Virtue and Venom

Chapter Four

…..

Apologies for the long delay, two trips abroad and working on the sequel to my novel have kept me a bit distracted and busy. I hope to get back to updating on a regular basis.

…..

When Helga was eight years old, they ran into trouble. Taxes had been left unpaid, and to make up the debt Bob took what little money they had in store, leaving them with no food, no coal for the fire and nothing else.

Helga just about managed to get the pantry stocked with what little harvest the fields brought in, what she could scavenge from the forest, what she could borrow from the neighbours and anything else she could find. It didn't make much; after her parents and Olga were fed there was nothing left for herself but scraps.

On one particularly stormy day, out of desperation she took some old silk drapes and an antique brooch to Knightsbridge to pawn. Her winter cloak was full of holes, likewise her boots, but once she had some coin for her troubles she hardly felt it. She hadn't eaten properly for three days, and doubted she could make the journey back without something to keep her going, so she stopped off at the bakers for a loaf of bread to eat on the way home.

She hadn't gotten two bites into the bread before a carriage took a sharp turn onto the road she was walking on and one of the horses knocked into her. She landed in a puddle, bread and all. Watching the muddy filth soak into the bread she'd walked miles to get hit her worse than a punch would have. She didn't even attempt to get out of the puddle; she burst into hysterical tears right there and then.

"Oh, oh God I'm so sorry...please don't cry!"

The voice was unmistakably a child's voice, but sounded practically angelic. Or maybe it was just because it was the kindest thing that had been said to her in who knows how long. The owner of the voice pulled her gently to her feet, out of the puddle, into the shelter of the carriage door. Someone from inside the carriage scolded the child.

"Well, it was our fault she got knocked over, isn't it? We were going too fast!" the child replied.

Helga tried to rub the mud and tears from her eyes, but her vision was still blurry. She could make out vague details about the child; a boy, a little shorter than she was, yellow hair, slightly oversized head. Richly attired in a cloak with no holes.

"Give her some coins for her trouble and send her on her way," the person in the carriage scolded.

Helga felt a purse being placed into her hands, and then the boy removed his fine cloak and wrapped it around her. It was thin enough, but it might as well have been made of the thickest wool for the difference it made to her.

"I'm really sorry," the boy said again. "I hope you get home safe."

And then he was gone.

With the coin she had been given, she was able to buy a cup of hot wine and a pie after she dried herself off. She bought two more loaves of bread and wrapped them up in her useless old cloak, wearing the new one home.

Two weeks later, the Heyerdahls moved in and the weather changed to allow better harvesting. Helga's life grew easier. The cloak hung on a peg in the kitchen long after she'd outgrown it.

She knew, even then, that she would probably never marry unless sold into it to pay some debt, and would never make a good match for any man. Still, she loved that boy with all her heart, and always would.

…..

The pilfered green brocade frock was getting uncomfortable. Helga wasn't used to wearing such heavy confining clothes, and the awkwardness of waiting around in front of the stables while a horse was rented for her by some noble's son had her on edge. Under her coif, her temples throbbed.

"They didn't have much to choose from," Arnold said as he led two horses out of the stable. "A palfrey and a rouncey, and they're both kind of old..."

"If they have four legs and a working head, they'll do," Helga said, taking the rouncey's reins.

She climbed into the saddle and realized too late by the stunned look on Arnold's face that he had bent to help her up, as a good gentleman should.

"Sorry," she stammered. "There's not usually anyone around to help me onto my horse, so..."

Arnold laughed, rubbed the back of his neck.

"Force of habit," he said with a shrug. "I suppose it's kind of patronizing, really..."

He clambered into his own saddle and they set off. For the first few moments, there was awkward silence. Helga blamed the coif and gown; when they spoke before, he'd assumed she was a peasant girl and spoke freely. Now he had to treat her like a lady.

"Forgive me for being so...casual with you before, my lady," Arnold began. "I didn't realize..."

