by Tamara Leigh
“A little frightened. The one I meet, hopefully for the last time, is not to be trusted. Thus, do not forget you are to remain distant enough he will not know you for a woman.”
Jeannette’s white teeth flashed in the dim. “I could become accustomed to such garments.” She plucked at tunic and chausses borrowed from a male servant who dwelt outside the abbey. “I feel all held together.”
“Are they truly comfortable?”
“Ever so. I have naught flapping about my legs and feet, naught to hinder my stride.”
A very long stride, though Jeannette patiently kept pace with Honore’s shorter reach.
“Do not tell Abbess Abigail,” Honore said. “She will think it unnatural you are clothed as a man.”
“And sinful?” the girl said wryly.
Were Honore not so tense, she would laugh. “An abbot might name it sinful, but not our abbess, especially considering your mission.”
“Mission,” Jeannette repeated. “I like that.”
Honore wondered, as sometimes she did, why the Lord had not made Jeannette a Jean. Not that she wished it. Had her first foundling been a boy, he would no longer dwell at Bairnwood. As required, males left the community of women upon attainment of their tenth year. Blessedly, thus far all had been placed in good homes before that age.
Fewer females were as fortunate, but as yet there was no great need. As long as Bairnwood—and Honore—could support their numbers, they were welcome to remain. However, that would not always be so, and all the sooner those numbers would become unsupportable once the man who summoned Honore became dispensable. She would have to work harder, but she had naught else to fill her days—and heart.
Returning to the present, Honore instructed Jeannette that if she must converse henceforth, she ought to whisper.
The two crossed a stream, keeping shoes and hems dry by traversing the immense rotten tree that had toppled from one bank to the other long before Honore took her first forbidden walk outside the abbey and found Jeannette. It had been two years before she dared approach the one she had seen set out the little one, but her task had become easier thereafter—until the old man took ill and his grandson determined to make the business more profitable.
However, though Finwyn required greater compensation than had his grandsire, Honore had not been summoned as often since the old man’s passing. Until recently, she had thought it was because the grandson was not as trusted to discreetly dispose of unwanted babes, but the rumor of twins born to a newly widowed villager a year past made her think it could be something else. Were it—
“My Honore?” Jeannette forgot to whisper.
“Quiet now,” Honore rasped. “We are nearly there.”
They continued across the wood until the ground rose before them, then Honore veered to the right. “Remain here. Once I am over the top, follow and place yourself between those trees so the moon is full at your back.” She pointed to the rise where two ancient oaks stood like royals before their lessers. “You have only to stand there,” she repeated what had been told ere they departed the abbey, then tapped the tapered stick tucked beneath Jeannette’s belt. “Hold this to the side, its point down like a sword.”
“I will look a fierce warrior.”
And all the more threatening amid moonlit mist, Honore imagined and hoped it would prevent Finwyn from trespassing as he had done the last time when he wrenched her gorget down.
“No more is required of you,” Honore said. “Now I would have your word that if anything goes afoul, you will run straight to the abbey.”
“Already I gave my word.”
“I would hear it again.”
The young woman sighed. “If anything goes afoul, I shall return to the abbey forthwith. My word I give.”
Honore leaned up and kissed Jeannette’s cheek. “God willing, this night we shall each have a babe to sing to sleep.” She stepped back and lowered her chin. “Almighty,” she prayed, “bless us this eve as we seek to do Your good work. Amen.”
After securing the gorget beneath her nose, Honore lifted her skirts and ascended the rise. Upon reaching the crest, she set her shoulders back and increased her stride.
There was no disguising herself as anything other than a woman, but she refused to appear meek. If Finwyn drew too near again, she would do more than slap him. She touched the stick beneath her belt that was half as long but twice as thick as Jeannette’s. In addition to coin, the knave would depart the wood with lumps and bruises. Or so she told herself, Finwyn being the first and last person she had struck.
I shall do so again if I must, she assured herself and set her eyes on the distant tree, a portion of whose aboveground roots served as a cradle. As the mist rose thicker there, she would have to draw near to confirm the exchange was possible. On occasion it was not, the cradle empty due to a babe’s death.
“Lord, let the wee ones be hale,” she whispered and sent her gaze around the wood in search of movement whilst straining to catch the sound of fitful babes. Were they in the cradle, Finwyn would be watching.
She glanced over her shoulder and saw Jeannette had placed herself as directed. The young woman did present as a warrior—the moon’s glow at her back outlining her hulking figure and what appeared to be a drawn sword. She would not go unnoticed, and Finwyn would know exactly why Honore had not come alone. Hopefully, once more he would honor the agreement made when he assumed his grandsire’s role of one who disposed of unwanted babes. Following her departure, he would collect his coin.
When she was near enough to see the humped roots near the tree’s base, she silently thanked the Lord. Amid the mist, two bundles lay side by side, unmoving as if both babes slept.
Though careful to pick her way amongst the roots extending a dozen feet from the tree, twice she nearly twisted an ankle, causing the coins to clatter.
Once she stood before the bundles, she raised the pouch to show the one watching she paid the price required to save two innocents, then set it in a patch of moss. Hopefully, it would be the last payment she made.
