by Tamara Leigh
Having angled his body so he would not lose sight of Honore of no surname, Elias heard before he saw the one moving out of the trees into which Arblette had fled.
“My lord!” Theo called, sword in hand as he ran forward.
Elias glanced at the woman. Shaking harder, she buried her veiled head between shoulders and knees. The weather was mild for an autumn eve, but it would not seem so were one drenched.
His squire, of somewhat slighter build than his lord and nearly of an age and skill to receive knighthood, halted on the stream’s opposite bank. “The man was fast, my lord, but I could have overtaken him had I a bit more space in which to do so.”
He spoke of the one this woman claimed was a girl.
“He made it to the abbey and—” Theo’s words slammed to a halt, then he exclaimed, “My lord, what was done you?”
That which no longer bled profusely, though the gash throbbed. “What shall be avenged,” Elias slid back into his native French to match Theo’s, which would likely elude the woman’s understanding. “Now finish the tale.”
“The man slipped into the abbey ere I was upon him, my lord.”
Here evidence of some truth to what this woman told.
Elias slid the dagger in its scabbard, and denying Theo an explanation of how he came to be here with the one believed to know the fate of the boy he might have fathered, asked, “Upon your return here, did you happen across others?”
“None, my lord.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Would you have me scout the wood?”
Might he find Arblette? Or was the knave long gone?
Elias strode from the stream and sank to his haunches before the woman. “Honore of no surname,” he reverted to English, speaking loud enough to be heard by his squire, “tell me where to find Arblette.”
Teeth clicking, she said, “F-Forkney.”
“Where?”
“The outskirts. To the east.”
“My lord, should I scout the wood?” Theo asked again.
Elias looked around. “Non, Arblette is surely gone, and I have what I want.”
A hand touched his arm, and he returned his regard to the woman.
Still she clasped herself close, still only her eyes were seen above her knees. “If I do not flatter myself in believing I am what you want, Sir Elias, you bear correcting,” she said in French, evidencing she was as adept with his language as he was with English. Further proof she was as claimed despite the absence of a surname? Might she be a nobleman’s misbegotten daughter made on a commoner, well enough regarded she had been educated?
Casting off pondering for which he had no time, he said, “You shall take me to Arblette’s home, the sooner to be done with this farce. And I shall know the truth of the boy who may be my son.”
“Your son,” she said low, then louder, “I will give aid, but deliver me to Bairnwood first. Jeannette will be afeared for my safety, and I must change clothes. I am so cold.”
“Jeannette?”
“As told, not a man. Sh-she just appears to be.”
“I do not care how she appears. All that concerns me is bringing Arblette to ground ere he flees Forkney.”
She was silent, but just when he determined to scoop her up no matter what fight she gave, she said, “You are right. He knows where Hart is.” She shuddered. “We must find him.”
“Hart?”
“He who m-may be your son.”
Elias paused over the peculiar name, wondered if it referred to the life-giver beating in one’s breast or a male deer, then he called, “Mount up, Theo!”
Drawing the woman to her feet, reflexively he wrapped his arms around her when she fell against him. As much as she shook, he did not think she feigned the need for support. Too, she was not without her own injuries.
Elias swept her into his arms, regained his precarious balance, and crossed to his destrier. It was impossible to secure her on the fore of his saddle, not because her weight was burdensome but due to lack of cooperation. She did not fight him, but she was more concerned with ensuring the blood-dappled gorget remain slung across her lower face than stabilizing her seat.
“Your modesty is noted and unnecessary where I am concerned.” He pulled her hand from beneath the veil and pressed her palm to the pommel. “Hold to it!”
Her fingers splayed as if she meant to defy him, but she turned her head away and gripped the pommel.
As Theo gained his saddle, Elias swung up behind Honore. When he put an arm around her to draw her back, she strained opposite.
Though tempted to anger, he leaned forward and said, “Hear me. If you have spoken true, you have no cause to fear me. All I want is your aid in finding Hart.”
Her head jerked as if in agreement, then she coughed and muffled, “I have never been so c-cold.”
“Then turn into me. Hold to me. I shall warm you.”
She held herself separate a moment longer, then came around, gripped his waist, and tucked her head beneath his chin.
Feeling the wet of her garments seep through his, he called to Theo. “Ride!”
Chapter 9
BEWARE THE MISTS OF DREAM
The cottage on the outskirts of Forkney was so distant from others one might think it outside the village’s borders. Old Arblette had said it was not and those who engaged his services were more comfortable doing so were he not daily in their midst. Thus, he had lived apart from and rarely went amongst those of Forkney and neighboring villages who might one day need him to set out a babe.
Though following his grandsire’s passing Finwyn continued to inhabit the cottage, Honore doubted he was as scarce or discreet, especially if he did sell women’s favors.
“You are certain he lives here?” Elias De Morville asked, having halted his destrier just in sight of the wattle and daub structure whose softly glowing windows evidenced the fire at its center waned as night moved toward day.
Missing the warmth of the knight whose beats of the heart she had counted throughout the ride, and in doing so nearly lulled herself to sleep, again she matched his French. “I was here only once, but I know it to be the one.” Though she longed to return to his broad chest and subdue the cold creeping across her skin, she reminded herself Hart might be inside. Not likely, but it tempted her to abandon the saddle.
