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

by Tamara Leigh

  “He is not mine.”

  She swallowed. “You cannot be certain, but do you tell me when last you were intimate with—”

  “That is of no consequence. I have just come from Hart who revealed the month of his birth which he had to have learned from you. However, ere he told what you withheld, I knew he was not mine. I knew it the moment I laid eyes on him. His eyes, nose, and ears are of the knight with whom I found Lettice, he who beat me, he whose armor I took, he who unwittingly revealed to the nobleman who bought him a drink that Lettice had birthed a child.”

  He had given her cause to fear he rejected Hart, so she ought not be surprised.

  “Why, Honore? Why did you not speak in truth?”

  She clasped her hands at her waist. “I feared you might not give aid in recovering Hart.”

  “Then you believe I am without honor—that I would not keep my promise to Lettice.”

  “I knew you not when you gave your word, though the more time I spent with you the more I believed you would keep it, especially as long as there was a good chance Hart was yours, but…”

  “But?”

  “Did I reveal the month of his birth, I felt I would also have to reveal another’s claim upon him.”

  “You speak of the knight who beat me?”

  “Non, Finwyn.”

  Elias took a step back.

  “At the stream where he near drowned me, he said he had the right to dispose of Hart however he wished since he had fathered him. And when we found Lettice…what he did to her…” She shook her head. “I feared if anything could turn you from the promise made her, it was that so foul a being had fathered Hart.”

  Elias stared, then understanding shone from his eyes. “That is what he demanded of you last eve—if you had told me of his claim on the boy.”

  “He but taunted me, having minutes earlier disavowed the possibility Hart was his. And more he told.” Honore paused over how much to reveal, then decided he ought to know all. “I am thinking you do not know that Lettice and Finwyn were betrothed ere your troupe came to Forkney.”

  His shoulders jerked. “I do not believe it.”

  “Last eve, he told that when he made a child—Cynuit—on her friend, Lettice broke their betrothal and began selling her favors to earn extra coin. He spoke of the troubadour come to Forkney, which is how he recognized you when you came looking for your son, and told that when Lettice’s pregnancy caused her to lose her position at the castle, he and his grandsire provided for her and her family. Afterward…”

  “Afterward?”

  “Once Hart was given into my care, Finwyn aided Lettice in prostituting herself.”

  Anger deepened the lines of Elias’s face. “Revenge on her that ended in murder.”

  “He said her death was not intentional, that they fought when she refused him the purse you gave her and he threw her against a wall, breaking her neck. Hoping to blame me for her death, he put her to the noose.”

  Elias was hardly recognizable, so dark and hard his face, so corded his neck she wondered if she should not have told all.

  She touched his arm. “Even ere I knew all of it, I knew him unworthy of being Hart’s father, so much I feared…”

  “I would put the father’s sins on the son.” Elias held her gaze, and yet it was as if he looked at something beyond her. Did he question if he could have kept his word to Lettice?

  He returned her to focus. “Without regard to endangering my family, you allowed me to believe I could have fathered a child I did not.”

  “I did not know it was impossible until you told it was the knight who beat you.”

  As if she had not spoken, he said, “The sooner to deliver us across the channel, you withheld from me the identity of Thomas Becket, allowing me to think I but aided a lowly, indefensible man of God attempting to flee persecution.”

  “I did, but—”

  “At this moment, a man who is my liege’s greatest enemy. If Henry learns I made it possible for the archbishop to slip through his fingers, all for which my ancestor fought at Hastings will be lost.”

  “You know I will never speak of it.”

  “Do I?”

  “I will not!”

  “Even to save Hart—or another foundling?”

  She nearly denied it, but were a blade at a child’s throat, she could not sacrifice an innocent to prevent the De Morvilles from forfeiting their lands.

  Elias inclined his head. “Though I would not have a child die to save this demesne, such a choice would never even be imagined had you at least been honest about Becket. Still I would have crossed the channel for Hart, and though it might have taken longer to rescue him, I would have.”

  Chest aching, she lowered her chin. “What of Becket?” she asked. “Henry is vengeful. Had you not—”

  “I have business to attend to, and you must begin preparing the children for the journey.”

  She reached to him as he pivoted, left her hand on the air as he strode toward the stairs. “I have ruined all,” she whispered, then almost laughed. She hated that Elias thought so ill of her, but the outcome was the same. She and the children would leave France, and she would not see Elias again.

  She closed herself in her chamber, dropped onto the bed, and pressed her face into a pillow.

  Chapter 39

  ONE WORD IS ALL IT TAKES

  Otto De Morville had trespassed. Face florid, mouth tight, he snarled, “All to save a misbegotten boy not of your loins, see what you bring down on our house!”

  Elias stared at his father who stood three steps below. Knowing he should not meet anger with anger, certain Otto had but happened on the exchange in thinking to collect his errant son and that he had a right to wrath over the danger to his lands, Elias resumed his descent and continued past his sire.

  “Elias!”

  “We will discuss it later, Father.”

  “We will discuss it now!”

  “I have business in the village.”

  “Then we shall speak during the ride.”