As she straightened, she noticed a rope around the tree. Did Finwyn seek to tell her something? Might this be a threat? Assuring herself the rope was not fashioned into a noose, she nearly laughed at allowing her mind to move in that direction. She did not like the man, but he had never given her cause to fear for her life.
She positioned the sling worn over her short cloak so it draped one shoulder and rested on the opposite hip, then reached for the first bundle.
“There is naught for you there, Woman.”
She stilled. Someone showed himself, and it was not Finwyn who, amid the ring of chain mail, spoke in English more heavily accented than the French of England’s nobility. Heart thinking itself a drum, Honore turned.
Chapter 5
AND TRAVELING
Sweeping her gaze over the wood, Honore saw Jeannette on the hill, then the one whose shadow across the mist glided up her own figure to cover her head.
Though less than twenty feet distant, she could make little sense of the one who appeared to radiate moonlight the same as Jeannette. What she knew was here came a warrior. And from his accent, he who spoke the language of England’s commoners—though surely not with as much fluency as she who easily moved between French and English—was born of France.
Fifteen feet.
Grateful his shadow masked the fear in her eyes nearly as well as the cloth hid her trembling mouth, she pulled the stick from beneath her belt.
Ten feet.
She thrust her weapon forward, in English warned, “Come no nearer!”
He halted, causing the short mantle pushed back off his chest to slide forward over one shoulder. Still, the sword and dagger hung from his waist were visible, further testament to his ability to make a quick end of her.
Honore shifted her gaze past his shoulder, saw Jeannette had yet to run. But then, nothing ill had happened. At least, not that the young woman could know with certainty.
W
ishing she had better prepared her for what constituted afoul, Honore demanded, “What do you want?”
When he finally answered, he punctuated each word as if it needed no other to be understood. “My son.”
Honore nearly looked to the babes behind, but she dared not move her gaze from this man. Besides, she would wager the quiet bundles were merely lures. Doubtless, Finwyn had learned of the installment of a foundling door in the abbey’s outer wall and thought to gain every coin possible ere being rendered obsolete.
What she did not understand was this warrior. Surely he was not meant to kill her. Unless…
Might this be Finwyn’s attempt to preserve his business, proving her a fool for believing she had no cause to fear for her life? If so, it would be for naught. Abbess Abigail would see the plan through. However, Honore’s death would serve another purpose were Finwyn less worthy of his grandsire’s name than believed—revenge. And yet in light of this warrior’s words, that made little sense.
“I know naught of your son, Sir Knight,” she afforded him a title he might not be owed since he could be a mercenary of the lower ranks. “I fear Finwyn has misled you for his own profit.”
“Finwyn?”
“Finwyn Arblette.”
“Ah. Certes, I do not like the man, but thus far all has come to pass as told.”
Perhaps he was as fluent in English as she. “All?” she asked.
“Are you not here to buy unwanted babes?”
She could not see his eyes move to the pouch she had deposited, but she sensed it there. Wishing Jeannette would run, she said, “I am here for an exchange—the coin Finwyn requires for the children whose parents dispose of them.”
“How kind of you. Tell, how do you dispose of them?”
Though she longed to vehemently protest the insinuation, she said, “Not as Finwyn would have you believe.”
“Then you will have no difficulty delivering the child unto me.”
That all depended on the boy’s identity. “’Tis possible. Tell me how your son became lost to a warrior when those for whom I give coin are most often of the common class.”
For some reason, his hesitation lessened her fear. She had no experience with men of the sword, but they had a reputation for being forceful, brutally decisive, and short on shame. And in this man’s silence she sensed none of those things. She felt emotion, sorrow, regret.
“Only recently did I become aware of his existence,” he said. “And I am not certain he is mine.”
“Then like many a man, you made a promise to a maiden to persuade her to lie with you and the next morn left her with child. I suppose I am to think it honorable now you wish to take responsibility. Or is it something else? Mayhap you seek to dispose of the boy to ensure your sin remains hidden?”
“If he is mine, I wish to claim him.”
“How do you think to prove he is yours? You believe he will have your eyes? Your nose? Not that it is impossible, but it may be too soon to tell. Nay, Sir Knight, it is best for all you tell yourself you tried and pay a priest to put finish to your troubled conscience.” She raised her chin, causing the gorget to strain against her mouth. “Now step aside so I may gain what sleep remains to me.”
He tilted his head, and she felt the intense gaze of one seeking to see beyond her eyes. No chance of that, cloaked as she was in his shadow.
But then he moved, and moonlight poured over her.
She did not know how it was possible to be sure-footed amongst mist-ladened roots, but of a sudden he was before her, his shadow once more covering her as he grasped her forearm to render the stick impotent—had it ever been of use against such a man.
Fearing for Jeannette, Honore strained to the side and saw the young woman ran forward as if to give aid with a sword that would prove another stick.
“Run, Jean!” she cried, surprised by clarity that caused her to speak the male form of the young woman’s name. Immediately, a figure emerged from behind a tree to the right and, sword drawn, lunged after Jeannette.
“Run!” Honore screamed.
