Age of Faith 4 - The Kindling

by Tamara Leigh

  Keeping the dagger to hand and his senses fastened upon the men, Durand looked back at Helene.

  “Does he know what has happened?” she asked in a voice that trembled.

  “He does not. We told him you have asked me to take him on a great adventure.”

  Breath shuddered out of her, and her head fell forward as if it had become too heavy.

  Durand felt an ache in the vicinity of his heart. He longed to hold and console her. Not that he counted himself in love with Helene, formerly of Tippet, but he cared for her beyond what one should care for a friend of the other sex—so much that, several times of late, the thought had come to him that God could not possibly have made only one woman capable of laying claim to his affections.

  Of a sudden, Helene’s chin came up. “Leave now, and promise you will do naught to aid me until my boy is out of harm’s way. Promise me, Durand!”

  “I give you my word, and my word that I will return for you.”

  “Only once he is safe.”

  He inclined his head, then turned to the hunched man. “You will see that she is provided with a pallet and blankets.”

  “I will not!”

  The threat of the dagger once more proved useful, causing the man to drop farther back. “Aye,” Durand said, “you shall, for I will take it most personally if, upon my return, you have not done as requested.”

  While the man muttered about the difference between a request and a demand, Durand added, “And more personally if she suffers any abuse.”

  Though the muttering ceased, the eyes yet brimmed with dissent.

  Durand stared him down before returning his attention to Helene. “Have faith.”

  With trembling mouth, she said, “I am holding most tight to God.”

  It was hard to turn his back on her but, committed to keeping his word to her, he strode from the stable to his waiting destrier, returned his sword to its rightful place, and rode hard.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Abel was surprised he felt the vibrations first—if, indeed, he did, for Everard the ever-observant might be using the opportunity to help his brother retrieve his “lofty” self confidence on yet another pre-dawn morn devoted to honing the senses. And it was surely thought to be in need of retrieving for, on the day past, Abel had been humbled as he had feared he would be when one of his squires had pressed the advantage of youthful agility and put his blade to the neck of the one who had trained him up from a boy. But for all the public display, Abel had not broken or become enraged. Indeed, once he had pushed past the humiliation, he had felt pride at his squire’s achievement.

  He glanced sidelong at the one who strode alongside him through the deeply shadowed wood that had once again served the purpose of heightening Abel’s senses in combat. “Surely you feel it, too,” he said.

  Everard halted and remained unmoving as he sought to decipher the vibrations beneath their boots. “Aye, a half dozen or more riders.” With a longer reaching stride, he continued forward.

  “Did Garr send word?” Abel asked as he matched the pace.

  “He did not. Thus, I do not believe ‘tis he who rides on Wulfen. Nor is it likely he would be accompanied by so great a number.”

  As they neared the border of the woods, they caught sight of six riders heading across the meadow that, if not for the past two days of cloud cover, would have been well lit by moonlight. Farther ahead, seeming to spring from Wulfen’s walls, a contingent of squires rode to intercept the riders.

  When the six reined in before the castle guard in the dim reach of torchlight, Abel said, “Methinks it is Baron Lavonne,” for there were few of such height and breadth as the one at the fore.

  “It cannot bode well,” Everard voiced Abel’s misgivings.

  They ran. Thus, no sooner had Wulfen’s mounted guards identified the riders and begun to ease their stances than Abel and Everard were upon them.

  “What goes, Baron Lavonne?” Everard said as the big man peered over his shoulder.

  Before their brother-in-law could answer, the one alongside the baron jerked his chin around. And Abel, despite the perspiration generated by his exertions, felt the raw morning air pour through him. “Helene?” he demanded.

  Durand turned his destrier and, as he guided it forward, moved his gaze from Abel’s scarred, shaved face to his right hand to his left leg—assessing him, Abel realized and struggled to tamp down his resentment.

  “Aye, Helene,” Durand’s breath was a plume upon the air as he halted his mount alongside Abel. “Last eve, I delivered John to Broehne Castle as she bid me do, but she is yet in danger herself.”

