Bliss(35)
Author: Lynsay Sands

Well, you obviously aren’t staying, some part of his mind pointed out logically. He grimaced. Aye, but there was a difference between going and running, he reasoned. But he couldn’t manage to fool himself.

Dear God, he was running. Had been running for a long time. The realization rankled. Hethe had always prided himself on his courage. His bravery in battle was really all he had to be proud of. He hadn’t exactly been a stellar son, husband or lord. And he hadn’t even noticed his deficiencies in the lord part until recently. Now, the knowledge that his courage in battle was a result of his fleeing something else seemed to take away from all he’d done. What was it he was fleeing? Unpleasantness?

Nay, that couldn’t be it, he decided.Battlewas terribly unpleasant, yet he never fled that. Was it fear, then? Hethe considered that seriously, but it did not seem right. He hadn’t fled Tiernay because he feared his wife, or because he feared whomever was trying to kill him. He was aware of the threat and felt confident he could guard against it… now that he was sure it wasn’t a mistake.

"So, why are you not back there sorting it out?" he muttered to himself in frustration. With a sigh, he forced himself to calm down and think clearly. The answer probably lay in the first time he had run off to battle. He considered that time now, allowing the memories to wash over him. He had had an argument with his father. Well, he supposed calling it an argument was a bit misleading. Mostly it had been his father shouting, roaring and criticizing him.

Just remembering it made the old fury build within Hethe, and he suddenly knew the answer. He had been fleeing his own anger. He had stood there that day, growing more and more enraged as his father tore at him. His fists had clenched, a buzzing had sounded in his ears, and his blood had seemed to boil.

He had wanted to strike out. He had wanted to tear his father limb from limb. It had been a killing rage.

And that had terrified him. He had left Holden that day and headed for battle, where he could work off that urge productively. And he had done it every time that rage had reappeared – which was pretty much every time he had returned to Holden while his father still lived.

Then there was Nerissa. But she had not caused rage in him. She had been sweet, and innocent and soothing. It was her death that had affected him badly. It had turned his rage at his father toward himself.

He had failed her. Her death had been a result of his failure to postpone the consummation. He could clearly recall his own frustration and fury at her death. His desire to hurt someone as he himself hurt. He had headed right back to battle.

He supposed he was doing that now, too. His anger and frustration were consuming, as was his guilt over what had been happening at Holden these last years. Again he had held people’s lives in his hands, and again he had failed to protect them. Hethe had left Tiernay intending to ride until he found the king’s men, someone engaged in battle in which he could bang some heads. Which, he realized suddenly, was what had left his people at Holden vulnerable to Stephen’s cruelty.

Worse, looking back, was the fact that none of the times he had fled to battle had made him feel better.

In truth, his rage and anger had remained the same over the years, a cold, hard lump in his chest that burst into flame every time it had the chance. He had found no peace by fleeing, because he could not escape himself, the rage built in him by his father but stoked by himself over many years. It was time to let the fire go out.

I should turn around and go home to my wife, he thought, and a picture of her laughing face rose up in his mind. His mouth eased into a smile, and he actually felt soothed by just the thought of her. Then he recalled her hurt and anger in those last moments before he had left, and Hethe felt an ache in his heart in response. He hadn’t meant to hurt her. He also hadn’t expected hurting her to pain him. But it did. Oddly enough, making her happy made him happy, too. He slowed his mount as these thoughts coursed through his mind, and for once he knew exactly what they meant.

He loved her.

The thought didn’t surprise him. He had liked and admired her from the first time they met. Love wasn’t a large jump, from there and she was definitely a woman worthy of such devotion. But was he a man worthy of her love? The question caused a small ache in his heart. Then he recalled their lovemaking, their laughter, her pride and beauty – and her caring. She had shown him more of that since the night they consummated their marriage than his father had in all the years of his life. But then, she was a special woman.

They had talked some the afternoon they had consummated the marriage. After that first mating, they had moved to the chairs by the fire, to eat the food and drink the wine that the servants had left behind.

