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

by Tamara Leigh

  “Who?” Cynuit asked.

  Elias shot to his feet. “Fortuitous this! Can you guess?”

  The lad shook his head.

  “It was the foul knight who beat Cant and saw him beat again.”

  Cynuit gasped. “Did Cant kill him?”

  “He wished to, but he controlled that demon, watching and waiting for the right opportunity to repay him.”

  “How?”

  “Oh lad, it was wondrous! Once that knave was sated near senseless, he stumbled out of the inn. And our Cant…” He widened his eyes. “From somewhere beneath the terrible injuries that left him unrecognizable and barely able to put one foot in front of the other arose anger so great he felt none of his aches. And delivered a beating whose marks that knight carries to this day.”

  And that, Elias reflected, was as much truth as the rest of it, as he had recent occasion to look upon that knight.

  “Then what happened?” Cynuit’s eyes were so alight, Elias knew despite the lapse in delivering a tale well when he had spoken of Lettice, he had recaptured his audience’s imagination and made it seem as real as life itself. In the case of Cant, no difficult thing.

  “Cant bestowed the great favor of relieving so unworthy a knight of much extra weight.”

  Cynuit beamed. “He took his armor!”

  “And sword. After all, a man without such does not a knight errant make.”

  “Knight errant,” the boy ran his tongue over words he surely found delicious then frowned. “But Cant had not completed his knight’s training.”

  “And he would not for some years. Blessedly, once he left the troubadour behind, he proved well enough versed in all the years given to his training that few questioned or challenged one who knew how to play a part. And eventually, he sold his services to a baron.”

  An unworthy lord, Elias recalled Lady Susanna’s heartless brother who was better in the ground than above it.

  “That cannot be all there is to the tale,” Cynuit said.

  Elias smiled large. “You wish a grand finale?”

  The lad bobbed his head. “Did he return to his father? Did he find another love, one as faithful to him as he to her?”

  Those last words dragged Elias’s eyes where they ought not go, and only with great effort was he able to keep them from traveling beyond the golden hair draped over a shoulder. “Cant returned to his father, but only after the mighty Wulfriths deemed him worthy to be numbered amongst England’s greatest defenders.”

  Cynuit’s hands convulsed into fists, and Elias guessed he fought the temptation to clap like a child. Then once more his brow rumpled. “But he was of France.”

  “King Henry’s side of France. Thus, though not truly King Henry’s man, he was Duke Henry’s.”

  “Ah.” The boy scratched his head. “Was he ever better loved?”

  “Alas, the tale ends with the selfish young man’s reunion with his father who, having lost his first son, forgave Cant and made him his heir.” And now, Elias determined, further explanation for Honore. “However, were I to fashion of my own imagination what came after, I would say our hero kept his word to his father and did his duty to wed well. Eventually, fondness grew between him and his lady and they had…two sons, two daughters.” Elias stretched his arms out to his sides. “And here we end our tale.” He turned his palms up, bowed.

  No applause and none expected since Cynuit did not wish to appear a child and Honore and Theo knew it was no work of fiction.

  He straightened. “Now rest. On the morrow, Château de Sevier. I shall take first watch, Theo.” He snatched up a blanket, draped it over his shoulders, and ventured only far enough amid the trees to conceal himself from those he protected and any beyond the firelight who might think to steal upon them. As he patrolled the perimeter, every few minutes trading one cover for the next, time and again he looked to the woman who had lain down. So thoroughly encased in blankets was she that had he not felt her gaze searching the dark through which he moved, he would not know her back was to the fire Theo had banked low to provide only enough warmth to see them through till morn.

  Though her curiosity over Elias De Morville who had turned Elias Cant and the origin of Hart ought to be satisfied, that was not the end of it. As neither was it the end for him. Better he had left her at Forkney so never again a woman he could not have cause him to return to that place.

  I will not sin with her as I sinned with Lettice, he assured himself. I will not dishonor her nor myself.

  Even so, said a small voice, Honore of Bairnwood gives you good cause to want to return to that place.

  “Even so,” he growled and settled his senses on the land surrounding their encampment.

  It was an hour before the sense honed in the darkened cellar at Wulfen felt what could not be seen, heard, or smelled. Regardless of whether they were followed, there were others out there, near enough they surely knew the wood was not theirs alone.

  De Morville. A name only distantly known to him ere this day when he learned of the family behind the face of the knight who made false about the aid given the godforsaken Becket.

  But what a wondrous mystery! Neville of the family Sorrel loved each piece that moved him nearer finding favor with that grand duke upon whose brow rested a crown on the other side of the channel. Hopefully, he would be able to give Henry the slippery archbishop, but if De Morville and Becket had parted ways, the vassal who betrayed could be delivered unto him.

  Providing Henry was in a vengeful mood—and after listening in on his envoys on the night past he was—England’s king would be indebted.

  Lands of my own, Neville mused. Mayhap De Morville’s.

  He wanted to laugh, but on so cool and clear a night the sound would carry across the faint scent of smoke to that barely perceptible glow.