The young woman swerved and reached her legs opposite.
“I thought him here to protect you,” the warrior said as he looked across his shoulder. “Not as he appears, hmm?”
Honore did not struggle against his hold, certain it would drain her of strength better saved should she be presented with an opportunity to escape. “You have me,” she panted. “Pray, let him go.”
He did not respond, and a moment later his companion disappeared over the rise.
“Jean is but a boy,” she protested. “He cannot defend himself—”
“That was no boy.”
Then he guessed her protector a woman? More likely, he thought Jeannette the man she was made to appear. “Regardless, Jean is no warrior.”
He shrugged. “Providing he does not seek to harm my squire, he is in no danger. Theo will bring him back, and whatever you will not tell, I will learn from your man.”
She swallowed loudly. “You wish to know of your son.”
He turned her with him into moonlight, and she was surprised he was almost boyishly handsome, the hair brushing his shoulders thick with wave and framing a face fit with dark eyebrows, long-lashed eyes, a well-shaped nose, and a mouth whose compression could not hide how full-lipped it was. Doubtless, his years fell short of her thirty and two.
“You are young,” he said, and she caught her breath at the realization he studied her as intently. Though she spent no time in front of a mirror, lacking access to that which only noblewomen could afford, on occasion she caught her reflection in water or on the silver platter with which Abbess Abigail and she were served light fare when they met to discuss the foundlings. She did appear younger than her years and might even be lovely—providing one viewed only that visible above the gorget. Blessedly, this man made no attempt to divest her of the covering.
“Not the crone I expected,” he murmured, and she was struck by the resonance of a voice deprived of accusation. Though deep, it was almost gentle and held a note of wonder, causing warmth to sweep her neck and face.
Honore’s reaction was uncomfortably foreign, though it had not always been. In her younger years she had felt something akin to this in the presence of a handsome young monk who accompanied his bishop to Bairnwood once and twice a year. Time and again she had repented for imagining how it would feel to stand near him, clasp his hand, tuck her head beneath his chin, feel his arms around her. She had even wondered at his mouth upon hers. And ever that imagining returned her to reality—a reality all the more painful when he had discovered the reason the gorget was worn beneath her nose.
The warrior before her raised his eyebrows.
Realizing she stared, she recalled his words and said, “Nor are you the miscreant I expected, though I suppose you will do as well as Finwyn.”
His lids narrowed, though not so much she could not see where his eyes moved when they left hers. Her masked lower face roused his curiosity. Though modesty bade widows and nuns avail themselves of the wimple and greater modesty the gorget, the latter was worn either across the chin or beneath it. Were the weather chill, the gorget might be drawn over mouth and nose for warmth, but it was too temperate this eve.
When the warrior spoke again, once more accusation sounded from him. “Where is the boy?”
Were he amongst those Finwyn and his grandsire had delivered to her, there were three places he could be, one readily accessible, one barely accessible, and one impossibly accessible—the abbey, the home of adoptive parents, and the grave. She prayed it was not the latter, though it could be for the best if this man meant the boy ill.
Honore raised her chin. “Regardless of what Finwyn told—”
“He says you are a witch.”
A chill rushed through her and slammed against her spine with such force she nearly bent to it. His words surprised as they ought not. And frightened as they certainly ought. It was not mere cruelty to be named one who consorted with th
e devil. It was deadly.
She moistened her lips. “Do you think me a witch?”
“I do not believe you possess ungodly powers, but that has little bearing on whether you believe yourself so equipped and commit foul deeds in the hope of strengthening those powers.”
“You do me ill to suggest such!”
“Then for what do you buy babes?”
“To save them. Their parents hire Finwyn—as they did his grandsire before him—to set them out in the wood. For a dozen years I have given coin to deliver those innocents from cruel deaths.”
“You, who look to be fortunate to clothe and feed yourself, have a brood of children?”
Honore resisted the temptation to peer down herself. Though simply dressed, her gown and cloak were in good repair. But she supposed one who could afford to leave pouches of coin for abandoned babes ought to possess the resources of a noble. And she did—or had, there being little remaining of the wealth that had accompanied her to the abbey as an infant.
“Appearances can deceive,” she said, “especially when the one in possession of a good fortune pleases the Lord by committing it to His good work rather than indulging her vanity.”
“Twelve years,” he said as if she had not spoken. “How many babes is that?”
She glanced at the motionless bundles. “Were this not trickery, those two would have grown the number to sixty and six, including the few I was able to save ere striking a bargain with Finwyn’s grandsire.”
He snorted. “Unbeknownst to those of the village of Forkney, you reside nearby with that many children?”
“I do not.”
“Then where are they? Where can I find the boy?”
He would not like this. “As some are sickly and tragically ill-formed when I receive them, many have passed.” Ignoring his harshly-drawn breath, she continued, “Of the thirty-seven who survived infancy, they have been placed in good homes or yet reside with me.”
“Where?”
She hesitated, but as he was one warrior and the abbey’s walls were secure, there seemed little risk in telling all—and perhaps it would prove Finwyn was the one not to be trusted. “I am of Bairnwood Abbey.”