Helen had been wrapped in her linen, Hethe had been nak*d, and they had eaten in an oddly awkward silence at first. Then the wine had loosened her tongue. Then Hethe had begun to ask her questions and draw her out.

He had learned about her childhood, the loss of her mother, how her aunt had taken that role in raising Helen. She’d told him of the death of her father and the burden of responsibility that had become hers upon his death. She took that responsibility very seriously. And he had felt shame as he had listened. She held great affection and responsibility for her people. She knew their names, their jobs, their woes and joys, their strengths and weaknesses. Lady Helen of Tiernay had been – was – truly noble.

Hethe thought back with two minds. One focused on the similarities between him and his wife. While she never said so, he heard in her stories how little attention her father had paid to her, how cold and indifferent he had been. Not unlike his own father, who, when he had bothered to speak to Hethe at all, had only done so to criticize. Their mothers had both died while they were young, and where Helen had seen her widowed aunt step in and fill that void, Hethe had known William and Stephen.

Also, both he and Helen had been disappointments to their fathers – Hethe because of his difficulty with writing and reading, and therefore with much of his lessons, and she because she was not the boy her father had hoped for.

Aye, there was much that was similar in their backgrounds. But there were also differences. The stories she had told had pointed out how whenever there was a problem or conflict, she had rolled up her sleeves and confronted it. As she had when Templetun arrived with the king’s order of this marriage.

Despite thinking Hethe a cruel butcher, who could have done harm even to her, she had not fled to the safety of a nunnery and hidden behind vows. She had decided to stand and fight, to devise a plan and carry it out. Which was just the opposite of what Hethe had always done. He had always turned and walked away, leaving all his responsibility in Stephen’s lap and retreating to the emotionally distant safety of warfare. He could see that now, though he hadn’t at the time.

He wasn’t going to flee again, he decided now. It was time he stopped reacting like a child and started acting like a man. Time to face up to his responsibilities, no matter how inadequate he felt to deal with them. He could not do worse by trying than he had by fleeing. Aye. He would return to Tiernay and tend to matters there. He would also, he decided, do his damnedest to make his wife return his love. Oddly enough, that determination to face things, to confront his fears, gave him a sense of purpose. It also seemed to remove the last embers of the rage that had been burning in his chest.

Hethe drew his mount to a halt and had started to urge it to turn when the pain hit. Dragging in a shocked breath, he glanced down sharply at his chest and saw the arrow protruding there even as he started to slide off his horse. Everything was numb, he realized as his hands and body refused to obey his commands. He hardly even felt it when he slammed into the ground. He heard the noise though and heard his horse’s panicked snort before it charged off, leaving him lying alone in the path.

He sprawled half on his side, his cheek pressing into the ground at an angle that allowed him to watch his life’s blood leak out of him. Staring, he saw the ground eagerly soak it up and distantly thought that it was really rather a shame. Now he would never get to tell Helen that he loved her.

"My lady!"

Helen blinked her eyes open and forced herself to sit up on her bed. She had come upstairs to lie down after Hethe’s leaving. Not right away – she had tried to act as if nothing had happened and to go about her business at first, but had found the effort too much after a while. She had come up and lain, dry-eyed, for a good long while before at last dropping off to sleep.

"My lady!" The second cry sounded just before the door burst open to let Ducky inside. Her panicked expression had Helen on her feet at once.

"What is it?" she asked, hurrying to meet her maid.

"His Lordship! Injured! Again!" The maid drew the last word out in a sort of horrified disbelief, and Helen felt her chest tighten painfully.

"Not another head wound?" she asked in despair.

Ducky didn’t get the opportunity to answer: William and Boswell stumbled into the room then, bearing Hethe between them. Helen took one look at the arrow protruding from her husband’s chest and felt the blood leave her face. A head wound would have been preferable. At least she knew the man was thick-headed enough to survive that. But this? She took in his blood-soaked torso and swayed weakly on her feet.

"Set him on the bed," Joan ordered, bustling into the room with Aunt Nell on her heels. "Be sure you don’t jostle him too much."

