by Tamara Leigh
Her stomach groaned, and as heat climbed up her neck, Sir Elias reached forward and pinched the candle’s wick, inviting shadows to close around the pungent gray smoke ribboning upward.
“Allay your hunger, Honore.”
She could only make out the shape of his face and sparkle of eyes drinking in what light remained in the room. “I thank you,” she said, but still she turned her shoulder to him as she tucked the gorget beneath her chin. She drank half the ale before joining him in picking viands from the platter.
“Forgive me,” she choked when their fingers brushed, causing sensation to spring up her arm. Fool, she silently berated, he does not warrant nor want such feeling. Beware lest your heart turns in a direction that leads nowhere but ache.
A short while later, he said near her ear, “We are watched. And closely.”
Keeping her chin down lest his eyes had adjusted well enough to see what she would not have him see, she turned her face toward his. “Are we in danger?”
“Methinks more than those four do they move upon us ere our numbers match theirs.”
Hoping the squire and boy would soon appear, dissuading the men at the corner table from acting against a knight and the woman with whom he kept company, Honore said, “What should I do?”
“Eat.” He reached to the viands. “But be prepared to act as I order should they approach.”
She chose a piece of cheese that went down so dry she had to follow it with ale.
As she lowered the tankard, one of the men rose.
“Another bite,” Elias said low and, as his left hand moved to his dagger angled in the space between them, she chose a slice of meat.
The tall man said naught until he reached them, and when he spoke it was out of the depths of a hood that, in the absence of candlelight, revealed little of his face. “Sir Knight, I understand you seek passage across the channel,” he spoke in the French of the noble.
Elias stared at the one who had either overheard the conversation with the innkeeper or been informed of it when the woman served him and his companions.
Wishing he had not snuffed the candle to provide Honore privacy, Elias said, “You are?”
In the strained voice of one who either much abused it or sought to render it unrecognizable, he said, “One upon whom you need not draw a Wulfrith dagger, my son.”
Just because he addressed Elias as would one of the Church did not mean he was of the brotherhood. “Your name?” Elias asked again.
“Brother Christian of the Gilbertine Order. And you?”
Elias suppressed a startle when Honore’s hand gripped his thigh, and once more he regretted her accompaniment. Her fear was a distraction, and of greater detriment was the need to safeguard her. He glanced at the table whence this man came and, confirming the others remained seated, said, “Sir Elias De Morville.”
“I know the name. Your family holds French lands from our sovereign, and your sire is…” He paused as if to search his memory. “…Otto?”
If his knowledge was meant to put Elias at ease, it did, but not enough to lighten his grip on the dagger.
“May I sit?” Brother Christian nodded at the bench opposite Elias and Honore.
“You may.”
He lowered and folded his hands atop the table. “I am also in need of reaching France. Unlike you, I have the means to do so.”
“For what do you tell me this?”
“I require the services of a knight possessing the honor and skills of one trained at Wulfen.”
Though grateful for the reputation bestowed by Everard, Elias needed none to tell him he was less worthy than many who received that training. Thus, he availed himself of further training at Wulfen Castle each time he visited England in the hope one day he would prove capable of all expected of him by those who noted the dagger on his belt.
“Continue, Brother Christian.”
“I have business with the pope some would thwart by denying me and my brethren the right to depart England. Thus, in exchange for passage across the narrow sea, I would buy your protection. Do you agree and does the weather hold, we shall leave well ere first light ahead of the ships and boats whose numbers are too few to accommodate all who seek to reach France.”
His proposition appealed, but there was much he did not tell. “I guess it is not a ship you have secured, Brother Christian.”
The man grunted. “They are too well watched by those who wish to keep me from the pope.”
Here the reason for the search of those entering and exiting the town. “My party numbers four, including my squire and a boy,” Elias said. “Our horses number three.”
The man nodded. “The skiff that shall carry us across the channel can accommodate four more, but your horses will have to follow later, the arrangements for which I am sure the innkeeper will make for a few coins.” He reached beneath the table, set a purse on the wooden planks. “More than enough coin to hire worthy mounts in Boulogne.”
That place where the troupe had landed and might now perform. Tempted by the guarantee of passage for all even if he must collect their horses later, Elias asked, “Who thwarts you, Brother Christian?”
“One I loved as a brother who so loved me in return he entrusted me with the care of his son. One I would not have believed a tyrant until he revealed his love was contingent on the death of my conscience and betrayal of the Church.”
“Who?”
“It matters not. What matters is I reach France quickly.” He turned his head toward the woman beside Elias. “I know not the reason you are with this knight,” he said, “but methinks you must agree with what I offer, Honore.”
She gasped, voicing Elias’s own surprise, and her hand that had eased on his leg dug into it. “Do I know you?”
“We met at Bairnwood. Recognition of Abbess Abigail’s beloved servant and that your traveling companion is Wulfen-trained persuaded me to risk much in approaching you.”