  He drew back, glanced at the men on either side of him. “Here we pass the night. You take first watch, Desmond…Raoul, second. If there is a third, it is mine.”

  Desmond, the burly man-at-arms grumbled as he did when reminded he enjoyed a life of leisure only as long as he held favor with the knight whose mother gave Neville much by way of apology for birthing her beloved last of three sons—among her greatest gifts fostering with Count Philip of Flanders though her husband had wished Neville dedicated to the Church. Unfortunately, the count had not offered a position in his household to the one he had knighted.

  His loss, as would be felt when Neville proved worthy in the eyes of one mightier than the count—Philip’s cousin, the King of England.

  “I say we set upon them now,” hissed Raoul, also a man-at-arms. Fortunately, what he lacked in intelligence he made up for in sword skill and the throw of a fist.

  “Patience,” Neville rasped. “First we see if they will lead us to Becket.”

  “I tell you, the archbishop has gone to ground,” Raoul said. “Better we had searched the abbeys between Gravelines and Saint-Omer than—”

  “You think those holy men would hand up one of their own?” Neville scorned. “Non, Becket or no, we have De Morville.”

  “What proof of his duplicity, my lord? Pray, not merely the proof of gut.”

  There was that, but more there was yestermorn. Having persuaded Saint-Omer’s lord to loan a falcon for a few hours of sport, Neville and his companions had departed the castle. It was on the road near Clairmarais he encountered soldiers come from Sandwich who told they were on the trail of seven or eight men who had taken a skiff and stolen away from the port King Henry had placed under watch to prevent the archbishop from seeking refuge in France. The only aid Neville had been able to give was to inform them the king’s envoys had arrived at Saint-Omer.

  Now for the dozenth time, Neville cursed himself for not heeding the proof of gut when, a half hour later, he happened on Sir Elias’s party. It had caused him to submit the tallest of the brethren was Thomas Becket, but he had been dissuaded when made to feel a fool for believing a man so humbly clothed could be the extravagant chancellor who had
become an archbishop.

  Then this day, four of those encountered on the road who were no longer horseless appeared at Saint-Omer. Recognizing them despite clothes far more fitting a party led by De Morville’s heir, Neville had assured his seat at meal alongside De Lucy who had spent much of the evening past with King Henry’s envoys. Previous to Neville confiding his suspicion, the man had been barely tolerant of the attempt to engage him. Afterward, he had shown greater respect. And of benefit to Neville and his quest was the ring around the neck of De Morville’s cousin who was more likely a mistress. De Lucy had known it for the hand upon whom it no longer sat.

  That Neville had not shared with Desmond and Raoul. They would do as told no matter their scorn of his proof of gut—and learn to respect it.

  Having kept Raoul waiting on an answer, Neville said, “Proof of gut, knave. Now take first watch.”

  “But you said second, my lord.”

  “And you are disrespectful.” Neville motioned to Desmond to follow, strode to his mount, and removed his pack.

  One of them would sleep well this night.

  Chapter 29

  WHAT HE SHALL MISS

  For love he would have wed a commoner, and one hardly pure—a stretch near breaking point to believe of a noble.

  Of course, now that Elias was heir, that breaking point had been reached. It was the way of the world. Would there ever come a day when it was not? When any who loved could join their life with any they loved without punishment, condemnation, loss?

  One day, she thought and glanced at Elias’s arm around her waist. But not within memory of your days outside of heaven, Honore of Bairnwood.

  She looked up, silently entreated, Lord, whomever Elias must wed to do his duty, let him grow to love her and her to love him.

  Minutes later, he slowed his mount and Theo came alongside, Cynuit holding to his back. “Château de Sevier is over that rise.” Elias jutted his chin at a hill half a league distant, its edges blurred by rain so light it appeared more a mist. “Fortunately, we have good cause to keep our heads covered, and that we shall do lest Arblette has joined the troupe likely to make camp outside the walls. Understood?”

  All agreed, then Elias said, “Providing we are granted admittance, Theo will see to the horses and Cynuit will accompany Lady Honore and me to the donjon. Once the horses are stabled, Theo will wander the troupe’s camp, keeping his head down and listening well.”

  The squire nodded.

  “Honore, you shall continue to play my cousin come from England, and methinks you ought to feign illness.”

  She shifted around. “For?”

  “To discover if Hart is with the troupe, we may require more than a night’s lodging, and that is more likely granted if you are unwell.”

  And out of the way, Honore considered. Because of worry she would be unable to sustain playing the lady? Because her scar would draw attention? Because it would embarrass him?

  She rejected that last, said, “For what other reasons would you hide me away?”

  Though his face was shadowed by the hood, there was no mistaking his frown. “One only—Arblette. If he is at Sevier, it will be difficult enough for Theo and me to avoid alerting him we have come for Hart, and if you are confined abovestairs, there is good cause for Cynuit to remain near to ensure your needs are met.”

  She nodded.

  “Theo, fall back,” Elias said. “I must speak with Honore alone.” When there was distance between the horses, he said, “My word I give.”

  “I believe you.”

