THE RAVELING: A Medieval Romance (Age of Faith Book 8)

by Tamara Leigh

  Upon closer inspection of one believed to be a noblewoman, a few smiles had fallen, some had wavered, and surprise and question had shifted the light in appreciative eyes.

  When they had neared the town gates, Elias had said, “Chin up and a glare in those blues of yours. I do not believe it as good as a smile, but if you insist on being self conscious, it serves.”

  “Under the circumstances, it comes naturally,” she had replied.

  Elias had thought her trial past, but when they entered the town, he had nearly rebuked women who were less discreet. They had stared, mumbled prayers, crossed themselves, and scurried away. Fortunately, they numbered only a handful and most were of advanced years. And Honore’s chin had not moved from on high.

  Now as Elias guided his horse alongside hers toward the donjon, he looked sidelong at her.

  Catching the flutter of her lashes, he was certain she felt his gaze, but she kept hers upon the gathering of knights before the steps.

  Elias wished they did not have to enter the hall, but there he might learn what Theo and Cynuit could be unable to discover. Too, having passed no noblemen of obvious import on the road, he would confirm King Henry’s envoys had departed Saint-Omer rather than dally with Thomas on the loose.

  Honore did not go unnoticed by the nearby knights, but their reactions were much the same as other men encountered. They might lose interest because of her imperfection, but they could appreciate her loveliness enough to rise to her challenge not to show fear for a woman.

  Elias dismounted, straightened fine garments donned this morn, passed his reins to the groom who appeared, and crossed to Honore. The show of courage had worn her weary, and more was needed for what awaited them.

  He raised his arms to her, and she came into them with what seemed relief. Since they were watched and she could not play the wife here, he knew he should set her back, but he clasped her close and put his mouth to her ear. “My brave Honore.”

  He felt her sink against him, but then she stepped back and whispered, “Brave perhaps, but not yours. Pray, do not speak thus. Though I know you mean no harm, memories are made of such.”

  Memories he ought not want, he told himself and released her.

  “Now, Cousin,” she said, “offer me your arm and escort me into this den of wolves.”

  Hating it was that to her, Elias cupped her elbow, led her past the knights, and up the steps into a den that included one with a fondness for falconry.

  The young knight was observant. Elias had hoped him too concerned with one mistaken for the Archbishop of Canterbury to recall those who preceded the brethren on the road to Clairmarais, but often his eyes moved between Otto De Morville’s heir and the one who played his cousin. Where he sat at a lower table across from the one at which Elias and Honore also partook of the meal, he put his head near that of an older nobleman and spoke words that caused the other to glance at the two come late to the hall.

  Had Elias noticed the young knight sooner, he would not have accepted the lord of the castle’s invitation to join him for the nooning meal.

  Another lesson violated, he silently chastised. You shame Everard Wulfrith who entrusted you with his family’s reputation.

  Once more wishing he had been gifted with Wulfen training from an age at which he was first able to heft a sword, Elias determined he would not further fail his friend. As he carried a spoonful of stew to his mouth, he evaluated his circumstances.

  There was naught he could do about the attention paid Honore, but providing the young knight did not consider she had earlier concealed her scarred lip beneath a gorget, she was convincing as a noblewoman accustomed to finery. Though uncomfortable eating in sight of others, she comported herself well.

  Like her, Elias looked the prosperous nobleman in garments far distant from the foul, muddy ones worn en route to Clairmarais. Other than his face the young knight had glanced over, he ought to be unrecognizable. However, of note was the Wulfrith dagger he had worn then and now—a greater rarity in France, most of those who received their training from the Wulfriths being of England. Likely, the dagger had been previously noted, especially as it was worn by one absent a horse who had looked a common soldier rather than a knight.

  But it was too late to remove it. Had he come to the attention of the young knight when Honore and he first entered the hall, the dagger could be responsible for the interest shown Honore and him. Thus, its removal might confirm the man’s suspicion.