  No tidings, no matter how dire, had ever made Abel feel so undone, but this came very near it. And it was made all the worse that, in less than a fortnight, he would have been at Helene’s door and whatever had befallen her would not have. “Tell me!”

  “That I shall do while you make ready to ride.” It was said as if Abel had already agreed to join Durand and Lavonne. And, in this instance, Abel was glad the knight knew him so well.

  Not an hour later, the tale having shot Abel through with heart-pounding fear, the horses watered and fed, as well as the men who would ride through the day to reach Parsings—hopefully before nightfall and ahead of the thunderstorm that stirred and scented the air—Abel looked back at Wulfen Castle and raised a hand to Everard who stood upon the drawbridge.

  The gesture was returned and, as Abel turned forward again, he heard the words his brother had repeated over and again each time they had traded blows in the dark of the wood.

  Think life, Brother. Feel life, breathe life, embrace life.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  She had not been sleeping—could not—and yet when they came for her, their voices were so loud she knew she should have heard them well in advance of their entry into the stables.

  From where she knelt upon the pitifully thin pallet, bound wrists straining against the rope as she clasped her hands to her lips, she looked up and met the gaze of the one who had been given guard over her this day—Irwyn, Petronilla’s tall, solemn husband. She had been surprised that, despite his obvious dislike of her, he participated in her persecution, for he was a solitary man. However, when she had inquired after Petronilla for whom she had feared and prayed, Irwyn had angrily stated that he had aligned himself with those who wished to see her put to trial in order to redeem his family who were under suspicion for having aided Helene’s son.

  Thus, though he had given her an abundance of opportunities to gain her dagger, unlike her previous jailer, she had not done so lest an escape attempt further endangered his family.

  Irwyn jutted his chin at her. “’Twould seem the Lord of Firth has returned a day early. Else it has been decided not to await his justice.”

  Since being delivered to the stables, Helene had struggled not to fall victim to what came after fear—terror, a thing so dark and utterly devoid of warmth that she was certain she could lose pieces of herself to it as one might lose fingers, toes, and feet to the freezing cold. And here it was now, raking its nails across her, searching out cracks that would allow it to slide inside. It was so hard to keep it out that, more than once, she had considered letting it in and justified doing so by telling herself that terror now might better prepare her for the terror of a cold water trial. However, she knew it was weakness that gave rise to such thoughts.

  As the voices grew in strength and feet tramped the earthen floor toward her, she lowered her lids and poured prayer over the writhing places within that tempted her time and again to bury her face in her hands and weep.

  Lord, as long as John is safe, I can accept my fate. Pray, let Durand have delivered him to Broehne. And if I am to be lost to my boy, let Christian Lavonne do for him as an uncle should—

  She caught her breath. Why had she not instructed Durand to reveal John’s kinship to her half brother? If she could not escape death, Durand would tell him, would he not? And, surely, with all of Christian’s suspicion,
he would believe.

  The gate protested loudly with its opening, but Helene kept her head bowed.

  Lord, let Christian and Lady Gaenor be good to John—

  She toppled forward, and only when her elbows struck dirt did she realize the rope had been cut from the ring. As she was yanked upright, her skirts settled around her ankles, and she spared a thought for the Wulfrith dagger.

  “Come peaceful like,” growled one of those who belonged to the eight legs she counted before raising her chin and looking from Irwyn to the three who had come for her.

  “Where?” she asked in a rusty voice that evidenced her thirst, a result of having been provided but a single cup of ale in the day and a half she had been here.

  The man directly in front of her sneered, baring a set of strong white teeth that seemed out of place in a face so transformed by disgust. “Wherever we decide to take ye,” he said, then nodded at his companions and strode from the stall.

  As Helene was hurried forward, arms gripped on either side, wrists yet bound, she glanced left and right at the other stall occupants that stared at her with unfathomable—perhaps even pitying—eyes.

