The Kindling (15 page)

Wondering if the answers she had been refused were forthcoming, Helene sat back on her heels.

“I am sure he is tempted to tell all”—he tore a handful of grass from the ground—“for it is obvious it is not merely concern for your well being that makes him urge you to reject my company.” He stared at the blades of grass as if they were of great interest, then tossed them aside. “Never would I have believed Abel Wulfrith, a man who thinks death, feels death, and embraces death, could be jealous of me. Not that he has cause to be, hmm?” He met her gaze. “I am correct, am I not, in believing that if you have a care for either of us, it is for him.”

As it was impossible to be unmoved upon hearing such words, ponderings, and revelations, Helene drew a deep breath. “Aye, Sir Durand, I care for Sir Abel, though I know it is an impossible situation.”

“Because you are a commoner?”

She recalled Lady Isobel’s allusions to the hopelessness of a commoner capturing her son. Aye, there was that, but surely it could be more easily overcome than the sins of one’s father—worse, the sins of one’s brother.

Sinking her fingers into the rich soil on either side of her, Helene said, “I am sure that when Sir Abel decides to wed, it will be to a noblewoman who adds to his status and brings lands to the marriage.”

Sir Durand laughed, though this time it was not as bitter a thing. “Nay, Helene, your lack of status and lands is not the reason Sir Abel will not wed you. It is because he has already gained those very things that he will set aside whatever he feels for you—unless you are of a mind to let him make you his leman.”

She thought her head must be spinning, her mind rushing this way and that in search of a way out of the maze into which Sir Durand had dropped her.

Already Abel had gained status and lands? Through marriage? He had a noble wife? A woman whose vows and the ring upon her hand left room for no other woman save one given to defiling the marriage bed?

“Helene!”

She blinked and saw Sir Durand advance on her.

“I am sorry.” He lowered to his haunches beside her. “That was poorly done.”

“He is wed?” she asked in a small voice.

“
Was
wed.” He lifted her soiled hand from the dirt and squeezed it. “A bad marriage years ago that placed him as near death’s door as his battle with the brigands.” He paused. “I know it is not for me to tell, but I will lest he never tells you himself, for in the short time I have known you, you have been the nearest I have come to a friend since I broke fealty with the Wulfriths.”

Feeling a stab of pity for this lonely knight whose future balanced on the whim of a king said to deal severely with those who defied him, she breathed, “Tell me.”

He brushed the dirt from her fingers, set her hand in her lap, and clasped his own hands before him. “Sir Abel was married less than a year, and near the end of his marriage, his lady wife tried to kill him.”

Helene gasped.

“While he lay abed, she nearly disemboweled him.”

Remembering the old scar upon Abel’s torso, Helene shuddered. “Why did she do it?”

“’Twas said her mind was not right, and I, myself, witnessed evidence of it more than once.”

“Did the Church allow the marriage to be annulled?”

Sir Durand’s smile was sorrowful. “Nay, when Sir Abel survived his wife’s attack, it was she who annulled the marriage.”

“What?”

“She came to him again, but this time she turned the knife on herself in full view of Sir Abel who could do naught but watch from his sick bed.”

Helene tasted bile. “She killed herself.”

“Aye, and Sir Abel, who submitted to the marriage arranged by his family despite his suspicions there was something wrong with the lady, vowed to never again wed or allow any woman so near him.”

Then for this he believed he belonged at Wulfen Castle training up warriors.

“So you see, even if you were the most noble of ladies, you would do better to look well beyond Sir Abel.”

For more reasons than he could know. “I thank you for telling me, Sir Durand.”

He grinned tightly. “I am all honesty today—with other people’s secrets.”

She looked to her hands that, until that moment, she had not realized she had twisted in her skirts. “I am sorry you lost Sir Abel’s friendship and he yours, for it seems you must have been close to know the tale of his marriage.”

“The fault is mine,” he said roughly.

Guessing he referred to Lady Gaenor whom Abel had alluded to having been seduced, she looked up and saw his eyes were moist.

“Like you, Helene,” he said, “I have loved where I should not. Unfortunately, I also made many missteps thereafter.”