  “Elias?”

  He looked around.

  Honore smiled—wide-eyed and false. “You feel it too?” she asked.

  He was glad she was not oblivious to the attention paid them, and though he had not alerted her to the one passed on the road to Clairmarais, she surely recognized him. “I feel it.”

  “What are we to do?”

  Though Henry’s men were no longer in residence, he had gained no word of the troupe’s destination from those with whom he conversed before the meal. Hopefully, Theo and Cynuit would fare better.

  “At meal’s end,” he said, “we depart without delay.”

  She returned to the trencher they shared and pulled off a piece of broth-soaked bread.

  A half hour longer they played at having no care for those who observed them, and when the meal ended, Elias raised Honore to her feet. Leisurely, he guided her past the others, many of whom also sought the out of doors. And he did not need to look around to confirm the young knight was among those who followed.

  Elias paused behind others gathered before the lord to thank him for his hospitality. Though he prayed the one with whom he wished to avoid a confrontation would continue to the doors, he did not.

  Elias urged Honore forward, dipped his head. “My lord, my cousin and I thank you for the fine meal and good company. We hope one day our family can repay the hospitality.”

  The man smiled. “It will not be the first meal owed me by the De Morvilles. Godspeed your journey, Sir Elias.”

  They stepped past. And were followed.

  Upon reaching the base of the donjon steps Elias acted on the lesson that in the face of battle one’s best defense was offense, a show of aggression more likely to put finish to a threat ere the shedding of blood.

  He released Honore and turned in front of her. Setting a hand on his dagger’s hilt, he widened his stance as the two coming off the lowermost step faltered. “Either you insult my lady cousin with lascivious imaginings”—he met the young knight’s gaze—“else you have issue with me.” He shifted his regard to the other man. “Better the latter as I have little tolerance for offenses dealt women, especially those of my blood, so consider carefully ere enlightening me as to your interest at meal.”

  The young knight’s self assurance having fallen down around his ankles, he opened his mouth but formed no words.

  “Pardon, Sir Elias,” his companion said. “Our interest is not meant to offend.”

  Elias raised his eyebrows. “You are?”

  “Richard De Lucy of recent pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela now returning home to England. Or so I hoped.”

  “An admirable undertaking, but that does not inform me of your interest in me and mine.”

  “The Archbishop of Canterbury,” the young knight answered.

  Elias had not expected such honesty, but he fit confusion on his face. “What has that rebel priest to do with me?”

  “You and the lady were traveling with him on the day past on the road to Clairmarais and Saint-Omer.” His eyes flicked to the dagger. “Certes, it was you.”

  “We traveled that road,” Elias allowed, honesty amid dishonesty making the latter more believable, the same as tales spun to entertain, “but we did not keep company with men of God.”

  “They followed behind, among them Thomas Becket.”

  Elias nearly startled when Honore stepped alongside him and set a hand on his arm. “Brethren did share the road with us, Cousin. You must have been so distraught over the theft of our mounts you did not no
tice. And I remember when this knight and his companions passed us.” He heard the smile in her voice when she directed her next words to the young man. “Was it good hunting, Sir…? Oh, I know not your name.”

  She played it so well Elias longed to place himself beside the one she addressed so he might watch her.

  The knave’s gaze too low to be upon hers, fascinated as he was by a near view of her mouth, she repeated, “Your name, Sir Knight?”

  He looked up. “Sir Neville of the family Sorrel, trained into knighthood by Count Philip of Flanders.”

  Elias tensed further. Even if this one no longer served the count, he had ties with the King of England’s cousin.

  “I am certain,” Sir Neville continued, “among those brethren was the archbishop all know to have fled England.”

  Honore put her head to the side. “If so, we were unaware. But then, I would not know him by sight. Would you, Cousin Elias?”

  “I would have no occasion. Now as we have long delayed our departure, we bid you good day.”

