THE AWAKENING_A Medieval Romance

by Tamara Leigh

Might this be Finwyn’s attempt to preserve his business? If so, it would be for naught. Abbess Abigail would see the plan through to its good end. However, Honore’s death would serve another purpose were Finwyn even less worthy of his grandsire’s name than already believed—revenge. And yet in light of this warrior’s words, that made little sense.

  “I know naught of your son, Sir Knight,” she afforded him a title he might not be owed since he could be but a mercenary of the lower ranks. “I fear Finwyn has misled you for his own profit.”

  “Finwyn?”

  “Finwyn Arblette.”

  “Ah. Certes, I do not like the man, but thus far all has come to pass as told.”

  “All?”

  “Are you not here to buy unwanted babes?”

  She could not see his eyes move to the pouch she had deposited, but she sensed it there. Wishing Jeannette would run, she said, “I am here for an exchange—the coin Finwyn requires for the children whose parents wish to dispose of them.”

  “How kind of you.” His sarcasm was not subtle. “Tell me, how do you dispose of them?”

  Though she longed to rail against the insinuation she was of ill intent, she said as calmly as she could, “I assure you, not as Finwyn would have you believe.”

  “Then you will have no difficulty delivering my son to me.”

  That all depended on the boy’s identity. “It is possible. Tell me how he became lost to a warrior when those for whom I give coin are of the common class.”

  For some reason, his hesitation lessened her fear. She had no experience with men of the sword, but they had a reputation for being forceful, brutally decisive, and short on shame. And in this man’s silence she sensed none of those things. She felt emotion, sorrow, regret.

  “Only in recent days was I made aware of his existence,” he said. “I am not certain he is mine, but if he is…”

  “Then like many a man, you made a promise to a maiden to persuade her to lie with you and the next morn left her with child. I suppose I am to think it honorable you now wish to take responsibility. Or is it something else? Mayhap you seek to harm the boy to ensure your sin remains hidden?”

  “I wish to retrieve my son. If he is, indeed, mine.”

  “How think you to prove that? You believe he will have your eyes? Your nose? Not that it is impossible, but it may be too soon to tell. Nay, Sir Knight, methinks it best for all you tell yourself you tried and pay a priest to put finish to your troubled conscience.” She raised her chin. “Now step aside so I may sooner be shed of this farce and gain what sleep remains to me.”

  He tilted his head, and she felt the intense gaze of one seeking to see beyond her eyes. No chance of that, cloaked as she was in his shadow.

  But then he moved to the side, and moonlight poured over her, making her startle.

  She did not know how it was possible to move so sure of foot amongst the fog-ladened roots, but of a sudden he was before her, his shadow once more covering her as he grasped her forearm and rendered the stick impotent—had it ever been of benefit against such a man.

  Fearing for Jeannette, Honore strained to the side and saw the young woman ran forward as if to give aid with a sword that would soon prove another stick.

  “Run, Jean!” Honore cried, surprised by the clarity that caused her to speak the male form of the young woman’s name. Then she saw a figure emerge from behind a tree to the right. Sword drawn, the man lunged toward Jeannette.

  “Run!” Honore screamed.

  Blessedly, the young woman swerved and reached her legs opposite.

  “I thought he was here to protect you,” the warrior said as he looked across his shoulder. “Not what he appears to be, hmm?”

  Honore did not struggle against his hold. It would only drain her of strength better saved should an opportunity for escape present. “You have me,” she panted. “Pray, let him go.”

  He did not respond, and a moment later his companion disappeared over the rise.

  “Jean is but a boy,” she protested. “He cannot defend himself—”

  “That was no boy.”

  Then he guessed her protector was a woman? More likely, he thought Jeannette the man she was made to appear. “Regardless, Jean is no warrior.”

  He shrugged. “Providing he does not seek to harm my squire, he is in no danger. Francis will bring him back, and whatever you will not tell, I will learn from your man.”

