Authors: Tracie Peterson
“ ’Tis not her choice,” Roger spoke absentmindedly.
Maude could see that he was not giving her his total attention. “Helena should have no choice. No other woman would, but because of Lady Eleanor’s constant nagging—”
“Now you insult the dead?” Roger interrupted. He paused only long enough to retrieve the drink offered him by a young boy. “ ’Twas my understanding,” he said, pausing to draw deeply from the tankard, “that we put Lady Eleanor to rest. Must you constantly bring her back?”
Maude scowled. “Indeed not. I seek to dismiss her presence once and for all. ’Tis you, Milord, who keeps her walking the rooms of this pitiful manor. Send Helena away and bury them both.”
Roger frowned into his cup. “King Henry will still question Helena’s disappearance. With Eleanor gone, no doubt the queen would call for Helena to attend her in court. Would that not suffice?”
“Never!” Maude’s screech caused a young woman to drop several empty mugs. The girl hastened to retrieve the still-clattering mess, while Maude lowered her voice. “Never. Helena would punish us both for what has happened. No, send her away with instructions to all that she has taken a vow of silence. Even the king will not question her choice of mourning.”
“I will consider it,” Roger said. The inviting aroma of beef stew, mutton pies, and roast pigeon caused him to wave away Maude’s protests. “First we will sup; then we will reason out the matter of Helena.”
Maude nodded, following Roger to the table. Neither one of them saw Helena’s crumpled form at the top of the stairs. With barely enough strength to crawl back to
her bed, Helena realized she had to make plans and make them quickly.
“Oh God, help me,” she moaned, throwing herself across the narrow bed. The fiery reminders of her brother’s handiwork pierced her and caused her to cry aloud. “God, where are You?”
Chapter 2
H
eavy fog blotted out the scenery surrounding the manor and left an eerie silence to engulf the land. The dampness permeated everything, including the clothes and cloak that Helena had been dressed in for her journey.
Without resistance, Helena had allowed the transfer of her body to a makeshift litter. She feigned great weakness and exhaustion, while Roger ordered a blanket to be placed over her body. Only Sarah knew that her wounds were quickly healing and that the cloudiness had left her thinking. It was Helena’s plan to give them no reason to think her capable of escape.
Helena observed as Roger slipped a coin into the hand of the man that waited near her litter. “Understand this, no longer is harm going to come to her. I will, myself, contact the abbess to learn of her well-being.”
“As you wish it, Milord,” the man replied, revealing a gap where two teeth were missing.
Maude looked on in bored indifference. Helena knew that her stepsister’s only concern was that they’d be on their way before Helena regained strength and offered a fight. With deep sadness, Helena closed her eyes.
“Let them be off,” Maude finally said.
Helena narrowly opened her eyes to see Roger glance at Maude briefly before nodding. “Aye. Be gone then.” The man gave a curt bow, then motioned his comrade to lead his horse forward.
“I’ll await your return,” Roger called after the man. “See no harm comes to the horse.”
Helena waited to open her eyes full until the stranger who walked at her feet moved forward to speak with his comrade. They were oblivious to her, and for this, Helena rejoiced. Jostling along on the litter, Helena contemplated the situation and wondered when opportunity would lend itself to her escape.
She could not let either the men who accompanied her or Roger know where she had gone. Roger would expect her destination to be London and so it would be. But Helena was smart enough to realize that the direct routes would have to be avoided. She could neither take to the road nor seek out help from other travelers. No, it would be necessary to travel under cover of darkness and stick to the fields and forests. So long as she continued south, all would eventually be well.
As she prayed for guidance, Helena remembered the comfort of bedtime prayers when she’d been a small child. The dark frightened her as little else did, and her mother was good to stay by her side and pray away the gloom.
Oh, Mother,
she thought, wiping out the tears in her eyes,
I’m glad you cannot see me now.
When the morning sun rose high enough to burn off the fog, Helena remained unmoving and silent. Feigning sleep, she opened her eyes only on occasion to see her surroundings. They were traveling south, and from her brother’s directions, Helena knew that the longer she stayed with the men, the closer she’d come to London. However, she also worried about her safety with these coarse, unkempt ruffians. They laughed loudly as they talked together and, from time to time, discussed the crude pleasures they would seek once they’d earned the rest of their pay.
Helena shuddered as she realized she had no protector. Why her clothes alone could be resold for more than these two could earn in a month. Was there no one who could know her fate should they decide to do her harm? But even as fear stirred her blood, a small voice inside told her that God was her protector as He had always been. Remembering this came as a comfort and Helena relaxed. God was her protector. It was enough.