  “De Morville!” De Lucy said as Elias took Honore’s arm.

  “Sir Richard?”

  The man stepped near. “It is imperative I discover the archbishop’s whereabouts.”

  Elias shot his eyebrows high. “Then I wish you well.”

  “Sir Elias, know you who passed the night here?”

  “Not until two hours ago did we arrive at Saint-Omer. As we but sought our rest and a meal, I have no care for who lodged here.”

  “It was King Henry’s envoys, men tasked with leashing Becket.”

  Elias shrugged. “Your king—my duke—may be my liege, but his squabbles with the archbishop have only to do with me insofar as you are determined to make them my problem.”

  “Early this morn they departed,” De Lucy said as if Elias had not spoken. “One group rides to Sens to meet with the pope over the matter of deposing Thomas, the other toward Paris to meet with King Louis to persuade him to deny the archbishop refuge and use his influence with the pope to support Henry’s actions against Thomas. Hence, I must find him.”

  Elias sighed. “I say again, I know naught of the man. But I am curious. Why do you concern yourself over that froward priest?”

  “I am his vassal and friend, and this break with Henry…” He raised his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I fear it will ruin him, perhaps even our king.”

  He seemed sincere, but another Wulfen lesson growled through Elias—Beware the wolf. Oft he wears the fleece of the slain lamb. Do you not see the long nose, then seek the eyes. No cunning will you find in a lamb’s.

  On the pretense of sympathy, Elias stepped near, set a hand on De Lucy’s shoulder. “I understand your distress.” He studied the dark eyes. “And much I admire your loyalty to your liege.” Was that a glint of cunning? “But I cannot tell what I do not know. I wish you well, Sir Richard. And you, Sir Neville.” He moved his hand to Honore’s arm. “Come, Cousin.”

  Elias felt their gaze until Honore and he went from sight in the outer bailey.

  “Do you think you were believed?” she asked after he paid the stable lad.

  “We played our parts well, but there is too much at stake and so many clambering for a piece that, in the hope of marrow, the dogs will gnaw on a seemingly barren bone.”

  “We are the bone.”

  “Unless another with meat upon it can be found. Though our parting with Thomas ensures we are of no danger to him, we shall have to be vigilant.”

  She lifted a hand to a string tied around her neck and fingered her way down it. Elias had not noticed it before, but now he saw the ring threaded on it. It was not sizable or elaborate, but if any of the four sapphires set in the band at intervals like the directional points on a map caught light, it would draw the eye—especially for the disparity between it and the crude string from which it hung.

  “You ought to keep that hidden,” he said.

  She followed his gaze, tucked the tip of a finger in the ring. “Surely you do not think any would recognize it?”

  Had someone? The man who claimed to be Thomas’s vassal and friend? “Was it inside your bodice whilst we conversed with those knaves?”

  “I…believe so.”

  “Let us pray so.”

  Flushing, she dropped the ring down the neck of her gown.

  Once mounted, they rode into the town to reunite with Theo and Cynuit. And God willing, confirm the troupe that had performed at Saint-Omer was the one they sought and learn their destination.

  Chapter 28

  AND LET HIM KISS

  The tidings were unsatisfactory. No confirmation it was the troupe they sought since no amount of discreet inquiry revealed they offered a secret sideshow. And of the names of its members none recalled Finwyn.

  But Cynuit had discovered their destination was a castle known to Elias—Château de Sevier whose heir had attended the troupe’s first performance at Saint-Omer and engaged them to travel south to his home. That castle was held by one who also owed allegiance to Duke Henry and, of further note, abutted De Morville lands.

  Unfortunately, Elias would not be well received by that family. The Costains and De Morvilles were not enemies, but Elias had offended last year when Otto sought to betroth his heir to the eldest daughter—barely the eldest, having all of ten and four years to her sister’s ten and three.

  Elias was not his father. When he wed, it would be to a woman not a girl half his age.