  She swallowed loudly. “You wish to know of your son.”

  He inclined his head, then turned her with him into moonlight.

  To her surprise, he was almost boyishly handsome, the wavy hair brushing his shoulders framing a face fit with dark eyebrows, long-lashed eyes, a well-shaped nose, and a mouth whose compression could not hide how full-lipped it was. Doubtless, his years fell somewhat short of her thirty and two.

  “You are young,” he said, and she caught her breath at the realization he studied her as intently. Though she spent no time in front of a mirror, on occasion she caught her reflection in water or on the silver platter with which Abbess Abigail and she were served light fare when they met to discuss the foundlings. She did appear younger than her years and might even be lovely—providing one viewed only what was visible above her covering. Thus, she was grateful this man made no attempt to divest her of the material slung across her lower face.

  “Not the crone I expected,” he murmured, and she was struck by the resonance of a voice deprived of accusation. Though deep, it was almost gentle and held a note of wonder, causing heat to sweep up her chest, neck, and face.

  Honore did not understand her reaction—and did not wish to, it being uncomfortably foreign, though it had not always been. In her younger years she had felt something akin to this in the presence of a handsome young monk who accompanied his bishop to Bairnwood to meet with the abbess once and twice a year. Time and again she had repented for imagining how it would feel to stand near him, clasp his hand, tuck her head beneath his chin, feel his arms around her. She had even wondered at his mouth upon hers. And ever that imagining returned her to reality—her reality. Such could never be.

  The warrior before her raised his eyebrows.

  Realizing she stared, she recalled the words he had spoken and said, “Nor are you the miscreant I expected, though I suppose you will do as well as Finwyn.”

  His lids narrowed, though not so much she could not see where his eyes moved when they left hers. Her masked lower face roused his curiosity, the weather too temperate to warrant the warmth the material provided in addition to its true purpose.

  But he stayed his hand, and when he spoke again, once more accusation sounded from him. “Where is my son?”

  Were the boy amongst those Finwyn and his grandsire had sold to her, there were three places he could be, one readily accessible, one barely accessible, and one impossibly accessible—the abbey, the home of adoptive parents, and the grave. She prayed it was not the latter, though perhaps it was for the best if this man meant the boy ill.

  Honore raised her chin. “Regardless of what Finwyn told—”

  “He tells you are a witch.”

  A chill rushed into her, slammed against her spine with such force it should have doubled her over. His words surprised though they ought not. And frightened as they certainly ought. It was not mere cruelty to be named one who consorted with the devil. It was deadly.

  She moistened her lips. “You think me a witch?”

  “I do not believe you possess ungodly powers, but that has little bearing on whether you believe yourself so equipped and commit foul deeds in the hope of strengthening those powers.”

  “You do me ill to suggest such a thing!”

  “Then for what do you buy unwanted babes?”

  “To save them. Their parents hire Finwyn—as they did his grandsire before him—to set them out in the wood. For a dozen years I have paid to deliver those innocents from cruel deaths.”

  “You are saying you, who look to be fortunate to clothe and feed y
ourself, have a brood of children?”

  Honore resisted the temptation to peer down her figure. Though simply dressed as befitting her station, her gown and cloak were in good repair. But she supposed one who could afford to leave pouches of coin for abandoned babes ought to possess the resources of a noble. And she did—or had, there being little remaining of the wealth that had accompanied her to the abbey thirty and two years past.

  “Oft appearances are deceiving,” she said, “especially when the one in possession of a good fortune pleases the Lord by spending it to do His good work rather than indulge her vanity.”

  “Twelve years,” he said as if she had not spoken. “How many babes is that?”

  She glanced at the motionless bundles. “Were this not trickery, those two would have grown the number to sixty and six, including the few I was able to save ere striking a bargain with Finwyn’s grandsire.”

  He snorted. “Unbeknownst to those of the village of Forkney, you reside nearby with that many children?”

  “I do not.”