Elias did not doubt the man’s revelation was meant to further assure the one whose service he hoped to engage that, as presented, he was a man of the Church. It did, though Elias hesitated as he recalled words so forcefully spoken past crossed quarterstaffs Everard’s saliva had wet his opponent’s face.
Here is a lesson, Elias Cant who can if he will but heed the instructor. Given time to plot and maneuver, engage the mind ere the muscles.
Then Everard had hooked a leg around Elias’s and sent him crashing to the ground.
“I think we must aid him,” Honore cut across the silence.
“I thank you,” Brother Christian said, and when still Elias did not respond, added, “I vow, Sir Knight, I am about God’s business.”
Which would sooner see Elias about the business of Hart. “Very well, my sword arm and that of my squire for passage across the channel ere first light.”
The man’s sigh was so long he hunched over it. “God is on my side,” he said, then more softly, “though I must needs tend my sheep from afar.” He lowered his head further, and Elias guessed he prayed. When he rose, he said, “Let us beseech the Lord for kind seas and gain whatever sleep can be had.”
As he started to turn away, Elias said. “I do not require your coin, Brother Christian. Passage only.”
Though it remained too dark beneath the man’s hood to make sense of his visage, what sounded like tears were in his voice when he said, “God bless you, my son.”
After he returned to his companions, Elias looked to Honore and saw the gorget once more covered her lower face. “You do not know him?”
Her shrug was tense. “I do not recognize his voice and name, but that does not mean we have not met. I have been at Bairnwood all my life and oft I join the abbess and her visitors to speak of our work with foundlings.”
All her life… That which he did not seek of her distracting him from what he sought, he guessed her a foundling. Whether conceived by a noblewoman sent to secretly birth her misbegotten babe at the abbey or born to a commoner who set her out in the
wood, it must account for her devotion to abandoned babes.
He moved his thoughts back a space. Had her mother been a commoner, for what had she put out her infant? Poverty? Illegitimacy? A defect of birth?
That last drew his gaze to the gorget he had been told was worn for the sake of modesty. A lie? He had seen Honore without it but not clearly. The only thing of note in the dark of night had been blood running from nose to chin. Had it hidden something of which she was ashamed? A mark of birth like that which caused Lettice to reject her son? For this was Honore so fond of Hart?
Her hand came up, touched the covering as if to ensure it had not slipped.
Rebuking himself for making her uncomfortable over something that did not matter, he reminded himself of what mattered and said, “Then we have only the man’s word and his recognition of you to establish he is as he claims.”
She averted her gaze, lowered her hand and cupped it over the other at her waist. “Likely a Brother Christian visited Bairnwood. Perhaps in daylight I shall recognize him.”
Once more her response bothered. Had it a false note? Or was it but weighted by undue attention shown her? Or fatigue over the long ride that put her claim to horsemanship to a test she had struggled to pass?
Before he could probe further, two entered the inn. Packs slung over their shoulders, they stamped mud from their boots and crossed to their lord. And learned what the darkest of morn held for all.
Chapter 17
LOSS FEEDING RHYME
She slept as Theo’s lord had done until awakened to take the last watch.
Leaning against a wall alongside a shuttered window, hand resting on dagger’s hilt, Elias considered Honore where she stretched atop a bench.
Over the past half hour, the blanket given her by the innkeeper had slipped to her waist as restless sleep moved her on her narrow bed. Before turning her back to him this last time, she had murmured something from which he picked Finwyn’s name, then shaken her head.
Guessing her dreams were disturbed by remembrance of the attack at the stream, Elias had been tempted to awaken her, but she had resettled and spoken no more.
Until now.
She drew a sharp breath, dropped onto her back so near the edge of the bench she might soon find herself on the floor, and sent one rasping word through the gorget’s weave.
Bishop?
Elias strode to the bench, bent to turn her, and stilled when the single torch the innkeeper had left lit cast a glow across one side of a face wrapped all around in cloth. The veil had shifted upward, exposing golden hair, the gorget downward, though not so far her entire mouth was revealed. One side of the upper bow was beautifully arched, the other distorted by the table’s shadow.
Something moved so stealthily through Elias it nearly slipped past him—attraction, that which he ought not feel and certainly not so near the tragedy in Forkney.
Before he could distance himself, she moaned, and this time he heard clearly, “I need him. For Hart.”
Guessing he figured into what she dreamt, Elias waited. But once more she rolled away, exposing to light the bruise on the side of her nose dealt by Arblette. It had faded enough that one almost had to look for it to see it.
He drew the blanket up over her shoulder, but as he turned away, he sensed a change about her. And stilled.
Honore sprang open her eyes. Had Elias’s presence awakened her? Was it him she felt almost as strongly as if he hunkered on this side of her? Reminding herself to breathe, she narrowed her lids and, past the dim beneath the table, saw the corner where two of the brethren slept upright, the other two on benches.
Leave me be, she silently entreated the knight who stood over her, but he remained unmoving as if aware she had awakened.
