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

by Tamara Leigh

  He should have taken more care with his departure. Doubtless, she would guess it was by way of Soames he had stolen into the abbey. “Abbess.”

  Slowly, she lowered her hand, then sighed heavily. “I have been selfish.”

  “Selfish?”

  “You have seen Honore, have you not? And she has seen you?”

  He inclined his head. “She rejected me the same as when she would not come out.”

  “Not the same, Sir Elias. And it is my doing.”

  “Yours? She burned my missive.”

  The corners of her mouth convulsed. “The Song of Honore. So very beautiful.”

  Then as warned, she had read his words before sharing them with Honore. “A pity she did not think it beautiful.”

  “How could she? I—”

  “She does not feel for me as I feel for her. That she could not make more clear.”

  She set a gloved hand on his arm. “She knows not how true your feelings because she did not read of them.”

  “What?”

  “As told, I have been selfish, holding to her because I did not think I could bear for her to slip away.”

  “Pray, make sense, Abbess.”

  “After reading your words in private, I bound up the sheets. When I gave them to her, I reminded her of her duty to the foundlings and told her no good could come of pretty words from a man she could not have. Thus, I advised her to burn the parchment rather than read words that could burn themselves into her heart and pain her to her end days.”

  Struggling to contain his anger, Elias said, “A man she could not have? You read my words. They revealed my sire gave me leave to wed as I choose, and that I choose her.”

  “Selfish and sinful, as time and again I have repented since the Lord refuses to lighten my heart no matter I assure Him I did it for those He loves that Honore might save them from the dark of the world.”

  The relief pouring into Elias was so great it doused much of his anger. He did know Honore. She was but unaware the impossible was possible.

  “I am sorry, Sir Elias. Regardless of what she may have said, I am certain she feels much for you. And when you have remedied what I wrought, I believe she will answer as you wish.”

  He drew a long breath. “You are forgiven. Now pray, point me to her.”

  She looked across her shoulder. “The chapel, doubtless trying to pray away her heartache.”

  “I may go to her?”

  “I ought not allow it, but at this hour she is likely alone.”

  He caught up her hand, kissed her wool-covered knuckles. “I thank you.”

  Her aged face, framed by veil and gorget, lightened. “I can think of none more deserving of the love of a good man. Make her your own, Sir Elias.”

  He pivoted and could not control strides aspiring to the reach of a run. He nearly wrenched open the chapel door, but in this he exercised control. He eased it open and, as he slipped inside, swept his eyes over the interior. The only movement was that of flickering light and shadows cast by altar candles. No evidence anyone was within. Had Honore departed?

  As he strode the aisle, glancing pew to pew lest he miss her where she bent forward, he heard a soft sound as of a door closing. Might she have heard his entrance and hastened from sight?

  He halted, considered whence the sound issued. Would it be sacrilegious to enter the opposite side of the booth in which confessions were received and sins absolved with only a screen separating one from their confessor?

  Though Elias counseled himself to wait for her to come out, the possibility it was not Honore and she might now be further distancing herself made him go where he ought not.

  Chapter 48

  DEAR LORD, PRAY BLESS US WELL

  Footsteps. No whisper of slippered feet. The creak of leather.

  Honore stiffened shoulders that had begun to convulse before she heard the chapel door open. She had not minded the interruption of prayers so fumbled even the Lord might have difficulty putting together pieces scattered all around, for it was not truly prayer that caused her to seek the chapel. It was privacy in which to cry, certain if she could do so whilst her emotions were so near throat, lips, and eyes she might empty them.

  One long ugly cry, she had told herself, then nevermore. But it was as if the one who came within sought her. The abbess? Beneath her mantle had she worn winter boots? Possible, but these footsteps seemed to carry the weight and stride of a man. Moments later, they halted outside the confessional.

  Not Elias, she told herself. Her words had too deeply wounded. Were he not astride, soon he would be. Had Sebille sent their brother?

  The door by which a priest entered the other side of the confessional opened, and through the screen with its fingertip-sized holes she saw the backlit figure of a man of familiar height and admirable breadth.

  Though the light was not overly intrusive and the screen provided cover, it was impossible to go entirely unseen. Still, she retreated to the bench’s far corner.

  “Honore.”

  She pressed herself more deeply against the confessional’s walls.

  Leaving the door open, Elias lowered to the bench on the other side. “The abbess sent me.”

  Breath rushed from her.

  “I come armed with her explanation of why my missive was put to flame, her apology, and her blessing.”

  He could not speak true. But how else could he have so soon found her?

  “Honore?”

  She unstuck her tongue from her palate but could not think how to use it.

  “Very well, listen. And recall when last we were in a chapel.”

  Her first kiss. A longing for life beyond these abbey walls.

  “That was not the only time I thought of you in rhyme and song,” he said, “but it was then I began to want more than the Honore made of ink and words and parchment. And wish I did not, believing you were out of reach.”

  She could not get her hand to her mouth quickly enough to muffle a sob.

  He leaned near the screen. “Come out that you may see me and I may see you.”

  She shook her head.

  “Then give me your hand.”