  “I go alone.” Elias continued to the hall and was grateful his father did not follow. He had much to account for regardless of what was overheard, but only after he could think in a straight line. He knew he wronged Honore at least as much as she wronged him, but she had deceived, had not trusted him just as Lettice had not when he assured her he would provide for her family.

  Elias’s horse was saddled alongside his father’s. It had not the strength nor reach of the destrier he could not reclaim, but it would suffice until he could secure another mount capable of more than merely transporting its rider—one who could partner with a man-turned-warrior when arms were called for.

  Glad for the absence of weight and heat of chain mail, Elias declined accompaniment by the men-at-arms who were to have ridden with father and son—a decision that would once more make him question if he were worthy of a Wulfrith dagger.

  The knock was insistent, and it had the authority of Otto De Morville behind it. “I would speak with you, Honore of Bairnwood!”

  She lifted her face from the pillow. Had Elias alerted his sire to the danger in which she had placed their family? She swung her feet to the floor and, wiping eyes and nose, crossed the chamber.

  She opened the door. “My lord?”

  He narrowed his gaze on her face. “I happened on your conversation with my son.”

  “Oh, I am sorry.”

  “Though I heard enough to know how serious the matter, you are going to tell me everything so I may find a way to plug up the hole you so kindly dug our family. Come, we will do this in the solar.”

  Shortly, sitting across the table from him, she told only what he needed to know. And yet from the way he looked at her, she thought he suspected the intimacy shared with his son and how deeply she felt for him.

  “That is more than a hole,” Otto rumbled. “That is a ravine even the surest arrow might not span.”

  “Forgive me, Lord De Morville. I did not mean to cau
se your family strife. I but wished to save a boy—”

  “Whom you allowed my son to believe was his.”

  Though angry, it surprised he was not more so. “As you surely heard, I did think Elias could be Hart’s sire despite Finwyn’s claim.” Hands clasped atop the table, she leaned forward. “Tell me what I can do to make it right.”

  “You can leave Château des Trois Doigts with all your children.” He glanced at the window. “It is too late this day, but on the morrow.”

  She inclined her head. “Elias was to make arrangements—”

  “I will ensure your return to the abbey. And you will do my son one kindness.”

  “Anything.”

  “Though he is angry now, I know he cares for you and would have a greater care had he not family to consider and promises to keep.”

  “He told you this?”

  “Non, but I see what he does not believe I see, and that accursed troubadour’s heart could ruin the De Morvilles if what you have wrought does not. As you must know, you are entirely unsuitable—your uncertain parentage and legitimacy, age, and the affliction you could pass to children born of your body. Though now Elias ought to have proof enough you are no fit for the De Morvilles, I would not have an impassable rift between my son and me should he forgive you and eschew his duty.”

  “I think there little chance of that.”

  “Little is too much where my family is concerned.”

  She nodded. “What kindness do you ask of me?”

  “You shall remain in your chamber, neither showing yourself nor speaking with him. Come morn, I shall ensure he is away from the castle so you and the children depart without his knowledge.”

  Then she could not even wish him a good life. “I agree.”

  “And should he seek you after you are gone, you will stay inside your abbey and accept no missive from him.”

  “Methinks you overestimate your son’s regard for me and underestimate his loyalty to you.”

  “Perhaps, but I will not lose him again. He—” His voice caught and alarm flashed across his face, but though he tried to cover his vulnerability with a stern face, it slipped before he could hide it behind the hand he gripped over his brow.

  “You love him,” Honore said. “This I know. I only hope you will tell him what you feel.” She stood. “You have my word I will not see him again and he will not see me.” At the door, she looked around and saw he remained behind his hand. “Elias offered Cynuit a position here. If your son is no longer inclined now he knows the boy is of Finwyn, would you send him to me so I may find him a good home?”

  He lowered his hand. “Elias will keep his word. Cynuit may remain.”

  “But—”

  “If I do not know my son as well as believed, I will send the boy to you.”

  “I thank you.” She nearly added she thought it best Cynuit remain ignorant of his relation to his abuser, but she did not think either man would reveal it. Without further word, she closed the door.

  Returning to her chamber, she began packing her few belongings and those of the children. Until Hart bounded inside to show her the rock he said Elias confirmed was a dragon’s tooth, doubtless when the boy revealed his birth month, she remained dry-eyed. Then, so he would not see her tears, she sent him for ink and parchment.

  But it was no frivolous errand. As much as possible, she would set aright the mess she had made of the De Morvilles.

  Chapter 40

  DO TRUST THE KNAVE

  Trust. He might be forgiven for believing he had earned Lettice’s, but Honore’s was not his due. Though he hated her omissions and lies, she knew him too short a time to trust him.

  It had taken the ride to the village to cool his ire and accept her wisdom. For years he had aspired to correct his flaws and become worthy of one day lording these lands, but she could not know that. All she had known for certain was had he not sinned with Lettice, there would have been no possibility he fathered her child. Hence, Honore would not have nearly lost her life at the stream, and Lettice would not have been killed over coin. No reason to trust him, and yet he had misdirected anger that threatened to undo him when he learned the date of Hart’s birth that revealed Lettice had been unfaithful long ere he found her with the knight.