She let them believe her asleep until they came to a halt for the night. Only then did she moan out a request for a drink of water.
“Be it well with ye then?” one of the men asked her.
“I hurt,” she managed to whisper. It wasn’t a lie.
“Aye,” was all he said before seeing to the horse.
After the horse was tethered and cared for, the man who’d spoken to Roger brought Helena a chunk of bread and cheese. He said nothing to her, but left the food at her fingertips and took himself off to tend the fire his companion had built.
Helena struggled to sit up. She pulled her cloak tight and ate part of the food given to her. With a watchful eye, she tucked the remaining bread under the surcoat and inside her tunic. She felt strangely at peace with the arrangement. She would watch and pray for the perfect moment to escape, and when she did, she would have food to take along for her journey.
Overhead, the stars were clear and brilliant. They sparkled like diamonds. Helena studied them for a moment and thought of her love. Perhaps wherever he was, he, too, was looking at the stars and thinking of her. Shaking her head sadly, Helena knew it wasn’t so. Tanny didn’t know she existed. At least not as a woman. No, the Helena he knew existed only as a scrawny tomboyish child.
“ ’Tis of no matter,” Helena whispered to the starry night. “I hold enough love for us both.”
In time, Helena felt herself grow stronger, but for the sake of her companion as she continued to feign weakness. Waiting and watching, Helena’s patience was rewarded when the opportunity to escape presented itself to her.
“ ’Tis less than a half-day journey,” one of the men stated. They were watering the horse and contemplating whether or not to set up camp.
“I say we push on,” the other replied. “The abbey will offer us shelter. Better to keep going and spend the night, even a small portion of it, under a roof than out here in the cold.”
“It bodes well with me. We can be there before morning and enjoy a hot meal with our rest.”
Helena felt her heart skip a beat. The time had come. She didn’t know exactly where they were, but she knew they were well away from Roger and Maude. She contented herself with this while contemplating what to do next.
There were woods on either side of the road that would afford her cover during her escape. There was also the blessing of a cloudless night and moonlight to guide her way. The only real problem was escaping the notice of her companions, but that came soon enough.
With the horse slowly plodding along, the first man spoke up. “I say we go to London after the deed is done and our pay is in hand. We can buy our comforts there and gamble for even more.”
“London’s not fer me. Ye forget I be a marked man there. I say we sail to Normandy. Me sister be there and we could hold up a spell with her.”
“Normandy? I’ll have no part of Normandy!” They argued on, their voices rising ever higher with the flaring of their tempers.
Knowing that the debate would block out any noise of her escape, Helena rolled from the litter and lay in silence at the edge of the road. A heady scent of the land rushed up to assail her senses. No doubt the soft dirt would ruin her fine burgundy velvet, but no matter. If she could escape to London, there would always be the opportunity for more velvet.
Helena’s breathing quickened as she waited for what seemed an eternity, certain that at any given moment the horse would be halted and the men would come back for her. If they came back, she would simply pretend to be asleep and let them assume that she’d rolled off the litter by mistake.
She squeezed her eyes shut tightly, almost as if in doing so she could make herself invisible. They just had to keep going without her, she thought. This was her only hope. When the noisy argument faded into the distance, Helena realized they were unaware of her absence.
Gingerly sitting up, Helena untangled herself from the blanket that had cov
ered her on the litter. She was grateful for the additional warmth as the night chill seemed to penetrate her bones.
Thanks be to God,
she thought,
that the winter was mild and spring has come early.
Standing came with more difficulty. She had only been on her feet for short periods of time in the past days. Those times had come only out of necessity to relieve herself, and they were brief and nontaxing. Now, however, she faced the need not only to walk a great distance, but to do so quickly. Stretching her limbs, she began to have doubts.
“O God,” she whispered to the starry sky overhead, “please be with me. I beg Ye, Lord Father, give me the strength to make this journey.” She felt better just in knowing that she would not travel alone.
By the end of her third day and night, Helena was far less confident. She had long since run out of food, and the only water she had was that which she found along the way. Her back, though mostly healed, was stiff and sore, and at times the scabs would rub against the rough material of her tunic.
“I must keep going,” she told herself aloud. “Roger’s men will find me and I cannot let that be. I must get to London. I must find Tanny.” She remembered her beloved with his dark eyes and tender words. What kindnesses he had shown to Helena as a child were indelibly fixed in her memories.
Skirting a nearby village, Helena walked across the ridges and furrows of a newly plowed field. Exhaustion washed over her like waves claiming a shore. Dropping to her knees, she felt despair claim her.