  Before she could explain, he demanded, “Then where are they? Where can I find my son?”

  He would not like this, but there was only the truth. “As some are sickly and tragically ill-formed when I receive them, many have passed.” Ignoring his harshly drawn breath, she pressed onward, “Of the thirty-seven who survived infancy, either they have been placed in good homes or yet reside with me.”

  “Where?”

  She hesitated lest she endanger those of Bairnwood, but as he was one warrior and the abbey’s walls were high and secure, there seemed little risk in telling all—and perhaps it would prove Finwyn was the one who should not be trusted. “I am of Bairnwood Abbey.”

  His eyebrows scissored. “A nun?”

  “Nay, a lay servant who answers to the Lord and her abbess.”

  More hesitation. “Your name?”

  “Honore.”

  “Only Honore?”

  She inclined her head. “Of no surname.”

  He moved so swiftly she barely glimpsed the movement, giving her no time to tighten her grip on the stick. But after he tossed it aside, he released her.

  Honore stepped back and her calf struck a humped root. The distance between the warrior and her was slight, but she felt safer. Determined to gain more ground with him since her escape was not yet assured, she said, “Now I would know your name.”

  “Sir Elias de Morville come from France to learn the fate of the boy born to Lettice of Forkney. You know her?”

  Denial sprang to Honore’s lips, but something made her hesitate. She knew the name, but did she know it beyond that of the elderly lady who had arrived at Bairnwood ten years past intent on spending the remainder of her life in the peaceful confines of the convent?

  “Do you?” the knight pressed.

  “I do not. The agreement is the parents remain unknown to me, not only to ensure their privacy but the protection of the one who breaks with them to give their babes into my care. Too, Bairnwood is fairly isolated, and I leave its walls only when summoned.”

  Not true, she reminded herself of those first years she had ventured farther on her own, but before she could correct the lie, he said, “Summoned?”

  She blinked. “Of course. How else would I know when a babe is to be abandoned? You think I haunt the wood nightly?” She frowned. “Is that what Finwyn told to convince you I am a witch?”

  “The rope tied around the tree,” the knight said. “He told that alerts you to leave coin for a babe.”

  More and more Honore disliked—and feared—what unfolded. “He lied.”

  “If ’tis not the rope that summons you, what?”

  “Who,” she corrected. “Finwyn sends a boy to the abbey, and that night I bring coin and pray ’tis not too late for the babe given unto me to thrive.”

  “Was it too late for my son?”

  “As told, I know not whence the babes come. But if you tell me how old he would be, mayhap I can reveal his fate.”

  “He would be seven and some.”

  She startled, for some reason expecting the one he sought was much younger. Were he seven, that would be the year she paid Finwyn’s grandsire for three male infants spaced several months apart. And among them was one she could not account for with any certainty.

  “What else can you tell me about him?” she asked and heard desperation in her voice. Hoping his delayed response was not born of suspicion, she held her breath.

  “On the day past, I spoke to Lettice who revealed the babe is dead. She said he was left to the wood because of a stain upon his face she believed was a mark of the devil.”

  Honore was grateful she was somewhat prepared for his answer. Had she not been, she might not have locked her softening knees and remained upright.

  “After her departure,” the knight continued, “Finwyn Arblette appeared. Having overheard our conversation, he told his grandsire did not leave Lettice’s babe in the wood but sold him to you.”

  Hence, the ruse. Doubtless, Finwyn had been paid to deliver the one who had last seen the babe alive. Mere coincidence he overheard this knight and Lettice? Or did he yet earn coin as his grandsire rued years ago—selling the intimate favors of women? Might this Lettice be one of those whose sin he promoted?

  “Have you this boy?” the knight pressed. “Does he yet live?”

  Silently, she bemoaned he spoke of her beloved Hart. Why not the boy adopted by a childless husband and wife in the village of Dunwidden? Or even the babe laid in consecrated ground after a six-month battle to survive?