"Forget it," Helga groaned. "I might be wearing this fancy gown but I'm much more at home running around in the forest. Just treat me as you would any peasant."

"Well, that's the thing," he replied. "I don't meet many peasants, let alone peasant girls. I don't really know how to treat them. I know how to treat noble girls..."

"Noble girls like all that chivalrous crap," Helga chuckled. "Huge waste of time, I think."

"You have to admit it comes in useful," Arnold said. "Otherwise men could take liberties with you..."

"Are you planning to take liberties with me in this forest?" Helga teased.

Blushing furiously, Arnold shook his head and she laughed at him.

"Well then, it's a waste of time. All it does is stop girls from knowing who to trust. You can hide a lot behind chivalry."

Helmsly is very chivalrous she left unsaid. Right up until he's taking liberties in the forest. And after.

"That's a rather bleak view," Arnold laughed weakly. "It sounds like you've known some characters."

"If by characters you mean absolute bastards, then yes, yes I have," she shot back. "And I suppose you act the perfect gentleman to every girl you meet? Even strange peasants you meet in the forest?"

"Well, yes," he replied. "I...don't really know any other way to treat them."

"Oh, come on, I bet you've met some absolute shrews in your time. You're talking to one now."

"I wouldn't call you a shrew, my lady," he chuckled. "A little sharp-tongued but it's not unpleasant. If I've met any shrews, they've kept it well hidden."

"Good manners cover a multitude of sins," Helga responded. "And don't call me 'my lady.' Just Helga is fine."

"As you wish. Helga it is."

With the oppressive air of chivalry done away with, they chatted pleasantly about nothing in particular. Right up until the rouncey decided she didn't like the look of a tree stump in the road and fretted.

"Oh, come on," Helga prodded, jostling the reins.

If she had any chance of getting back into the house and putting the gown back without being caught while also making sure dinner was on the stove, she couldn't afford to waste any time. Arnold's palfrey slowed, and turned to see what was going on.

"Hold on, I'll get down and lead her," Arnold offered, gracefully hopping down from his horse.

Unfortunately, the sudden movement was something the rouncey liked even less than the tree stump. She chattered and then bolted, speeding past Arnold, the palfrey and the offensive stump down the road, kicking up great chunks of mud as she went.

Ordinarily, Helga would have had no problem getting her horse back under control. But ordinarily she wouldn't have been riding a horse while wearing someone else's fine brocade gown. Gritting her teeth, she clung on as the rouncey thundered through the bracken, hoping she'd burn herself out before she could get too muddy.

Helga was right. She did burn herself out.

Unfortunately, she did so by skidding to a halt in the middle of an enormous puddle, knocking the dark water high enough to spatter across Helga's coif. When Arnold managed to catch up with them, she was flat against the horse's neck, groaning loudly.

…..

Arnold couldn't believe he'd gone from knocking on a convent's door to this.

If the royal priest knew, he'd insist on Arnold giving a substantial tithe to the church and observing his prayers day and night. Even looking at a woman's undergarments drying in the sun should have been grounds for going straight to hell.

Not that Helga seemed to care for Arnold's immortal soul. She insisted on getting her clothes clean before she went home; apparently, her father was very strict and would punish her severely for coming home covered in mud. That he could understand, but why she felt the need to take off everything was a mystery. Her chemise hadn't even been that muddy.

So that's what a kirtle looks like...

Keeping his eyes trained on the clothes was the lesser of two evils, and was a testament to how much Helga trusted him, given their talk earlier of liberties in the forest. He had given her his cloak to wrap in once she was finished bathing in the river, and built a fire nearby. Nothing else he could do beyond that besides keeping his eyes to himself.

"Water's bloody freezing," he heard her say behind him.

Her teeth were chattering, and he heard the swish of his cloak being wrapped around her. Was it safe to turn around...?

"Are you decent?" he asked, cautiously.

"Probably not, no," she shot back. "I'm not as naked as I was a minute ago, though."