Feeling the gorget’s edge across the seam of her lips, she thanked the Lord she faced opposite. Otherwise, Elias might satisfy his curiosity over one of those things hidden from him. Though her lower face was the least of these, she was increasingly self-conscious as she had been made to feel years past when trust in one she believed would overlook her imperfection proved a painful mistake. Afterward, she had rebelled against hiding how God had touched her in a way He had not touched them and cast off the gorget. But not for long.
At the apologetic request of the abbess who relied on the funds provided by Lady Yolande, once more Honore had covered her face outside her dormitory so noble ladies and others easily given to superstition and distaste must not so often cross themselves or hasten opposite.
Yanking herself back to the present, Honore silently bemoaned that Elias had yet to retreat. What did he want? To allay suspicions over what else she hid?
Once more, her conscience berated her for naming those things merely hidden. Whether by word or omission, they were lies. She could not be certain of Brother Christian’s identity, but she suspected the truth as strongly as she believed Finwyn was likely Hart’s father. But the same thing that made false of her over the boy’s parentage made false of her over the tallest of the brethren. She needed Elias’s aid, and were she to reveal her suspicion, he might turn from her as quickly as if given greater cause to question he had fathered a foundling.
Discomfited by the softening gorget absorbing the moisture of her inner lip, Honore hoped what she did next would move Elias away.
She sighed long, slid a hand up her face to shift the gorget higher, scratched her temple. Then she let her hand drop alongside her face.
“Honore?”
It was not her name that made her gasp. It was the speaking of it so near.
“Oui, you are awake,” he said low where he bent over her.
“I would return to my rest,” she whispered.
“I apologize for awakening you. You were restless and talking in your sleep. I only meant to ensure you did not fall from the bench or lose your blanket.”
One moment she was touched by his kindness, the next jolted. Her back had not always been turned to him? The blanket now over her had slipped? Might he have seen what she did not wish seen?
“You are kind,” she rasped.
“Turn to me, Honore.”
She stiffened.
“So our words may stay between us.”
She longed to retort their voices would not carry at all did he allow her to sleep, but she doubted it would send him away.
Hoping he did not wish to discuss Brother Christian, as avoided when Cynuit and the squire entered the inn, she ensured the gorget was in place and shifted around.
As he eased back on his haunches to give her space, she pushed onto an elbow. “Of what would you speak that cannot await morn?”
Lowering his voice further now they were face to face, he said, “The brethren trouble me. The urgency prompting their leader to enlist my aid so none thwart their departure makes me certain they are the reason all are searched at the town gates.”
“As I am also certain.” She hoped her agreement would make him more receptive to the answer she must give.
“You are sure you do not recall a Brother Christian at Bairnwood?”
A man by that name she did not, but there was another whose visit was unforgettable—he who, not then of the Church, was accompanied by a boy of greater consequence than himself. But that man and the one sleeping in the corner might not be the same.
Still you deceive, her conscience stabbed.
“I do not recall a Brother Christian,” she clung to her determination to aid in finding Hart. The boy needed her, did he not? Just as he had been nearly a son to her, she had been nearly a mother to him. And even if this man was his father, he would present as a stranger, all the more frightening after whatever Hart endured. Hers would be the familiar face and arms the boy needed to put him back together, and that was only possible if Finwyn did not reach him first and ensure he was never found.
Honore tried to look nearer on the knight to read his expression, but though his features were more intimate with torchlight than hers where she remained in the table’s shadow, all
she knew for certain was they appealed as much in the night as they did in the day. And if she did not uproot her growing attraction she might once more be pained by something dangled so far above her heart she could never reach it.
“Methinks I ought to reconsider the bargain with Brother Christian,” Sir Elias rent the silence.
She sat up, dropped her feet to the floor. “If we do not depart with him, there is no guarantee even you alone will make the crossing on the morrow, and if already Finwyn is in France…” She drew a shuddering breath. “I am afeared it will be too late to recover Hart. But if it is not and we chance more days in which he can be further exploited—”
Elias moved from his haunches to his knees, leaned in, and set a hand over her gorget-covered mouth. “Quiet.”
Realizing her voice had risen and tears rimmed her eyes, she stared into his face and felt the knuckle of his thumb beneath her nose and the warmth of her breath on it. Though once more tugged toward him, more she was moved to despair over the numbering of her fears. Fear for Hart’s fate. Fear she would greatly regret what she withheld from Elias. Fear of defying those who sought to prevent the brethren from leaving England. Fear of what would become of her foundlings if ill befell her.
She had told herself she knew enough of the world inhabited by this knight that she could move through it, but it was so thick with danger, intrigue, and uncertainty that the weak of her longed to be inside Bairnwood’s walls.
“Whisper,” he instructed and eased his hand from her mouth.
“Forgive me, Elias, but I…” She winced over denying him his title. “There is much to lose.” That last came out on a sob, at the end of which she found herself drawn forward. Though she kept her seat on the bench, he pressed her head beneath his chin and her face against his throat.
She knew she should resist being embraced by one she had accused of trespass, but she softened as the scent and feel of him carved forbidden paths through her. Thus, her only struggle was of keeping her hands from sliding around his neck.
“You are right,” he rasped. “Too much to lose.”
