by Tamara Leigh
“My lady!” Elias surged to his feet, the garments and weapons of a warrior a stunning contrast to what he was becoming. “I must know. Have you heart for my tale?” He raised a finger. “But ere you answer, ’tis only fair I warn this one is sure to make you ache near as great were it your tale and most true.” He raised his eyebrows, and she realized he sought a response as if she were also a player.
She sat straighter. “My heart is strong enough to weather your tale.”
He smiled as she had not seen him do, moved his smile to Cynuit. “You bear witness, lad. Does the lady’s heart fall from her breast, I am not to blame.”
Cynuit laughed. “If you will not aid the lady in retrieving her heart, I shall.”
The heart of which they so lightly spoke made more space for this boy, further crowding her foundlings, Hart, the abbess, and…Elias.
“Then we continue.” He winked. “The setting… Let us place the tale here in France, specifically Normandy held by that wild, flame-headed king of England, duke this side of the narrow sea. The hero… Simply Cant, the second son of a nobleman and spare heir to one determined to see the boy trained for knighthood though his interests lie in poetry, song, dance, and storytelling.”
Though Honore had guessed it must be so, she felt for the boy into whose hands weapons had been placed rather than quill and parchment.
Elias groaned. “Forbid he should defy his sire. And truly impossible for one so young and dependent. Until…”
A single stride carried him to Cynuit, and he dropped to his haunches. As the boy stared at him, the teller of tales said, “At the age of ten and six, Cant rebelled. Have you ever rebelled, lad?”
The boy jerked his chin. “Against my master.”
“Good. No matter how heavy the boot on one’s back, the Almighty would not have men or women suffer servitude, do you not agree?”
Cynuit looked uncertain but murmured, “Aye, milord.”
Elias rose. “But—caution here!—that does not grant one permission to harm others with their rebellion. One must think and pray ere acting. That Cant did not do. He wished another life, one he thought possible only if he”—Elias shot arms high, splayed fingers, danced them downward—“disappeared.”
Honore startled when his eyes sprang to hers.
“With hardly a thought for those left behind who would think ill befell him, he fled the lord with whom he fostered and crossed to England.” Elias returned to his place before the fire and dropped to sitting. Legs crossed, hands loose on his knees, he lowered his head. “Selfish, cruel, immature.”
She stared. Though he played a role, it was his. And she did not doubt his remorse required little acting.
He was silent so long she thought he would end his tale there, then he surged to his feet.
“Four years!” He held up that many fingers. “Four years Cant traveled town to town, castle to castle playing the troubadour. Much he loved the living. Much he did not.” He rounded on Theo. “Not? you ask. Had he not what he longed for? Days and nights of laughter, song, and dance? Aye, and an audience who inhaled his every word whether he snatched them from the air”—he closed fingers around a handful above his head—“or spilled forth those practiced for hours and days on end. And the ladies! Oh, the ladies!”
He winked, came around the fire, bowed before Honore. Then he captured one of her hands clasped around her knees and pulled her to standing.
“Elias!” she cried as the blanket fell from her shoulders. “You cannot!”
“The name is Cant. And I can—do you allow me, my lady.”
Distant from him by half the length of his arm, she looked up. “Allow you what?”
“To lead you in the dance.”
“I know not how to dance.”
He laughed. “For that, I shall lead, my lady.”
“I do not…”
“I will take that as agreement.” He retrieved her other hand, pulled her away from the fire. “Step as I step, as if you are my mirror.”
“Elias—”
“Cant,” he corrected again and looked across his shoulder. “Encouragement, lads! If the lady is to forget propriety and see the fun in life, even if only this night, you must encourage her. Clap, whistle, snap your fingers.”
And so they did, uncertainly at first, then enthusiastically when Elias demonstrated between their bodies the steps and movements of the tune sounding from his throat.
“Now you, my lady.” He met her gaze.
“I was not watching closely.”
“Not watching closely, she says! Mayhap she is too rapt over joining hands with the charming Cant, eh lads?” Another wink.