  Gaze bridging the fire, he settled it on Honore where she sat on a blanket Cynuit had spread for her. Another blanket clasped around shoulders draped with golden hair, knees drawn to chest, eyes peering over them into the flames, she seemed not of his world. And she was not, her stay here temporary.

  Here was a woman, he mused, but she was far older than would be acceptable to Otto De Morville.

  Elias growled low over his mind’s wanderings. More and more he felt for Honore, but even were she ten and five, they could never be. He had given his father his word, and he would keep it no matter the sacrifice.

  “My lord, what say you to a tale?” Theo said.

  Once more Elias was jolted, though more by Honore’s blue gaze shooting to his than his squire’s words. Her eyes… Dear Lord, her eyes…

  “Aye, a tale, milord,” Cynuit prompted. “Pray, in English that I may better understand.”

  It felt like snapping chains to break from the blue, and he felt strangely weakened when the links gave. “Methinks a good night’s sleep better sought,” he said.

  Cynuit glanced at the slowly darkening sky. “’Tis not even an hour past twilight.”

  “We rise early to make Sevier Castle ere the nooning hour,” Elias reminded.

  “A short tale, then, milord.”

  Touched by the boy’s pleading, Elias said, “What sort? One woven of adventure? Laughter? Loss? Darkness?”

  “Love.”

  That single word, which he had not intended to speak himself, returned his gaze to the one who spoke it.

  Chin on her knees, Honore said, “And adventure, laughter, mayhap even loss.”

  Though something warned it was at his peril he acceded, he said, “That would be quite the tale. I do not think I know one capable of fulfilling your requirements.”

  “Oh but there is one, Sir Elias. I have not heard it—only of it—whilst we paused at Cheverel. The hero’s name… Was it Cant?”

  Blessedly, he was prepared to engage the actor, covering an outward show of surprise with confusion. “Cant?” he said, though he knew how she had come by it. It was what Everard had called out upon the arrival of his friend’s party. Had Honore asked Susanna about it? Had its origins been revealed?

  “I am certain you must know it,” she prompted. “I believe it tells of a young man who cast off his nobility to travel England with a troupe of performers.” Her smile was slight.

  Still, Elias meant to refuse her, but Cynuit said, “That is a tale I would like to hear, milord.”

  The lac
k of guile in the boy’s eyes told the name that had not escaped Honore had escaped him.

  “It sounds too unbelievable,” Theo said.

  Elias looked to his squire who knew enough of the story to understand how personal it was. Thus, he sought to aid his lord.

  “I know some of the tale,” Elias acceded, “but Theo is right. It is unbelievable, and I would not disappoint you, Cynuit. Nor you, Honore.”

  “You forget I heard the tale poured into the imagination of Sir Everard and Lady Susanna’s son,” she said. “I am sure you can make it passably believable.”

  She would have him bare his soul, make sense of all that had delivered them to this time and place. But he would not. That was in the past and there it must—

  He reined in his thoughts. His quest to retrieve his son had made the past his present. And he had made it hers.

  Bare away, Elias, he told himself. It is the least owed her. Something to remember you by when once more her life is spent in service to the Lord whilst yours is spent in service to the De Morvilles. A sea between you.

  He cleared his throat. “I shall aspire to do the tale justice.”

  Her eyes widened, evidencing she did not expect him to yield.

  He raised his wineskin, took a draught. Then snatching on the person of Elias Cant, he tossed high his hands. “Hearken to my tale. Hearken well! This one be of adventure, laughter, longing and”—he pointed to Honore—“love.” He turned his mouth down. “But not of a love that lasts. One of loss most tragic. Are you prepared? Have you heart for it?”

  Honore blinked at the open-faced man beyond the fire, one she hardly recognized for what seemed joy on a face that, heretofore, had little cause to reflect anything other than momentary pleasure—except when his attempt to coax a smile from her led to a kiss. That had been more than a moment, though it was gone and ought nevermore be felt.