  Though she had not claimed that was her only betrayal since the day Elias and she vowed they would not repeat the mistake of their one night together and would be with no other, he had persuaded himself of it, having seen the sweet of her soul and been certain only desperation would make her sell her body. That was surely how it began when her refusal to wed Arblette threatened her family’s survival, but as concluded when she sought to send Elias away, likely for his sake more than hers it had become the quicker, easier way.

  Broken by her first betrothed’s betrayal and fearful of being broken by her next, she had not trusted Elias to provide though month after month he had given her the greater portion of his coin. Thus, Elias’s anger at himself, Arblette, even Lettice, had spilled onto Honore who but protected the innocents whose trust she had earned. Were she to trust Elias as her foundlings trusted her, it would take time he could not give her without breaking his father’s trust. But he could apologize and keep his word to see her safely returned to the life from which he had taken her.

  A sennight—

  Non, a fortnight and he would escort her and her charges to Bairnwood. “Where she does not belong,” he said into the cool of day crawling toward night, which he had not expected to ride across. Blessedly, the dispute between the villagers was settled, both parties seemingly content with the concessions. At least in this Otto would be pleased—were he to spare it a passing thought beyond the danger in which Elias had placed their family.

  He glanced over his shoulder at the receding village, noted lights being lit against the dark, and as he swept his gaze forward again, caught movement ahead.

  Two riders. He did not know them at this distance, but their mounts were swift and sleek. And they came at him from the left.

  Brigands? Urging his mount to greater speed, Elias veered to the right and assessed his defenses—sword and dagger, no armor or warhorse.

  The demesne having long been at peace, he sensed this was something beyond happenstance, something that had lain in wait. The troupe? Or Henry’s men seeking the one who aided Becket? The former, he prayed but did not believe it, certain none of the troupe possessed such fine horses.

  They were gaining on him, but he was well acquainted with the wood he might have to delve to leave them behind. Moments later, he accepted he must enter the trees, but as he neared, another appeared to the right. And there was enough light on that triumphant face to see it was Neville Sorrel who sought to scissor Elias between himself and his men, all of whom had drawn swords.

  Elias turned his mount sharply, and as he spurred toward the tree line drew his own sword. He had allowed anger to transform a warrior into prey, but he would not further betray his training by making it easier for the miscreant to take him to ground—and prove Durand Marshal right. Ere the baron had been his friend, he had scorned Elias’s award of a Wulfrith dagger, believing it was out of gratitude Everard jeopardized his family’s reputation. It had caused Elias to train harder and as often at Wulfen as he was in England. But if he fell to Neville, despite being outnumbered three to one, Marshal would be proven right since victory in battle was not all to do with the swing of a sword and thrust of a dagger.

  The first line of defense was to be prepared, the next to be vigilant, and neither had he been since departing Château des Trois Doigts. He yet ached from blows sustained at Sevier, was without armor, absent an escort, and mounted on a horse without training in battle.

  “Will I never learn?” he growled, then recalled what Everard had said when he set upon Elias two squires soon to earn their spurs.

  When possible, first pull the teeth.

  That he must do again, this time against three. He had not seen any of these men fight, but Neville must b
e the teeth, having received knighthood training with Count Philip of Flanders who suffered no men of the sword not truly of the sword. Extinguish this threat and more quickly the others were snuffed out.

  Elias went to the darkening wood, heard Neville curse as he followed, set a course amongst the densest trees and foliage that would soonest take them from sight of his pursuer’s men. God willing, their search to make sense of the direction from which sword song sounded would delay them in aiding their lord, providing Elias time to best Neville before the knave became two and three.

  The beat of hooves behind sounding more distant, Elias glanced around. Neville had dropped back, surely not due to his destrier being unable to keep pace. Because he sensed a trap in a wood better known to prey than predator? Because his men were no longer in sight?

  Regardless, Elias’s mount was faltering, its strength and stamina unable to match a warhorse’s. If its rider did not act now, soon he would face three.

  Elias reined around, giving rise to a cloud of dust, loam, and decaying leaves from which he emerged with a jab of spurs, a bellow of challenge, and a setting of sword.

  Amid the coming of night and the wood’s long low shadows, he glimpsed Neville’s wide-eyed surprise and the shift toward uncertainty.

  Lest he turn back to gather his men to his side, Elias shouted, “Run, craven coxcomb! Back to your wet nurse! Back!”

  The knight bared his teeth, and as his destrier responded to a vicious jab of spurs, drew back his sword.

  Steel struck steel, blade slid down blade, and as Elias’s met chain mail, Neville’s opened the shoulder of his opponent’s mantle and tunic and sliced flesh.

  Only scored, Elias assured himself, though with his pulse thrumming and the need for survival numbing him, it could prove worse.

  He brought his horse around, and with his blood coloring Neville’s blade, the two charged again.

  Elias moved as if to deliver a backward stroke, and at the last moment ducked, arced his blade down, up, and slammed it against the inside of his opponent’s sword. The blow nearly knocked Neville out of the saddle, and Elias’s next swing delivered to the man’s back dropped the miscreant over his horse’s neck.