  “What?” she whispered and saw him press his left hand to the screen.

  “Give unto me, Honore.”

  She hesitated, but as if of its own will her hand reached and set itself against the screen. When her fingertips encountered the warmth of his on the other side of the holes, she caught her breath.

  “Do you wish to know the words I wrote which the abbess persuaded you to set aflame?”

  “I do not want to hurt more than already I do.”

  “They were not meant to hurt but give hope—better than hope.”

  Was it possible? Non, never would his father accept her. The matters of legitimacy and nobility were resolved, but still she was of an age unlikely to provide many, if any, heirs, and then there was the possibility her affliction could be passed to children she bore.

  She shook her head. “The words are gone, Elias. And methinks it for the best.”

  “They are not gone, and were they it would not be for the best.”

  “They are ash.”

  A huff of laughter. “This troubadour spent too much time composing them not to know them by heart. Now listen, and I will speak what I inked whilst moving as little as possible to sooner chase you across the narrow sea.”

  Another sob escaped.

  “Are you listening?”

  She nodded.

  “Pray, come closer.”

  She pried herself out of the corner, scooted to the bench’s edge, and set her brow on the screen.

  “Close your eyes.”

  “Why?”

  “I want you to see our camp in the wood, see me across the fire as I saw you, feel my hands in yours as I felt yours in mine. Dance with me again.”

  She closed her eyes, and not for the first time remembered. “We are dancing.”

  When his breath moved the hair on her brow she knew his
face was also near. “Here is Song of Honore.”

  Not just words—a song. For her.

  His heat against her fingertips she also felt against her brow when he pressed his forehead to the screen.

  “By honor bound, to seek the found,” he began, “here begins a tale, of raveling and traveling beyond the moonlit veil.”

  Honore was transported from the dance before the fire to the night she answered Finwyn’s summons. And from out of the trees had come Elias in search of Hart.

  “The arrow flies, the dagger plies, beware the mists of dream. A swing of rope, the snap of hope, the broken unredeemed.”

  The sorrow that slowed and deepened his voice made her throat tighten as she also recalled Lettice in the cottage.

  After a long silence she knew had naught to do with performance, he righted himself with a deep breath. “Look not behind, thou will not find, plucked petals without bruise. Moments in time, loss feeding rhyme, see what the Lord now strews.”

  Hope and wonder infused those last words coming off his tongue with greater speed, as if amid the foul he found something lovely.

  “So fair is she, humble beauty, the heart she doth provoke. Her eyes, her eyes, her lips deny what truth the blue hath spoke.”

  At the realization she was the something lovely found, she gasped, “Elias!”

  Pressing fingertips and brow more firmly to hers, he said, “Pray do not hide, be by his side, and breathe the air he breathes. And let him kiss what he shall miss, if heart he seeks to sheathe.”

  Such beautiful words she had put to flame. Though naught could come of them, a fool she was. They did burn themselves into her heart, but more than pain her to her end days as the abbess warned, surely they would sustain her knowing this man felt enough for her it could be named love. And had she not destroyed the parchment, his words would have been with her forever, even if she grew so old she forgot them. When the ill of the world drew near, closer she could have clasped them.

  “Do not weep, Honore,” Elias rasped, and she startled at the realization she did cry, and he had interrupted his tale to console her. “This ends well, I vow.”

  Swallowing convulsively, she nodded against his brow.

  “Forgive the fool who cast the jewel, sweet petals stay the stem. Bruise not, bruise not, that which is sought, come dance through life with him.”

  Once more she found herself in the camp, savoring the sight and feel of Elias.

  “Love lost now found, by Honore bound, one word is all it takes. Do trust the knave, his life to save, brave maiden he awakes.”

  Struggling to contain further tears, she whispered, “Could I, I would dance through life with you.”

  Once more leaving off his tale, he said, “One word. That is all it takes.”

  He was wrong, for just as he had given his father his word, so had she—twice. If Elias could not keep his, she must keep hers or she would be responsible for the rift between father and son.

  When she did not speak what he wished, he said with what seemed chagrin, “Dramatic me. I ought not have started with Song of Honore, but let us finish.” Then once more he gave volume to his voice. “Thy love doth slay, turns dark to day, here begins our tale. Of raveling and traveling. Dear Lord, pray bless us well.”

  So much certainty amid finality. And more so when he said, “And there ends the first part of Song of Honore so the second may commence wherein smitten Sir Elias and fair Lady Honore wed.”

  The title might be her due, but she would not claim it lest it expose her brother and sister to speculation over a secret best held close. Too, of what use when her life was with her foundlings?

  “My sire told he required you have no contact with me,” Elias said, “in person or by way of missive.”

  She had not expected Otto De Morville to reveal that. Lifting her brow and hand from the screen, missing the warmth of his, she sat back and looked into his glittering eyes. “He did. And after the injuries you sustained and that I am no match for the heir of Château des Trois Doigts, I cannot begrudge him.”

  “You are my match, Honore. My only match.”

  “Elias—”

  “As told, I ought not have started with Song of Honore.” He cleared his throat. “You know the missive I entrusted to the abbess was of two parchments?”