She was rapt, but she said, “You flatter yourself!”
“So I do. And often.” He chortled. “It seems I shall have to give the lady what she truly wishes—a dance of the common folk.”
He reeled her in. When she stumbled against him, he slid one arm around her waist to anchor her to him, raised her left hand, and pushed his fingers through hers. “Dear lady, either stand on my boots or I shall have to lift you higher against me.”
Against him… “Methinks the tale well enough told,” she said.
“Hardly.” He lifted her off her feet, resumed humming his tune, and turned her so swiftly cool air swept up her billowing skirts.
Honore knew she ought to further protest, but…
This is warmth for cold nights when all that shares your bed are memories made of Elias, whether of De Morville or Cant, spoke the voice with which Elias was making her familiar. Embrace it, Honore. It is but a dance. Longing in it, true, but no sin.
“He turns her ’round again,” Elias announced. “And dips her.”
Finding herself bent back over his forearm, loosed hair swinging, she looked up and saw his body followed the bend of hers, firelight in eyes and rimming his smile.
“Dips her lower.”
So he did.
“She thinks he may steal a kiss. And he would but, alas, he dare not offend her betrothed.” He straightened. Once Honore’s feet settled atop his boots, he looked past her to Theo and Cynuit whose encouraging din had abated.
They were entranced, though not as much as she who ought not be.
“Betrothed? you ask.” Elias’s wink was more exaggerated than the others. “There must be one, for who would not claim so lovely a maiden?”
He went too far in reminding her of what could not be. Just as he would wed another, she would remain wed to her work at Bairnwood.
“Elias,” she whispered, and when he continued to bestow a smile upon his audience, pulled her hand from his and set it on his shoulder. “Elias!”
His face came around, and their noses brushed.
She eased back. “I am not part of Cant’s tale, and that is the tale we seek.” She hated the tears the fire would bring to light. “Not the tale of Elias De Morville, a Wulfen-trained knight whose quest is to find his son. Cant’s tale. Only that.”
As he peered into her, on the other side of Cant who held her she saw Elias who should not hold her. That one pushed through and said low, “Forgive me.” Gently he set her back, loosed one of her hands, and as he turned to face Theo and Cynuit, smiled so broadly she knew that expression more false than any she had seen him wear.
“End of act one,” he announced. Then raising her hand with his, he bowed low.
Honore knew she ought to fold over as well, but like the steps of the dance, performance was foreign to her.
Belatedly, Theo and Cynuit clapped.
“Much appreciated,” Elias trumpeted and led her back to her place before the fire. As he released her hand, he said, “I thank you for your assistance in demonstrating how well the women liked Cant, my lady.”
Not knowing how to respond, she was grateful when Cynuit said, “What happened next, milord?”
As Honore lowered and drew her blanket around her, Elias turned to the boy. “Much, lad. But do you know, some of the best tales are those not told in full, giving th
e audience time to mull and imagine the road next traveled. For that, methinks we ought to take up the remainder another night.”
“Ah nay, milord! Though you gave much time to the dance, it is early. Tell, why did Cant not love the living? Something bad happened to him?”
Despite the dance, Honore also wished him to continue, certain Hart was at the end of Cant’s tale. Still, she felt for Elias who surely longed to take first watch and slip away among the trees.
“Please, milord.”
He returned to his side of the fire, but rather than seat himself on the ground, further distanced himself by perching on a large rock. “The living was not as Cant imagined. But though at times he regretted rejecting his life of privilege, mostly he was content.”
“You no longer show, milord.” Cynuit looked to Elias’s squire. “Aye, Theo?”
At the young man’s shrug, the lad said, “You just tell, milord.”
So he did, Elias silently acknowledged. A tale merely told was not worth the breath expended. But it had been too easy to become Cant and push boundaries he should not, especially with Honore. It was long since he had so greatly missed being one other than Elias De Morville. Becoming the performer again, he could do and be, think and say, and want and choose as he pleased. Thus, he had wanted, as Honore guessed, to make her part of the carefree troubadour’s tale.