  Not until the cool of another gray day struck her across the face did she appreciate just how comfortable the stall had been—and longed to drag her mantle closed to preserve what she only now recognized as warmth.

  The sky was darker and more ominous than it had been two days past. Doubtless, a storm was coming and, as evidenced by the number of villagers who were about their homes rather than in the fields tending their crops, she was not the only one who believed the village of Parsings would soon hunker down amid thunder, lightning, and an abundance of rain.

  Ignoring the stares of those who paused to look close upon a woman said to conspire with the devil, Helene allowed herself to be pulled down the road toward what she feared was the path to the stream-fed pond—the water of which, even in spring, would be frigid.

  Dear Lord, if You will not send me a savior, send me strength.

  However, before reaching the oft-traveled path, she was wrenched opposite, and so heightened were her emotions and so painful the beat of her heart, that she did not immediately recognize the cottage before her, nor the man who emerged.

  It was Jacob, his jaw yet bandaged. Why was she here? Did he wish to be the one to lead her to the pond?

  When she was dragged to a halt before him, she determinedly kept her head up and eyes steady upon the man who had betrayed her, all because she had refused him.

  He glanced at her escort, then back at her. “Margery says she will allow only you to tend her,” he said in a voice that was harsh and yet held a note of what might be desperation.

  “I do not understand,” Helene croaked.

  He jerked his chin over his shoulder to indicate the cottage. “My girl is taken with an ailment of the belly and tells she wants only you to come inside.”

  Helene blinked. “You wish to enlist a healer who, by your own account and that of your daughter, is said to be a witch?”

  “I do not, but Amos is dead, and though I have assured Margery there are others who know something of herbs and sickness, she will have none of them.”

  Though tempted to refuse, Helene could not. She glanced at the men whose hands upon her would surely leave evidence of their trespass. “Tell them to release me, and I shall see to your daughter.”

  “You sure you wish to do this, Jacob?” asked the one with good teeth. “She could do your girl more harm.”

  “As I fear Margery may be lost to me if I do not, I must needs accept the risk.” Jacob unsheathed his dagger, sliced the rope binding Helene’s wrists, then stuck a finger in her face. “Do you think to do anything untoward, know that I will not wait on the lord of Firth Castle to give justice.”

  Helene longed to renounce him, to struggle against those who yet held her, to kick and bite, but she clung to what Sister Clare and God would have her do and be.

  Dragging her tongue from the roof of her dry mouth, she said, “The longer you delay in taking me to her, the less likely I will be able to turn back whatever ails her.”

  Jacob grabbed her wrist and pulled.

  Though the others’ hands fell from her, the men followed. However, when Jacob reached the door, he turned on them. “Stay outside!”

  “But the witch—”

  “Do I look to need protection?” He thrust his broad chest forward.

  Though two of the men looked sheepish and Irwyn appeared uncomfortable, the one with good teeth narrowed his eyes. If Jacob noticed the lone dissenter, it was not obvious, for he thrust the door inward, yanked Helene into the cottage, and slammed the door closed. A moment later, he gave her a push toward the right side of the room.

  Nearly overwhelmed by fatigue and thirst, she slowly advanced, blinking to adjust her vision to the interior of the cottage that was easily twice the size of her own and smelled strongly of the animals sheltered inside during the worst of the winter months and—in Jacob’s case—an impending storm.

  Fortunately, he did not lack the comforts of waiting out foul weather in relative ease. The large, well-ventilated fire made it seem summer within these walls and, despite the shuttered windows, provided enough light for her to quickly familiarize herself with her surroundings.

  To the left, at the back of the cottage, was a three-quarter wall that kept a horse and cow—and, from the snuffling and clucking, pigs and chickens—separate from the living area. Still, as she ventured farther into the room, noting the large table, chairs, chests, and pallets, she saw no evidence that she and Jacob were not the only human occupants.