He risked turning around and sat by the fire, across from her. The cloak covered her neatly from head to toe, but it still felt rather scandalous. Her hair was loose, folded in damp waves to her waist. Her wrists and ankles were uncovered, shockingly white compared to her sunkissed hands and face. He had never seen a woman in such a natural state before, except maybe in paintings.

"This is so strange..." he laughed quietly to himself. "You...you're like some forest creature."

"I think I'd much prefer that," she groaned. "I wouldn't have to worry so much about mud."

"It's curious," he prodded. "Most women I've known would scream if I saw their hair loose...and yet here you are almost completely unclothed and you don't care? Even with a man nearby?"

"You're not the type to do anything untoward," she shrugged. "Or if I've misjudged you, I think I have a good chance of fighting you off. No offense, but you look like you bruise like a peach."

An insult, and yet she managed to make it sound like a compliment.

You're so very kind, to have come all this way to visit me.

An echo of a previous meeting with Princess Lila came up, unbidden. At the time he had been delighted with her praise, until he heard her say it to every other envoy. He might as well have been some stranger.

She's a Spanish Catholic, Arnold, he heard Gerald groan in his mind. Come on, what did you expect?

Helga was loosely braiding her hair, but made no move to tie it up for her coif. Watching her twist the little coils of hair was fascinating, strangely intimate. Lila had once excused herself from a meeting because a hairpin had come loose.

"How are things with your convent girl?" Helga asked, as if she could tell he was thinking of Lila. "Did you get past the border?"

"Um, well, we've decided to stick with written correspondence for now," he stammered.

"Ouch," Helga laughed. "Well, I hope her penmanship is good, at least."

"What about you? How would your suitors like the idea of you sitting with your hair down in front of some man you're not engaged to?"

"What suitors?" she laughed. "All the suitors are my sister's, I have none."

That wasn't unusual. Many families insisted on the older sisters being wed before entertaining for the younger.

"I'll probably marry some hermit somewhere far away and eventually become a swamp witch," she continued airily. "Or maybe just the swamp witch part without the marriage. I like that idea better."

"No marriage at all?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. The girls at court spoke of nothing but marriage.

"The first thing any husband of mine will do is insist I wear that awful coif," she replied. "No thank you. Swamp witch it is. Right, turn around, my clothes look dry.

He didn't turn quite quick enough, and between the cloak dropping and the chemise being pulled on he caught a split second glimpse of her body. Mortified, Arnold glared hard at the ground, willing away the blurry image that had been printed across his eyes.

He was blushing when she said it was okay for him to look. She hadn't bothered lacing the stomacher, and her chemise and kirtle poked out between the stays, and her hair was hanging down below the untied coif. It was...charming.

"Could you take the horses back? I'm going to go through the forest from here," she asked.

"Of course," he answered, hoping he didn't look too red in the face. "Is your home far from here?"

"Not too far," she replied, looking into the distance. "A mile, maybe a mile and a half."

"Good. I should like to call on you sometime. Maybe Tuesday?" he asked.

"Call on me?" she spluttered. "Why?"

"I like talking with you," Arnold shrugged. "It's refreshing. And I still owe you for rescuing me."

"You rented me a horse..."

"You saved my life."

Making a little whine under her breath, she nodded.

"Tuesday. But it has to be before dawn."

"Before dawn it is."

…..

All the way home, she worried.

Nobody besides her was ever up before dawn, but the family could still surprise her. And she couldn't very well have him in the house, could she? She was still fretting when she stopped at the hermitage to change into her old gown, filling Phoebe in on what had gone on.

"You're lucky he's a gentleman," Phoebe scolded lightly. "If it was anyone else..."

"I know, I know," Helga groaned.

"You need to be more careful! You know Helmsly is still skulking around..."

"Pheebs, stop," she said, cutting her off. "It's fine. Everything's fine."

Phoebe held off with a little unhappy sigh.

"I just worry, you know that."

Helga ran back to the house once she was back in her normal clothes. She still had time to put dinner together...

...except that she ran smack into Bob.

"Where the hell have you been?" he snarled at her.