  “Honore—”

  “I do!” she said more sharply than intended, then sighed. “I do, Elias.”

  “I am glad.”

  She started to turn forward.

  “I would think it easiest to pretend malady of the…” His voice lowered. “…womanly sort. Can you do it?”

  Rather than match his unease over talk of menses, she gave a short laugh. “I am not so old my experience with such is in the past. Indeed, this day I am not long from its reality that could make pretense unnecessary.”

  As she felt his unease surge, she considered that if her monthly did arrive soon, the pretense would see her supplied with cloths for wherever next they journeyed.

  “I did not mean to imply you are too old,” he said. “Simply, much has been asked of you thus far, and—”

  “I know not your experience with such things,” she said, “but to be convincing I need not moan and bend over, though some women do suffer so much they are unable to put a stoic face upon their pain. I have but to express my need and discomfort to the lady of the castle. Unless she has no sympathy about her, she will see me provided for.”

  His smile was wry. “My experience with such is limited, though there is no doubt as to the monthly suffering of my stepmother who is years younger than I.”

  “I am sorry to hear that. There are some at Bairnwood who would agree with men it is the curse of Eve visited on them.”

  “It is good you do not think it that, Honore.”

  She did not, though like the sisters who would never gain the blessing of a child born of their bodies she might be justified in naming it a curse for having no reason to bleed.

  They settled into silence, and she would have been content to remain thus if not for memories of the night past. “I thank you for the tale of Cant. I am glad to know it.”

  “How much of it did Lady Susanna reveal?”

  “Very little beyond it being a much darker time best told by you.”

  He nodded.

  “Methinks you loved Lettice very much.”

  “I did.”

  “Many a song you must have written her.”

  After a long silence, he said, “Ever I meant to, and a few I began, but none I completed or committed to memory. Mayhap I did not love her as much as thought, hmm?”

  “Of course you did.” Lest he recall his final parting with Lettice, Honore searched for something to move his thoughts elsewhere and landed on a curiosity. “There is something I would know.”

  “Ask it.”

  Moistening her lips, she felt the dip in the upper. “How did you learn of Hart so many years after his birth?”

  His tension did not abate. “From the man who is as likely the boy’s father as I.”

  She caught her breath. Then he knew Finwyn—?

  Recalling what she had pondered on the night past as she watched for Elias moving among the trees, she realized it was more likely he spoke of the knight with whom he had found Lettice.

  “The one who beat Elias Cant,” he said. “He whose sword and armor I took.”

  “You saw him again?”

  “Not long ago, I was in Rouen on business and paused at a tavern. As I finished my meal, several knights entered. It being dim, I did not recognize any, knew only from their accented French they were English. But ere they reached the bar, the boasting began, and I knew one of their numbers. Though I told myself to leave, it was as if Lettice entered with him, and I had to know what I had long denied myself—how she fared.”

  A muscle at his jaw jerked. “When a stool became available beside him, I took it. Engaging him in talk, I watched to see if I was recognized. I was not, though I knew well his face, not only for the arrogance scored into it but the bend of the nose I had broken in rending him unconscious ere relieving him of his knight’s finery. I bought him a drink, asked after his stay in France, and was told his sword arm was so coveted he had recently left the service of a baron of northern England to serve a greater baron of the south who entrusted him with business in Normandy. Between expressions of great admiration, I probed, and when he revealed the name of the barony upon which he had previously served, I made much of having passed through one of its villages.”

  “Forkney,” Honore said.

  He smiled tautly. “I ordered more ale, and we talked of the village we both agreed had little to recommend it—except the women, I made great show of clarifying. He agreed and boasted of a buxom re
d-headed beauty. Obliged to boast of my own favored beauty, I described Lettice. He said she sounded familiar and had likely been amongst his conquests. When he asked her name, I struggled for it, submitting variations until he supplied it and said he had her many times until she lost her position at the castle and devoted herself to harlotry.”

  Feeling his ache, Honore regretting asking him to satisfy her curiosity. It was cruel.

  “I asked what caused her to lose her position,” he continued, “and he said the lady of the castle had her removed when she could no longer hide her pregnancy. The knight laughed, mused it could have been his babe she carried, then said perhaps it was mine.” Elias momentarily closed his eyes. “There was naught over which to smile or laugh, but I managed both and said the only way the child could be mine was if Lettice became pregnant eight years ago. He slapped me on the back and said the fathering of her bastard fit me as well as him.”

  Longing to reach to him, Honore gripped the pommel tighter.

  “The temptation to beat him again was great, and greater yet when I asked what became of her child. He said he did not know nor care, but when last he glimpsed her six months past she was not as lovely, that such it was with whores.”

  “Elias,” Honore whispered.

  He gave a shake of the head. “Knowing I must leave ere I did something I would regret, I concluded my business, collected my squire, and set sail for England.”

  More silence, during which her mulling returned her to a question whose answer yet eluded. She hated using the opportunity to discover if he could as easily be Hart’s father as Finwyn or the knight he had beaten, but guilt over endangering him and his family for something not of his doing pushed her forward.