  She halted. Was Margery a ruse? A means to do to Helene what she had refused Jacob nights past? The dagger—

  “Why have you brought her here?” demanded a strained voice Helene recognized as Margery’s. It came from the far left corner, one of the few places where firelight reluctantly ventured, though now that Helene knew where to look, she picked out the figure crouched there. But why did the young woman question Helene’s presence? After all, Jacob had said it was she who had asked for her.

  “The healer will tend to whatever ails you,” Jacob said, “and do not naysay me, girl.”

  “But she is a witch!”

  Jacob snorted, a sound nearly indistinguishable from that of the pigs, and Helene sank her nails into her palms. It was far easier to forgive someone a trespass when they did not know they trespassed. But Jacob certainly knew he had, though it seemed his daughter did not—had, perhaps, convinced herself her accusations were founded.

  As Helene stepped around a pallet, she said over her shoulder, “I am dry and weak from thirst. If you truly wish my aid, you will bring me something to drink.”

  Jacob grunted, which she hoped meant he would soon deliver a cup of blessed wet.

  She sank to her haunches before the girl who immediately pressed herself more deeply into the dark corner, only to moan and wrap her arms around her middle.

  “It is your belly that aches?” Helene asked, relieved the concern in her voice was not forced—that she was yet more the healer than a woman wronged.

  “Leave me be. I do not”—Margery gasped—“need you. Be gone!”

  Helene looked around. “Tell me what you know, Jacob.”

  From where he stood at the table, tipping a pitcher to a cup, he shrugged. “She was standin’ at the fire making porridge when, sudden like, she cried out and bent over. And her pains kept coming—frightened my young ones so much I sent ‘em to stay with Joann the weaver.” He jutted his chin at the pallet alongside Helene. “I helped Margery lie down, but when a bigger pain came upon her, she crawled into the corner and began sobbin’ and clutching at herself. That’s all I know.”

  Was it? Or—? “Did you hit her, Jacob?”

  “He did not!” Margery struck Helene’s shoulder with such force it would have toppled Helene sideways if she had not slapped her hands to the floor to steady herself. Finding the packed dirt beneath her palms wet as
it should not be, she returned to her haunches and raised her hands before her face. Despite the shadows, she could see it was not dirt-flecked blood that coated her flesh. But that did not mean all was well.

  She returned her attention to Margery. “Are you…?” She set the question adrift, uncertain what to say in Jacob’s presence.

  “I am,” Margery decided for her, then looked to her father and said more forcefully, “I am with child.”

  He so quickly loosed a groan that Helene guessed it was what he had feared. Unfortunately, it presented a better explanation for why he had sent for her rather than one not accused of sorcery.

  Dear Lord, if he hopes to keep his daughter’s pregnancy secret, who better to give aid than one destined for death—and perhaps all the sooner now?

  “You!” Margery’s saliva flecked Helene. “Had you wed my father, I could now be bound to the one who put this babe in my belly.”

  “I knew it!” Jacob growled. “I knew you was doin’ things you ought not, you little—”

  “Enough!” Helene swept her chin around. “Stop, Jacob, else I shall leave you to deal with this on your own.”

  Where he stood alongside the table, fists at his sides, he narrowed his lids. However, as they stared at each other, his shoulders lifted with a deep breath and he loosely seamed his lips.

  As much as Helene longed to ask for the drink he had poured, she turned back to Margery. “Your water has broken. It means your babe is coming.”

  “Nay. She cannot come. Not yet.”

  “Aye, this day. Now we must needs get you to your pallet.”

  Margery’s hand shot forward and closed around Helene’s wrist. “You must make her stay inside.”

  “That is not possible. It is your babe’s time—”

  “’Tis not! It is too soon.”

  Of course, for otherwise her pregnancy would not have been as easily overlooked. Undoubtedly, others had surmised as Helene had that Margery’s increasingly plump state despite what she had been told was a cruel winter in Parsings, was merely a blessed side effect of being the daughter of a prosperous man.