The Kindling (11 page)

So that was whom he thought would like her as told to his sister and mother.

Helene linked her fingers to keep them from making mischief among her skirts. “If I have offended, I apologize, for I know ‘tis not for me to address you in such manner, just as it was not for me to strike Sir Durand. However, neither is it for you to lead me to a room I am not allowed to enter.”

He inclined his head. “Well said. However, I would have you know that though I will do all I can to see Abel restored, I am not his keeper and do not hold the key to that
room
, as you call it. Nor would he tolerate my interference, having once before allowed others to fashion that key for him.”

Helene nearly groaned. “Am I to seek to unravel yet another riddle?”

“That I leave to Abel and you, for just as Sir Durand’s tale is not for me to tell, neither is my brother’s.”

And though he did not say it, since she was one who but provided a service, she had no right to do more than wonder at those tales.

“I ask only that you remain at Soaring,” he said, “at least until my return.”

She blinked. “You are leaving?”

“Aye, and my mother with me. Though I come as often as I am able, my people and lands are in need of their lord.”

Helene lowered her gaze to the toes of her slippers that bore the muddy traces of the wood.

“Will you give me an answer, Helene of Tippet?”

She returned her gaze to his. “When will you return to Soaring?”

“I shall be gone at least a fortnight, mayhap as long as a month.”

“A month,” she repeated, her thoughts winging to John to whom she had hoped to return within a fortnight.

“If it would convince you to stay,” the baron said, “I shall ask Lord D’Arci to make arrangements with Baron Lavonne to deliver your son to Soaring.”

John here, in the same place as Sir Abel who had already made too great an impression on him. John who would surely seek to draw near him again. John who stood to become more fond of the knight. John whose hopes would come to naught. John who would be hurt.

Suddenly so fatigued she felt the sway in her soul, Helene said, “I fear my John is overly fond of your brother. For his sake, I think it best that, as long as Lady Gaenor is able to keep watch over him, he remain at Broehne Castle.”

“If that is as you wish.”

“’Tis.”

“And you will stay at Soaring until I return?”

“I will,” she said, just as Sister Clare would have her do.

“What of Sir Durand?”

She frowned. “Are you asking if I will go to the wood with him again?” She gave a short laugh. “I have no reason not to ask him to accompany me should the need arise.”

He hesitated. “Though Lady Beatrix believes you are safe with him, and I would like to believe it myself, ‘tis true he has done things that gave Abel cause to speak as he did.”

Helene pushed her resentment down, but still her voice bore traces of it when she said, “Noted, Baron Wulfrith.”

He gave a curt nod. “I thank you. And now I must needs relieve my sister’s anxiety over the matter.”

“What of your brother?”

“He may not acknowledge it, but methinks he will also be relieved that you have agreed to stay.”

She hoped it was so, but doubted it would change how Sir Abel and she interacted. “I thank you for seeking me out, Baron Wulfrith.”

Without further word, he turned and strode the walkway toward the kitchen.

Hearing the door close behind him, Helene lifted the pouch hung from her girdle and smoothed her fingers over the bulge that evidenced the leaves she had plucked in the wood. It would require a good deal of preparation to render the herb usable for Sir Abel’s scarred face, but she would be grateful for every minute that excused her from attending him until she again had herself fully in hand.

She stilled, considered all the days ahead, and concluded that being the primary provider of Sir Abel’s care was not as wise as first thought. She would need help.

“Go forth, healer,” she murmured, and her feet followed her words to the kitchen where she set to work among those who were heat-deep in preparations for the next meal.

“I had begun to think you did not intend to make good your threat to see to my exercise.”

They should not have been the first words out of Abel’s mouth when she appeared in the doorway that he himself had left open, but there they were—easier spoken than the apology Beatrix and his brother had said he ought to extend. His mother had not agreed, but neither had she disagreed. Not that he would have heeded her any better than his siblings. After all, an apology forced before the speaker was ready to speak it was surely more insulting than no apology.

