“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 hunched 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.
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.