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 naked, 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