With a solemn face that bore no evidence of the ire his sister said was her due, Helene crossed to where he sat on the mattress edge gripping the muscle of his outer thigh that he had been kneading when he had heard her approach.

She halted before him. “As you saw to undertake the task on your own, ’tis not necessary for me to make good my threat.” She reached forward and opened her fingers. “I came to deliver this ointment. Applied often, it should reduce your facial scarring.”

He glanced at the pot. “Will you not apply it?”

“I will not.” She leaned forward and caught up his right hand. As he resisted the urge to snatch it back, she set the pot in it, slid her palm over his uncooperative fingers, and closed them around it. “Though I
am
staying at Castle Soaring, if that is the answer you seek in not so many words.” She released him.

Abel lowered his gaze to the fingers that had involuntarily drawn back from the pot. He did not want to be angered by their betrayal, and yet he felt that emotion stir at the glaring evidence he was no better able to grip a medicinal pot than a sword hilt.

And so will you once more embrace self pity, Abel Wulfrith? Earn her contempt with your childish resentment? Lose the ground gained in soaking your garments with the sweat of journeying from chamber to stairs to hall and back again?

“Nay,” he said.

“Nay?” she questioned, and only then did he realize he had spoken aloud his response to the disgust-stained voice in his head.

He smiled grimly. “Aye, yours is the answer I seek, Helene of Tippet.” Though his brother had already told that, with reluctance, she had agreed to remain, it was strangely comforting to hear her tell it herself. And he wondered how, having so passionately wished her absence on the day past, he now near hungered for her presence.

Her frown dissolved and she drew a deep breath. “Then we shall soon see you fit enough to return to Wulfen Castle.”

She made it sound easily attainable, and yet the stench of his efforts still wafted to his nostrils though he had changed out of his damp garments. What he needed was a hot bath, deep water in which to soak, rather than the towel and basin of water he had endured all the days since he had fallen to the brigands.

“I hope the staff served you well.” She nodded at where he had set it upon the mattress.

With his left hand, he lifted the pot from his injured hand and put it on the bedside table. “It served,” he said, the return abovestairs having required far greater strength than his descent. Indeed, if not for the staff upon which he had leaned heavily when the stairs were before him, he might have had to call for his brother’s aid though he had refused it before leaving the hall.

“I am glad.” She glanced at the chair and table before the brazier. “Should I bring you the mirror?”

“For what?” The question came out sharp, but she appeared unmoved. And he did not like her being unmoved—as if she had made bricks of the angry words they had exchanged in the hall and walled herself behind them.

“That I might hold it for you while you apply the ointment,” she said.

Though tempted to respond yet more sharply, he said evenly, “My fingers know the scar well enough that I have no need of a mirror.” He caught his scent again and thought she must have a strong disposition not to distance herself. Of course, as she had forcefully pointed out, she was no lady. She was a healer and a commoner, surely accustomed to the odors of sickness and hard labor.

“However,” he added, “I would not be averse to a bath, which you must know I am much in need of.”

A corner of her mouth tugged and, for a moment, he thought she might smile. “You speak of a tub rather than a basin.”

“Aye, filled with water as hot as can be had.”

She nodded. “I believe your injuries are well enough healed that a bath will cause no harm. Indeed, there are certain herbs that, added to the water, will be beneficial to your healing.” She started to turn away. “I shall ask that a tub be delivered to your chamber and water set to boiling.”

“Who will tend my bath?”

She looked across her shoulder. “Not I, Sir Abel.”

As he would not wish her to do, though it was not considered unseemly for a healer to assist with a patient’s ablutions. Still, he was fairly certain that, if not for his deception on the night past and their argument in the hall this day, she would have seen to it herself.

“I am sure your brother will lend you his squire,” she said and turned her back to him.

“Helene!”

He saw her stiffen and guessed it was due to his use of her name without the formality of matching her with her village—and perhaps even the note of desperation in his voice.

“Aye, Sir Abel?”

