tasks, Helene told herself there was no reason not to reveal what had happened though all evidence had faded from her face and arms and was no longer felt in the simple acts of walking and sitting. Still, she struggled for words.
“He beat her,” a voice sounded across the hall. “ That is what he did.”
Helene looked around with the others and saw the dark-haired man who had propped a shoulder to the wall at the entrance to the kitchen passageway.
Capturing her gaze, he said. “Not once, but twice.” He raised his eyebrows. “Is that not true?”
As she stared, he straightened, turned, and disappeared down the passageway.
Despite the warmth of the fire, Helene felt chilled. “Who was that?”
“Sir Durand,” Lord D’Arci said dryly, “also your patient.”
Of course it was him. Helene might have laughed if not that the knight’s words had so unsettled her. “He spoke as if he witnessed Sir Robert’s wrath.”
“He did,” Baron Wulfrith said.
She turned to him. “He could not have. Never have I seen him.”
“He was there.”
He had to be wrong. And yet—
She rose so suddenly that her chair scraped. “Forgive me, but I must needs speak with him.” Without waiting to be granted leave, she hastened across the hall and down the passageway to the door that yielded to the thrust of her hand.
The half dozen servants who were cleaning and preparing the kitchen for the next day’s meals paused to stare at her.
Ignoring them, Helene fixed on the one occupant of the breathtakingly heated room who was not here to serve but to be served.
Standing alongside an immense table in the center of the kitchen, Sir Durand picked a morsel from a trencher and looked up as he tossed it in his mouth.
She stood taller. “Aye, twice. That is right,” she answered the question to which he had not awaited a response. “But you were not there, so you cannot know.”
Also paying no heed to the servants who had yet to resume their duties, he said, “I was there, Helene of Tippet.”
He knew her name. But then, as he was her patient, Lord D’Arci had surely told him. She crossed the kitchen, halted before him, and peered up into a face that might be handsome if not that it was drawn as if by long suffering and…bitterness?
She pushed aside her pondering. As thought, it was not a face she knew and, set with eyes of an unusual gold color, it would not be easily forgotten. “You cannot have been there, Sir Durand, for ere this day, never have I laid eyes upon you.”
He looked around the kitchen, causing the servants to return to their tasks, then fed himself another morsel. “That is because I did not wish eyes laid upon me. However, I am fair certain you did see me at a distance.” He licked thumb and forefinger clean of sauce and put his chin forward. “Though ‘tis understandable if you do not recognize me now that I am shaven.”
She tried to imagine him bearded, but even if his hair was also unkempt about his face, still she would know him by his eyes—providing he was near enough for the color to be seen. “At what distance would I have seen you?”
“A goodly distance.”
“At which camp?”
“No camp. Always, I was most careful not to be seen by the brigands.”
Maddening! This knight who had killed Sir Robert was surely aligned with those who had battled the brigands, and yet all he had done was observe their movements? Had seen her beatings and the only action he had taken was to now bear witness to them?
Heart beating so fiercely it made her feel unwell, she said, “Why would you simply stand by and watch?”
He pushed the trencher away. “I had my reasons.”
Though not moved to aggression unless first transgressed upon, this man who exuded arrogance alongside what seemed resentment, made her palm tingle as if already she had struck his clean-shaven jaw. “Pray, explain your reasons, Sir Knight.”
He heaved a breath. “’Tis late, and this is hardly the place to have such a
“He beat her,” a voice sounded across the hall. “ That is what he did.”
Helene looked around with the others and saw the dark-haired man who had propped a shoulder to the wall at the entrance to the kitchen passageway.
Capturing her gaze, he said. “Not once, but twice.” He raised his eyebrows. “Is that not true?”
As she stared, he straightened, turned, and disappeared down the passageway.
Despite the warmth of the fire, Helene felt chilled. “Who was that?”
“Sir Durand,” Lord D’Arci said dryly, “also your patient.”
Of course it was him. Helene might have laughed if not that the knight’s words had so unsettled her. “He spoke as if he witnessed Sir Robert’s wrath.”
“He did,” Baron Wulfrith said.
She turned to him. “He could not have. Never have I seen him.”
“He was there.”
He had to be wrong. And yet—
She rose so suddenly that her chair scraped. “Forgive me, but I must needs speak with him.” Without waiting to be granted leave, she hastened across the hall and down the passageway to the door that yielded to the thrust of her hand.
The half dozen servants who were cleaning and preparing the kitchen for the next day’s meals paused to stare at her.
Ignoring them, Helene fixed on the one occupant of the breathtakingly heated room who was not here to serve but to be served.
Standing alongside an immense table in the center of the kitchen, Sir Durand picked a morsel from a trencher and looked up as he tossed it in his mouth.
She stood taller. “Aye, twice. That is right,” she answered the question to which he had not awaited a response. “But you were not there, so you cannot know.”
Also paying no heed to the servants who had yet to resume their duties, he said, “I was there, Helene of Tippet.”
He knew her name. But then, as he was her patient, Lord D’Arci had surely told him. She crossed the kitchen, halted before him, and peered up into a face that might be handsome if not that it was drawn as if by long suffering and…bitterness?
She pushed aside her pondering. As thought, it was not a face she knew and, set with eyes of an unusual gold color, it would not be easily forgotten. “You cannot have been there, Sir Durand, for ere this day, never have I laid eyes upon you.”
He looked around the kitchen, causing the servants to return to their tasks, then fed himself another morsel. “That is because I did not wish eyes laid upon me. However, I am fair certain you did see me at a distance.” He licked thumb and forefinger clean of sauce and put his chin forward. “Though ‘tis understandable if you do not recognize me now that I am shaven.”
She tried to imagine him bearded, but even if his hair was also unkempt about his face, still she would know him by his eyes—providing he was near enough for the color to be seen. “At what distance would I have seen you?”
“A goodly distance.”
“At which camp?”
“No camp. Always, I was most careful not to be seen by the brigands.”
Maddening! This knight who had killed Sir Robert was surely aligned with those who had battled the brigands, and yet all he had done was observe their movements? Had seen her beatings and the only action he had taken was to now bear witness to them?
Heart beating so fiercely it made her feel unwell, she said, “Why would you simply stand by and watch?”
He pushed the trencher away. “I had my reasons.”
Though not moved to aggression unless first transgressed upon, this man who exuded arrogance alongside what seemed resentment, made her palm tingle as if already she had struck his clean-shaven jaw. “Pray, explain your reasons, Sir Knight.”
He heaved a breath. “’Tis late, and this is hardly the place to have such a
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