  “That I saw.”

  “And now you know how the second read. What you do not know is what was told in the first.”

  “Elias, though I am much moved you would break with your sire to be with me, and I do wish to be with you, we have promises to keep. Thus, I cannot be part of your tale.”

  “Honore—” he began, then growled, “This is absurd.” He stood, and when he turned away, her heartache surged. Just as when her deception had been uncovered at Château des Trois Doigts, this encounter also ended with anger. No touch of hands, no sweet words, no fond farewell, no look behind.

  She lowered her chin, whispered, “I love you. That truth the blue hath spoke.”

  The door was flung open, and she snapped up her chin as Elias dropped to a knee on the threshold. “This is too important for there to be anything between us. Give me your hand.” At her hesitation, he said, “Pray, trust me.”

  Slowly, she raised her right.

  “Your left.”

  She gave it to him and trembled when he took it in his own, slid a thumb across her knuckles, and straightened her fingers.

  “If you wish to dance through life with me, once the banns are read, here this shall be evermore.” Onto her finger he slid a band of silver in which was set a sapphire. “Though my sire will not rejoice as much as I, he shall be glad his son and heir has someone to love through the ages.”

  She looked up. “You truly believe he will accept me now it is known I am legitimate and full noble?”

  “Already he accepts you. As written on the first parchment, he has given me leave to wed where I will, fully aware it is you I shall take to wife.”

  She blinked. “But why would he allow it?”

  “His young wife is wiser—and more persuasive—than thought, he is more fond of this knave than believed, and he likes you more than he will say.” He smiled, raised his eyebrows. “One word. That is all it takes, brave maiden.”

  “Elias,” she choked and came off the bench and landed against his chest.

  He wrapped his arms around her. “Not the word I was looking for, but it will do.”

  For minutes neither spoke, then Honore dropped her head back. “I wish I had not burned the parchments.”

  “For what do you need the written word when you shall have them spoken to you any time you wish?”

  “You are right, but… When you and I are done with our raveling and traveling in this world, such beauty ought not be lost—especially to our children does the Lord so bless us.”

  “Then I shall write them for you again.”

  She smiled. “I love thee, Elias De Morville.”

  “So the blue hath spoke, but I like it better come off your lips.” He lowered his head, breathed into her, “I love thee, my humble beauty.”

  Epilogue

  Château des Trois Doigts, France

  Summer 1171

  Four ’round her skirts, four very fine.” Elias made quick strides of the distance separating him from his wife and children seated on a blanket at the river’s edge. “Kiss the lady, taste her wine.” He winked, briefly set his mouth on the smiling one turned up to his. “Boy and girl, two of each. Kiss their brows”—he did so, scooped up the youngest—“and now beseech.”

  “Papa!” crowed he who had recently taken his first steps, every tiny tooth visible beyond most remarkable lips.

  Elias grinned. “Otto!”

  The one named after the man who had passed five months after holding his fourth grandchild, squealed and stuck sticky fingers in his father’s mouth.

  Elias nibbled them, pulled them out, and frowned over tips stained as pink as the boy’s lips. “Raspberries?”

  �
�Strawberries,” Honore said and rose from amidst their other three—Elias named after his sire, Abigail named after the departed abbess, and Sebille named after her aunt. “We picked them, set aside half for Cook, and gorged on the rest.” Honore patted her midriff. No bulge, neither of a meal too heavy nor another babe.

  Of that last, Elias was not disappointed. Four children in rapid succession his beloved had gifted him, her body seemingly eager to make up for lost time. Blessedly, all but Otto the younger had been relatively easy births. As healthy as the others but considerably larger, he had so damaged Honore’s womb Elias had come close to losing her. After great care and much prayer alongside Otto the elder who had long ceased to name her his daughter-in-law, preferring to call her his daughter, Honore had healed. And Elias had returned to their bed where they made love without risk of losing wife and mother to further birthings.

  “Now then, back to my beseeching.” Elias clasped hands with Honore, looked to their children. “I must needs speak with your mother,” he said, then called to those downstream, “Cynuit! Hart!”

  The young men whose training at arms had added bulk to bodies aged seventeen and fourteen, thrust the ends of their fishing poles into moist ground and came running.

  Elias was proud of them. Cynuit was as fierce of sword as he was compassionate. Hart, who had remained at Bairnwood until the age of ten to aid Sebille and Jeannette in continuing Honore’s work with foundlings, was increasingly competent with weapons—especially the bow—and less self-conscious about the mark on his face. Fine young men.

  Honore leaned near, asked low, “Is something amiss? We expected you two hours past.”

  “Naught amiss, fair wife. Only tidings aplenty.”

  After giving their children into the care of the young men, Elias led Honore along the river. “The first of the tidings is from my stepmother.” She who, following the death of her husband, would not be dissuaded from moving with his sisters to Château Faire to give Elias and Honore more space for their family. “She would like to visit a sennight hence and wished to confirm we shall be present. I sent word that as it is weeks ere we depart for England, she is most welcome.”