"What happened?" Helen asked faintly, moving to the bedside. She was only barely aware that she was clutching Ducky and being held up by the woman as she moved forward.

"Some fellow just rode up to the gates and set him down," Boswell answered, shaking his head.

"Who?"

The chatelain frowned. "A red-haired fellow. Didn’t stop to give his name, just set him down, then turned and rode off."

"Red hair," Helen murmured.

" ‘Twas Stephen," William said grimly.

Helen closed her eyes, and then, letting go of her concerns about who had done what and how, she turned her attention to doing what she could to help Joan mend her husband. The weakness that had gripped her since they brought Hethe in suddenly disappeared, replaced with purpose. She hardly noticed when the men moved out of the room.

For the next half hour the women worked frantically, stripping his blood-soaked tunic from him, cleaning the blood from the wound, removing the arrow, then washing and sewing the wound. Helen held Hethe up while Joan poured a potion meant to give him strength down his throat; then, having done all they could, the healer and the other women left.

Helen moved a chair next to the bed and sat down to watch over her husband. She watched him through the rest of that day and night, hardly noticing when her aunt or Ducky checked in. Afraid to leave him, she waved away all offers of replacing her, even those so that she might sleep or eat. She nodded off occasionally in the night, only to awake with a start and reach out to feel Hethe’s forehead. His skin was cool and dry each time she checked, and Helen fervently thanked God that at least he had no fever.

When her aunt joined her at dawn, Helen gave her a distracted smile, then quickly returned her gaze to her husband. It was almost that she was afraid he might stop breathing, or suddenly develop fever after all, should she take her eyes off him.

"Has he stirred at all?" Nell asked after they had sat in silence for several moments.

Helen shook her head and tried not to think if that might be a bad thing. Her concern up until now had only been with infection, or fever. A fever could kill no matter if the actual wound hadn’t. Now she began to worry that his long, deep sleep was a bad sign.

"He probably needs the rest," her aunt murmured soothingly.

"Aye," Helen agreed. "Has anyone gone out to search for Stephen?"

"I believe Sir William sent some men out yesterday, right after bringing Hethe up."

"Where is Sir William?"

"In the great hall. He has not left there since going below. He just sits at the tables, fretting and asking if there is any change each time Ducky or I come from checking up here."

Helen nodded. "I hope to God that they find Stephen. I cannot take another incident like this."

"You believe it was Stephen who did this, then?"

Helen glanced at her aunt with surprise. "Of course. William recognized him."

"Aye. William saw him bring Hethe here and leave him at the gate, but he did not see the man shoot an arrow into him."

"Well, aye, but – "

"Does it not seem odd that Stephen would shoot Hethe, then bring him here for help?"

Helen sat back, confused. That really didn’t make much sense. "You are thinking it was not Stephen?"

"I am thinking it would be hard for someone with carroty red hair to walk through the bailey, into the castle, and nearly kill your husband, then walk out through the bailey again without being noticed. Twice.

And then bring Hethe for assistance."

Helen considered that briefly. "Perhaps my guards are protecting Stephen."

"Helen," her aunt said firmly. "They may not like or think much of Hethe, but they love and respect and are loyal to you . They would not lie. Besides, their opinion of Hethe is starting to change. Word is spreading about his not knowing what was going on, and most are willing to give him the benefit of the doubt."

"But if it is not Stephen, then who? And why has he been hiding?"

"Maggie simply said he was at the tavern the other night. Perhaps he was not hiding."

"Then why did he not come back to Holden while we were there? And why did he not stay when he brought Hethe back?"

Aunt Nell was silent for a moment, then said, "I noticed there was rather a lot of blood on the back of Hethe’s tunic."

Helen remembered it, and she nodded.

"But the arrow did not go through to his back," Aunt Nell reminded her.

Helen’s eyes widened. "You think Stephen was injured, too."

"Hethe would have been seated on the horse before him, his back leaning against Stephen’s chest."

"A chest wound," Helen murmured, then stood abruptly.