“You are right, Cynuit. I am better than that.” He sat straighter and, determining it best to look only to the left and right of Honore, returned volume and life to his voice.
“Mostly Cant was content. But then he learned that which he played at was no game. He discovered the power of the nobility, the helplessness of the common man. Ah!” He leaned forward. “I have your interest again, Cynuit. Have I yours, Theo? Aye, I see the devilry in your eyes, the lust for story.”
“Take the devilry from our eyes, milord!” Cynuit cried.
Elias slid a bit of devilry into his laugher, then once more set his face in serious lines. “Cant’s troupe was engaged to pass the winter at a barony in Northern England.” Upon which the village of Forkney lay, he did not say. “There the young man fell in love with a serving girl who hung on his every tale. And what of she?” He grinned, winked. “Of course she returned his love. Madly. Deeply. Wondrously. But”—he held up a hand—“too soon, too soon, dear listeners. Pray, curb your enthusiasm. Hold not thy breath, for a lengthy detour we must take.”
The boy groaned.
Honore, out of sight but not mind, tempted his regard. And Theo, who was to know more of the tale than before, ineffectually suppressed a sigh.
“I vow ’tis essential,” Elias said and, knowing Theo and Honore would substitute the name Lettice said, “Her name was Violet, and a violet she was—fair, soft, fragrant. And sweet, though her burdens were many for one so young.”
It was no act to express sorrow. The act would have been in suppressing how great that sorrow were Elias not many years removed from Cant. “Violet’s father had died, and so deeply her mother mourned she neglected her little ones, leaving Violet to care for them with the coin earned as a servant—so little she had to seek other work.”
Feeling his hands move toward fists, Elias opened them and, attempting to incorporate his reaction into the tale, turned them palms up. “The work of…” He hesitated, not for effect but to question if he should relate this to a boy of ten. Cynuit was from Forkney where such work was mostly shrugged off. Too, his master had been Arblette.
“The work of a joy woman,” Elias said, and Cynuit’s slow nod told he knew that was the name preferred by women whom men were more likely to name harlots. “Cant tried to save her by sharing his food and earnings so she need only serve at the castle, but she persisted until he vowed to leave the troupe, remain with her, and make her his wife.”
Elias did not mean to look to Honore, but his eyes played him false and once more he saw she peered at him over her knees.
“Did she stay true?” Cynuit asked, further evidence he was exposed to those moved by desperation to barter their bodies.
“Cant believed so.” Elias stood, looked to the heavens. “The Lord sees all. He knew Violet’s sins. He knew Cant’s. He knew what had been, what was, and what was to be. Thus, he knew never would Cant speak vows with Violet.”
“Because she did not stay true?” Cynuit pressed.
Elias forced lightness about a face whose muscles sought to express pain. “Accursed desperation, lad. It makes sinners of men and women alike.”
“How did he discover her lie? And Sir Elias, again you tell rather than show.”
Elias hung a smile whose curve was so weighted it might snap. “Alas, I am fatigued, Cynuit, much of the blame for which belongs to Honore. We shall have to teach her to dance on her own feet, hmm?”
The boy glanced at her. “Pray, finish the tale, milord.”
“If you wish the show of it, you shall have to wait.”
A long-drawn sigh. “I cannot.”
Best I am done with it, Elias determined. Then no more need be told Honore.
“Ere Violet and Cant were to wed, he happened on her. He was certain the knight with her had not her permission since her word she had given she would be Cant’s alone.”
Elias made a show of drawing breath as memories of Lettice in the arms of another man swept him—of her angry protest not directed at the one with whom she was intimate.
Lungs unable to contain more air, he continued in a strained voice, “And so the troubadour set himself upon one whose rank would have been inferior to his had he completed his knighthood training—had he not donned the person, mind, and heart of a commoner. And that knight beat Cant and dragged him before the lord of the castle who had him beat again for being a commoner who struck a nobleman.”