  “You are too silent,” the knight said. “Why?”

  She considered telling him his son was the one who had passed, but she could not lie. She unstuck her tongue from her palate. “I know the one you seek.”

  “Where is he?”

  Glad she was not short, wishing she were taller, she said, “Regrettably, he ran away six months past.”

  A shifting of chain mail, then his hand was on her left arm, moonlight revealing anger about his eyes and mouth. “I am to believe you?”

  “’Tis true.” As she tried to free her arm, she caught a flash of red on his hip and identified it as a jeweled dagger a moment before he dragged her close.

  “Why would he run away? Did you mistreat him?”

  “Of course not! I am fond of him.”

  “Fond, and yet he did not want to be with you.”

  It was wrong, but Honore wished she had lied. She drew a deep breath. “He did not like his discipline for inappropriate behavior. We argued, and the following morn he could not be found inside the abbey—nor outside it, the abbess having sent men in search of him.”

  “Methinks you lie. Did you sell him?”

  “Sell?” she exclaimed.

  “Sacrifice him?”

  “Neither! Never would I harm my charges. ’Tis the Lord in heaven I worship, not the evil one.”

  He fell silent, and when he spoke again, there was no mistaking the threat in his voice. “You have three options. Give me my son—”

  “I do not have him.”

  “Take me to the one to whom you sold him.”

  “I did not sell him.”

  “Or deny me altogether, and I will hand you up to be tried for a witch.”

  Fear and outrage were terrible playmates, Honore acknowledged as the two careened toward each other. A moment later they collided, flooding all reason and leaving her with naught but the need to survive.

  She thrust her free hand between them, closed it around his dagger’s hilt, and dragged the blade up out of its scabbard. She had no experience with weapons, and it seemed almost a miracle he wrenched backward. Otherwise, she might have opened his throat.

  An instant later, he captured her dagger-wielding wrist, and she had only a moment to note the anger sharpening his face and a whistling across the wood before he fell upon her.

  “Almighty!” he erupted as he carried her down toward roots that might snap a back or neck if one land
ed wrong. If not that he released her, she would have borne the brunt of the fall, but she had just enough time to twist to the side and thrust her arms before her to break her fall.

  Blessedly, her hands landed on moss-covered ground, but her hip was not as fortunate. With a loud crack, it struck a root, but though it hurt, she was surprised the pain was not ten-fold greater considering how loud the sound of bone on wood. It might even be broken.

  Was this shock? If so, De Morville would have no difficulty subduing her, especially as she was no longer in possession of his dagger. Where had it flown?

  She thrust onto her side, and as she searched for silver amid the fogged roots was further astonished the movement did not more greatly pain her. And before her was the reason, though it took a moment to understand.

  The knight lay face down on roots that formed the near rim of the cradle which held the bundles that had presented as babes. The crack had not been her hip but his head striking a root. But what sense to be made of the shaft protruding from his upper back? How had that come to be? And was he dead?

  Dear Lord, she silently despaired, what evil is afoot?

  The rustle and squelch of fallen leaves on moist earth brought her chin up, and she followed the sound to a figure who approached from far to the left of where De Morville’s squire had earlier concealed himself.

  He carried a bow, and as he advanced, hooked it over his head and an arm and let it fall across his torso like the sling Honore had brought to carry the foundlings to the abbey.

  Recalling the whistle heard before the knight fell upon her, this she also understood. De Morville had not attacked her. The force of Finwyn’s arrow burying itself in the knight had driven him against her. And in saving herself, he was the one victimized by the roots—were he not already dead by way of the arrow.

  Dear Reader,

  I hope you enjoyed this excerpt of THE RAVELING, the eighth book in the AGE OF FAITH series. Look for the tale of Sir Elias de Morville and Honore of no surname Spring/Summer 2018.

  For new releases and special promotions, subscribe to Tamara Leigh’s mailing list: www.TamaraLeigh.com

  Also by Tamara Leigh