Then it had not been seduction? He had given his heart to Lady Gaenor?

“And I still love,” he said, “which is the reason it has been a trial to remain at Soaring and why I often absent myself from gatherings. The less I see of her, the easier it is to accept she can never be mine.”

Helene frowned. “But Lady Gaenor is not here.”

He jerked. “You think she is the one I love?” His incredulity was so sharp it could have cut, but the scornful sound that next issued from his lips was worse. “You know more of my sins than you would have me believe.” He straightened. “We should return.”

She peered up at him. “Since my arrival, there have been many allusions to explain your behavior and Sir Abel’s, and much I have had to guess at though I know I should simply do what I came here to do.” She replenished her breath. “I apologize for my curiosity over the man who saved Soaring and yet did naught when I needed saving. Aye, I know you freed Sir Mark who brought word of the camp’s location, thus preventing Aldous Lavonne and me from dying in that cave, but I still do not know why you did not earlier send word.”

She heard him grind his teeth, and though she expected him to start back to the castle without her, he said, “I did send word once—to Sir Abel, which is how he came to be in the wood and, unfortunately, thwarted your escape. An escape attempt I thought most admirable.”

Feeling strain in her neck, Helene pushed upright. “You could have sent word again when Sir Robert re-located the camp.”

“It was too great a risk to again entrust another to deliver my message, and I could not do it myself.”

“Why?”

“Lest Sir Robert moved camp while I was gone. More, though, because of Lady Gaenor.”

When he did not elaborate, Helene raised her hands in surrender. “Pray, Sir Durand, tell me and be done with it.”

“Twice, she fled marriage to Baron Lavonne, and that first time when we believed Lady Beatrix had died, Lady Gaenor and I…” He drew a deep breath. “When we paused on the journey to Wulfen Castle where I was to deliver her to safety, we found comfort in one another’s arms.”

Helene took an involuntary step back.

“Aye.” His brow darkened. “’Twas a mistake and more of it my fault than hers, but I would have you know it was not ravishment.”

Though she felt his need for her to express belief in what he told, it was some moments before she could summon the words. “I would not believe it of you, Sir Durand.”

He momentarily closed his eyes. “I thank you. And so now you understand Sir Abel’s reason for not wishing us to be alone. He fears I shall seduce you.”

“Aye, I understand.”

He went silent again, then said, “The second time Lady Gaenor fled Baron Lavonne, it was at my urging.”

She had forgotten there was more to the tale and almost wished he had as well. “What do you mean?”

“I did not love her, but I had a care for her. When her family agreed to deliver her to Baron Lavonne, a man I believed to be as dishonorable and cruel as his father and brothers, I offered to steal her away. We left at night, but when our horse was lamed, she began to fear for her family should King Henry believe they had secreted her again. She slipped away from me in the dark, and I could not find her. But I did find Sir Robert’s camp. And Gaenor yielded herself up to be Baron Lavonne’s wife.”

“The baron knew she had fled with you?”

“He did and, no doubt, believed the worst though, upon my word, I did not lie with her again. Thus, not only did I make enemies of the Wulfriths but also of her husband. And so, you see, had I myself delivered tidings of the brigands’ camp, I would not likely have been given an opportunity to reveal its location ere I found a blade put through me.”

“Why did you remain upon the barony of Abingdale rather than go elsewhere?”

“I had shredded my honor, but still I was a Wulfrith knight and I could not let that most foul being, Sir Robert, work his worst without trying to stop him. And so, week after week, I followed the brigands camp to camp awaiting an opportunity to slay him, but always I came up short—until I learned he intended to attack Castle Soaring and kill Lady Beatrix. After Baron Lavonne and the king’s men rescued you and that withered old devil from the cave, ‘twas I who turned his entourage toward Castle Soaring.”

Remembering the day of her rescue when the journey to Broehne Castle had been interrupted, Helene said, “It was you with Baron Lavonne’s wife.”

He smiled grimly. “Now you recognize me.”

“Nay, only the events of that day.”