“How is your boy?” He knew it was best to remain silent on the matter, especially since he truly
did
wish to know how John fared. However, it was as near an apology as he could manage.

She came around and clasped her hands at her waist. “John is quite well.”

And? he wanted to ask that he might know more of how the boy had received his mother’s return and if he still dragged around the wooden sword Abel had made for him—the better to protect his mother, John had declared when finally he had spoken of the night the brigands had come for her.

“Indeed,” she continued, “regardless of whether or not you accept my gratitude, I am indebted to you, for my son would not have endured my absence as well as he did without…the scraps you tossed him.”

Abel nearly growled at having the cruel words of the day past fed back to him, and yet his sister would say it was Helene’s due.

“And for that,” she said, “I am here—to repay you as best I can.”

He did not believe that was her only reason, not after what she had revealed by coming to him while he had dreamed of battles and a woman far different from her. Still, it was best for them both if her attentions were confined to the healing of his body. And yet he furthered the conversation with, “He is a good boy.”

“That he is. And now, I will arrange for your bath.”

 
Abel’s eyes saw her to the doorway and through it. Then, deciding he would apply the ointment to his face following his long soak, he returned to kneading his leg muscles. And told himself this, too, was better left to him to do.

Chapter Ten

It was a surprise to see Sir Abel at table this morn, and not only because he had once more descended to the hall on his own and, fully clothed and with the staff at his side, now broke his fast with his family. His much improved appearance also jolted Helene.

She had not returned to his chamber on the day past until certain his bath was done, and only then to deliver his supper and apply her salves. When she had seen him face down across the bed, the rhythm of his breathing evidencing he slept deeply, she had withdrawn.

And now he sat at the high table beside his brother, vaguely resembling the man she had last seen. Though she stood distant at the mouth of the passageway, having left the kitchen moments earlier when Cook had informed her she wasted her time preparing a tray for her patient who was no longer abovestairs, she could see that Abel Wulfrith had submitted to grooming beyond the shedding of sweat and filth. He remained bearded, but there was order to his shortened facial hair. Too, the hair on his head that had been overgrown and tangled now looked clean and trimmed. Here again was the knight who had come for her in the cave that was to have been her tomb.

In spite of the anger he had roused in her on the day past, she was relieved by the transformation in which she had played a part—even if not as great a part as Baron Wulfrith wished her to believe.

As she watched, Sir Abel raised a goblet and drank deeply, and she knew it was not the detested milk that wet his throat. It was wine that she had told him he must attain himself.

“It seems you work miracles,” a voice said just in back of her.

She whipped her chin around. “I did not hear you, Sir Durand.”

“Forgive me.” His mouth lifted toward a smile. “I should have given warning.”

“You came from the kitchen?” She had not seen him there, but then, Cook had been quick to send her away.

“I came
through
the kitchen.”

In from the garden, then.

He looked past her and jutted his chin. “You do Sir Abel much good.”

She returned her gaze to the high table. “That was not done by my hand but by Baron Wulfrith’s squire.”

“Still”—his breath moved the tendrils of hair that defied the plait she had tightly woven this morn—“’twas not accomplished until your arrival.”

She looked over her shoulder again and saw a knowing light in his eyes. But he knew nothing. Could not.
She shrugged. “I do vex the poor man.”

He chuckled. “You more than vex him.”

Irritated by what he thought he knew, Helene opened her mouth but closed it with a reminder of the progress she had made with Sir Durand and that he had kept his word on the day past when he had joined the men-at-arms at the gatehouse and allowed her to examine his injuries.

“Sir Durand!”

As Helene startled at the shout that sounded across the hall, she saw annoyance narrow the knight’s eyes. Looking forward again, she settled her gaze on the one who had caused all eyes to turn their way.

Sir Abel raised his eyebrows. “I am sure Lord D’Arci will make a place for you at table if you would like to join us.” His eyes moved to Helene. “And you as well, Helene of Tippet.”