Outrage gathered on Cynuit’s face. “He should have revealed his noble blood, milord! That would have put end to it.”
“Ah, but not only was Cant unworthy of his name for forsaking it, but do you not think it would have sounded a lie? One so offensive it warranted further beating, perhaps unto death?”
Trying to stay in front of memories of what he would next tell, allowing them only near enough to bring the story to its conclusion, Elias continued, “The wretch sought out Violet, and she whose sweet petals were more bruised than he had known hardly saw her love’s bruises, cuts, and swellings. She said his jealousy ruined all, that never would her lord allow them to wed. Though Cant ought to have left her then, he had to know for what she betrayed him.”
Elias narrowed his eyes at Cynuit. “Coin to buy shoes for her sister. But still he lingered, assuring her he would have given her coin out of his next earnings.” Lettice’s face rose before him, and he saw the glint in her eyes and curl of her upper lip. “Then she delivered the blow that snuffed the slightest hope of a life together. Violet said it was only her body and there was no easier way to see her palm filled with coin.”
“Desperation,” Cynuit breathed.
Elias inclined his head. “At last Cant accepted she was broken—that in times of need the easier way would prevail over love for him.”
“So he left her,” the lad said with what sounded approval.
“He did, but do you think it best?”
“Of course. Her lord would not allow them to wed, she would not be faithful, and how was Cant to earn a living under the rule of one who ordered him beaten a second time?”
It had been Elias’s reasoning, and until Lettice’s murder only on occasion had he questioned if it was sound. But guilt over her death argued that had he truly loved her, he would not have given up, would have found a way to make a life with her in which never again must she sell her body.
Impossible, he silently argued. As a commoner and under those circumstances, no matter your effort you could not have supported her, her siblings, and her mother. And Lettice knew it. It was surely among the reasons she hardened herself against you.
Guilt once more shouldered its way in, suggesting had he thrown
himself on his father’s mercy and reclaimed his nobility, he would have had the resources to pull her out of that life.
Fool, he countered. Otto De Morville would not have accepted Lettice and her family. Rather than name you his heir, he would have consigned his ruined young wife to a convent and wed another to make more sons.
It was so, and yet—
“Do you think it best he left her, Sir Elias?” Honore asked, awakening him to the present and its own troubles.
No longer did she clasp her knees, and he guessed beneath her blanket her legs were crossed. And those blues of hers seemed to peer into his soul.
“It matters not what I think. I am but the teller of a tale devised to entertain and encourage its audience not to simply receive words but think on them.”
“I have thought on them,” she said.
He did not want to prompt her lest her answer further fuel his guilt, but the hole would be too noticeable since he had prompted Cynuit. “Your conclusion, my lady?”
She glanced at the lad. “Though God can do all things, I know free will is a great gift. But what we make of what we find inside the wrappings is not entirely up to us. Much is dependent on what others do with their free will, which can render ours trampled. Thus, I may not be as certain as Cynuit it was best your hero leave Violet, but I do not see he had much choice.”
Did she seek to absolve Elias De Morville of a wrong? Certes, she knew it was guilt with which he was stricken.
Elias looked to Theo. “What say you, Squire?”
He was quick to answer though not because he did so thoughtlessly. “It seems all present are in agreement Cant took the only road wide enough to set his feet upon.”
Elias longed to believe that.
“Will you not tell what became of Cant, milord?” Cynuit asked.
“It will be a much-shortened tale, lad, but it unfolds like this…” He picked up the branch with which he had earlier stirred the fire, lowered to his haunches, and poked at the glowing logs, causing orange and yellow embers to fly up like rain turned upside down. “Recompense,” he said. “Retribution. Revenge.”
The blood of the performer once more flowing through him, he looked face to face, most quickly past the one whose blue eyes closely watched him. “The beaten, heartbroken troubadour determined never again to suffer the helplessness of a commoner and departed the village to recover in the next. Two days later, a nobleman came to notice whose boasting became louder and more vile the greater he imbibed.”
