to this madness. It was enough time for him to do what his mind had worked over since learning what had befallen Helene. Providing she was in no immediate danger, whatever had caused her to be accused of sorcery and murder could surely be rectified without bloodshed and risk to the task she had set him of spiriting away her son.
He swung out of the saddle and dropped to his feet in front of the man who, though more barrel-chested than Durand, took a step back. After all, what was a pitchfork in the hands of a farmer compared to a sword in the hands of a seasoned knight? “I am Sir Durand, and I would speak to her.”
“I know who you are.” The man glanced at the others who stood ready to defend their right to hold Helene. “And noble you may be, but you won’t be stealing away the witch.”
With tight self control, Durand inclined his head. “I would but speak with her.”
The man eyed him up and down and lingered over Durand’s sword. “We shall allow it, but you must needs leave your sword outside.”
Durand did not like it, but it was not unreasonable, especially since he was well versed with a dagger. Indeed, it was that very weapon he had used to end forever Sir Robert’s stalking of Lady Beatrix.
He unfastened his belt, removed the sheathed sword, and slid it beneath the straps that held his packs to his saddle.
“Your dagger as well.” The man jutted his chin at where it remained upon the belt.
Durand did not waver in refastening his belt and, when it was done, met the man’s gaze. “I shall yield up my sword and that is all, for if you and all your men cannot defend your position against one knight bearing naught but a dagger, you deserve to be gutted.”
The insult yielded the desired result. Lips compressed, nostrils flared, the man stepped aside.
Durand met the gaze of each of those whose path he crossed as he approached the stables. Only a fool—and there could be one or more among these men—would not heed what he told with his eyes. Though it was true he might lose his life if they set upon him, a Wulfrith warrior did not go down without first greatly diminishing the ranks of his enemies. And, despite all that had gone between him and the Wulfriths, he was still a knight of that family’s making.
Forcing aside the temptation to engage with these men, Durand next regarded the one who stood before the stable doors.
The man was quick to avert his gaze as he opened one of the doors and Durand noted his demeanor meant one less opponent should these men attempt to test the advantage of their greater numbers. However, though this farmer would run, the hunched one who followed him inside and the powerfully-built one at the far end of the stables who rose from where he sat against a stall gate, would not—at least, not at the outset.
“The knight wishes to speak with the witch,” the hunc
hed one called as they neared.
While the younger man considered Durand, Helene’s desperate, “Nay!” shot from the stall near which her jailer stood. Then came a scrabbling sound that, when Durand took the last stride to the gate, he saw was the result of her attempt to gain her feet with her wrists bound and secured to an iron ring set in a post.
Eyes lit with a mix of fear and anger, mantle askew where she faced him across the stall’s length, she said, “You should not be here!”
Durand reached for the latch, but the hunched one said, “’Tis as near as you get!”
Hands longing to squeeze the life from something, Durand folded them into fists better suited to pummeling the life from those who thwarted him.
“Why?” Helene demanded, causing Durand’s baser instincts to pull back. “Why have you come when you should—?” She swept her gaze to her jailer and Durand knew she feared speaking of John in the presence of these men.
“Fear not,” Durand reverted to Norman-French. “He is safe.”
“He is not—not until he is at Broehne,” she answered in his language, “and I know he cannot be, for it is too far of a ride.”
“What say you?” the hunched one demanded. “Speak as I can understand!”
Ignoring him, Durand said, “Soon I shall deliver him there. I but needed to be sure of your situation.”
Eyes moistening, she asked, “Where is he?”
Durand raised his eyebrows. “She is with him and awaits me in the wood.”
His emphasis on the first word made her brow lighten, and he knew she understood that John was with Petronilla.
A hand fell upon Durand’s arm and he drew his dagger as he pivoted to face the offender.
Immediately, the hunched one released him and lurched back. However, the younger one stepped forward and Durand turned the blade in his direction. “Give me a reason to gut you and I shall,” he said in the man’s language.
The jailer’s lids narrowed and Durand knew he was weighing his ability to overwhelm a trained warrior. In the end, he stepped back.