He ran a hand over his lower face that was no longer obscured by a thick beard. “Once again, I stole her away knowing that, with her at my side, I would be given the time needed to convince Baron Lavonne and Sir Abel of my true intentions before they gutted me.”

“And they believed you.”

“Grudgingly so—thankfully, else Lady Beatrix…”

“Would be dead.” Helene took a step toward him. “She is where you loved that you should not have.”

He inclined his head. “And the reason my stay at Soaring has been most difficult.”

In spite of his wrongs, Helene hurt for him. “I know it pains you to share these things, but I am grateful, Sir Durand.”

He released a long breath. “I hope you can forgive me now for doing naught when you were beaten.”

“I do.” She stepped nearer and, impulsively, set a hand upon his cheek. “I shall pray that the king’s pardon comes soon so you may be away from here and your pain.”

He stared down into her face and, when his eyes lowered to her mouth, it was all the warning she had of what he intended—and not enough to retreat before his arms came around her.

“Sir Durand!” she gasped a moment before his lips were upon hers. However, she had barely begun to struggle when he released her.

“As thought,” he said, “Sir Abel has no reason to be jealous of me, for there is naught here for either of us.”

Pressing the back of a hand to her lips, she tried to calm her breath.

“I know I should not have done that,” he said, “just as I should not have done many things, but now we can be even easier in one another’s company.”

Helene had forgotten what a man’s kiss felt like, but Sir Durand’s seemed no more intoxicating as she had heard a kiss should be than her husband’s kisses had been. Though relieved it was the same for this knight, she was unsettled by his behavior, especially knowing that neither could he have felt much for Lady Gaenor though they had been intimate.

He gave a crooked smile. “Friends?”

“You are something of a knave, Sir Durand.”

“But not a ravisher.”

True, just as it was true that she had played no small part in the failed kiss when sympathy had caused her to draw so near and set a hand upon his face.

“Friends?” he pressed.

She nodded, then added, “Providing you never again press your attentions upon me.”

His smile straightened. “One thing I have learned is to expend as little emotion as possible where ’tis not welcome. Thus, I shall do my utmost to resist you.”

“Then friends we shall be.”

Chapter Thirteen

Durand’s appearance for supper was unexpected—and all the more unwelcome for it. The only reprieve was that, by the time he entered the hall, Helene was already partnered with an older knight who seemed more intent on the trencher between them than her lovely face.

Recalling the high color in her cheeks and the soil upon her sleeves and skirts when she had earlier hurried into the hall to show D’Arci the plant taken from the wood—no doubt in Durand’s company—Abel felt his appetite wane.

Why did she refuse to heed his warnings? Was she drawn to the knight as Gaenor had been before discovering that Christian Lavonne, the man King Henry had ordered her to wed, was far worthier?

That last thought might have made him laugh had he been alone rather than seated beside his other brother-in-law, D’Arci. Abel, perhaps more than any Wulfrith, had stood with Gaenor in opposing her marriage, and with good reason considering the fate of his own arranged nuptials. And now, as if God had poured out upon her all the blessings He had long withheld, she loved and was loved despite the sins that could have been her everlasting ruin. Indeed, she and Baron Lavonne, who had gained Abel’s grudging respect despite the blood that coursed through his veins, would be parents next spring.

Abel could not have wished better for his sister, but though he knew he ought to see her redemption and happiness as proof that the Almighty could make beauty out of ugliness, he had a difficult time believing that even if he submitted to constant prayer, what he had lost would be sufficiently restored that he might once again be worthy of his name and the wearing of the Wulfrith dagger.

Beneath the table, he folded the fingers of his right hand as far as they would go and flexed the damaged and aching muscles of his left leg.
Though it seemed the best he could hope for was to regain the ability to defend his person better than not, he was done with waiting for something to happen. Helene was right. It was time his left hand and right leg learned their new dominant roles.

He raised his goblet and drank deeply as he searched out and once more found Helene seated to the far right. It appeared she had been waiting for him to look her way, for she smiled faintly and inclined her head before turning to her trencher.

Shortly, D’Arci leaned into Abel’s line of sight. “I have been asked to inform you that you stare much too long to regard her as merely a healer.”