This is hopeless,
she thought.
I can’t go on.
❧
John Tancred DuBonnet stared at the timber framework of the wattle and daub hovel. The wind outside shook it fiercely, and any moment he expected it to give into the force and collapse.
“So fall down upon me,” Tancred said, emotion thick in his voice. “At least then my suffering would be done.”
He knew deep despair, and the single-room hut with its open floor hearth did nothing to ease his miseries. With something akin to apathy, Tancred reached down to tend the fire.
Why bother,
he thought,
to resurrect a dying flame that offered little warmth and no real comfort?
Sheltered away from the rest of the world, Tancred faced yet another year of exile from his beloved England. The home he’d once known was long since removed from his grasp, as were his family and friends. Sitting down to the poorly contrived trestle table, he absentmindedly toyed with a wooden bowl of cold pea soup and longed for home.
It had been eleven years since he’d been falsely accused of the murder of his parents. King Henry III of England had listened to the impassioned testimony of Richard, Tancred’s younger brother. Richard had found Tancred standing over the bodies of their dead parents, knife in hand, the blood still wet upon the blade.
“Murderer!” Richard had shouted accusingly.
Tancred had pleaded his case, begged for understanding, then listened as his accusers found him guilty. He should rightly have been sentenced to death, but Richard had intervened. Even hatred for his brother could not bring the tender-hearted Richard to support his brother’s hanging. He had, instead, encouraged Henry to be merciful. Some mercy!
“Condemned for a deed I had no part of,” Tancred muttered. Tancred remembered the blind hatred he had once felt for his brother—hatred that had led him to action. Only last fall, he’d stormed Richard’s home in Gavenshire, taken Richard’s wife hostage, and later confronted the man who’d been responsible for his painful years of poverty. All for nothing. Tancred’s exile continued.
Pushing the dish away, Tancred knew his misery had grown to a level he could no longer abide. Death would be sweet relief from the agony of facing another day. Yet, there was something that kept him from taking his own life. Something planted there in the deepest part of his heart by Richard’s wife, Arianne.
“Would that the woman had kept her mouth closed,” Tancred moaned, putting his head in his hands. For several minutes he did nothing, then lifting his face again, he stared upward to the hole in the thatched roof where the hearth smoke escaped into the stormy night.
“How can it be that God could care for me?” he questioned. “He leaves me here rejected of man and despised by all. And for what?” Tancred’s voice rose accusingly. “For a crime I have not committed. Where be the justice in this?”
Just then a knock sounded. Tancred gazed at the door in disbelief. “ ’Twould be madness to be out on this night,” he announced, yet got to his feet.
Pulling the door open and feeling the wind and rain pelt his face in sheer fury, Tancred noted the battered pilgrim who stared back.
“Enter, soul,” he shouted and pulled the man within the questionable comforts of the hut. Tancred wrestled the door back in place, then turned to study his visitor.
The man was at least a score of years older than Tancred’s thirty-one. His stooped shoulders gave evidence to his many hours spent over a writing table, and his ink-stained fingers confirmed his occupation of scribe.
“My thanks to you,” the man panted with a broad grin. “ ’Tis no night for casual strolls in the countryside.”
Tancred nodded but did not smile. “What seek ye here?”
“Shelter, if thou wilt have me,” the man replied, pushing back rain-drenched white hair.
“You are welcome to what hospitality this hovel affords. I have but the floor to sleep upon and precious little else to offer.”
The man smiled. “ ’Tis enough.”
“Very well,” Tancred stated with a shrug. “Be welcomed.”
The man pulled off his heavy wool cloak, revealing a large sack beneath it. “I cannot impose without sharing my own good fortune,” the man said, placing the wet cloak on the empty peg beside the door.
Tancred eyed the bag with some interest but said nothing. The pilgrim smiled broadly as he opened the sack and brought out a loaf of bread. He handed it to Tancred and returned to rummage for something else.
“There is more,” he said with joy in his voice. “I passed supper with a wealthy merchantman and he bade me take this for my journey.” He drew out a grease-stained cloth and opened it to reveal a portion of mutton.
Tancred felt his stomach rumble. How long had it been since he’d enjoyed a fine piece of meat such as this?
“I do not require this of you,” he finally told the smiling man. “You are welcome here without need to share such a treasure.”
“ ’Tis my joy to share with you,” the man stated. “I am Artimas, and the Lord is my keeper. He gives to me generously, and I in turn give to those He sends my way.
Let us sup together and enjoy this feast, for on the morrow, the Lord will surely sup
ply again.”