“Theo,” De Morville said, “remain here with the woman. If Arblette is within, I shall bring him out.” He passed his reins to the squire, caught up one of Honore’s hands, and set it on the pommel.
“May I go with you?” she asked.
“You may not.” He curled his fingers over hers to ensure her grip, dismounted, and with drawn sword set out across tall grass toward the cottage at the wood’s edge.
Honore fought the urge to follow. And lost. She slid from the horse opposite the side on which Squire Theo sat his mount, heard his low curse as her knees struck moist ground.
“Woman!” he rasped.
Confident he would not raise his voice or noisily pursue her astride lest Finwyn was alerted he was no longer alone, she surged upright, snatched up her skirts, and followed De Morville.
Moments later, she caught the sound of the squire’s boots and saw his lord swing around. But the knight was too near the cottage for him to voice his anger. Thus, he snatched hold of her as she tried to run wide around him and clapped a hand over her gorget-covered mouth. “Not his accomplice, hmm?”
Then he believed she meant to sound a warning.
She tried to speak into his hand, but his palm and fingers were so hard against her lips it almost hurt.
“Hold her,” he said and passed her to the squire, then it was the younger man’s hand suppressing what he also believed were screams.
Overcome with fatigue and cold, grateful for the support despite Theo’s hand over her mouth, she stilled and watched De Morville take the last strides to the cottage and kick in the door. Sword going before him, he lunged inside.
She prayed to hear Finwyn’s protest or a struggle, but the only
sound was of one set of feet searching the narrow confines.
Was Finwyn long gone? Did he hide nearby? Did he watch? Might Hart be with him?
The knight reappeared and took hold of Honore. “Keep watch,” he instructed his squire and pulled her into the cottage.
The remains of the fire in the central pit barely lit the single room in which old Arblette and his grandson had lived.
“Regardless of whether he paused here,” the knight said, “I do not believe he will return soon.”
Neither did she. They were too late. And Hart…
She shivered, coughed.
De Morville released her and pushed her toward the fire pit. “Warm yourself.”
It was a kindness, and it made her want to explain why she had dismounted. As she lowered and thrust her hands toward the glowing logs, she said, “I spoke true. I am not in league with him. I just hoped…” Hearing a clatter, she looked around and saw the knight searched the items atop a rough-hewn table, doubtless for evidence of where Finwyn had gone.
“I thought Hart might be here.”
His head came up, lids narrowed. “You said the boy ran away.”
“As believed, but this eve Finwyn revealed he sold babes to a troupe of performers who display them. And among them is one no longer a babe, one with a mark of birth upon his face.”
After a long moment, he said, “Then why did you think the boy was here?”
She nearly revealed Finwyn’s belief he fathered Hart and hers that were it true he could not be so cruel to one of his blood. However, she had sense enough to withhold that information—alongside hope of bringing Hart home which she doubted could be done without the aid of a warrior, a nobleman, a father seeking to do right by one he suspected born of his sin. If she revealed Finwyn’s certainty he was Hart’s sire, it would be all the excuse De Morville needed to turn his back on one in need of rescue.
“Why did you think him here?” he repeated.
“Finwyn likes his games. I thought mayhap this was one, that he took Hart to taunt me. Hence, I but hoped he was here.”
He grunted and moved his search to the corners of the cottage into which shelves and crates were tucked.
Honore scooted nearer the pit, breathed in blessedly warm air, and startled when the knight shouted, “Lord!”
She looked to the small chest over which he stood gripping a limp pouch. “What have you found?”
“The coin purse I gave Lettice, one smaller than that which Arblette took from me this eve, both fashioned of dark leather lined with red.” His head came around. “She lives here? With him?”
“I do not know. I…” She gasped in remembrance of what Finwyn had revealed of Lettice.
The knight strode to her. “Tell me!”
“I fear Finwyn may have harmed Lettice.” Peering up at him, she moistened her lips and tasted the blood tainting her gorget. “He boasted of the generosity of the purse you gave her. When I asked what he had done to gain it, he said it was I who did her ill, as if…”
As if Honore of no surname had killed Lettice, Elias silently finished. Emotion clamping around his heart, he pulled the woman upright and hastened her from the cottage.
“I did not harm her!” she exclaimed.
His mind whirled, tumbled over the need to ensure the loss of coin did not bode ill for the woman he had once loved. He did not believe it—not truly—but he dared hope. Years ago, he had accepted Lettice was so broken he could not put her back together, and yestereve he had seen it was even less possible—that she was so shattered pieces of her were destroyed. But he had to reach her, save whatever was left of her.
The horses were outside the cottage, Theo having summoned them with a low whistle.
Ignoring Honore’s protests, Elias ordered his squire into the saddle, but as he started to swing the woman atop his own mount, a voice called in English, “Do not hurt her!”
Holding her with one arm, Elias turned his hand around his sword hilt and set his gaze on the figure emerging from a low shack of the sort used for the keeping of chickens. A tall bony lad, aged ten or more years.
“Boy!” Elias called in English, “Where is Finwyn Arblette?”
“Gone! My master departed on his horse not long ere your arrival.”
“His destination?”
“I know not. He was in such a rage, I…” He halted a stride distant. “After he walloped me upside the head, I hid, milord.”
Elias’s heart pounded harder. Had Arblette not already harmed Lettice, he might do so now.
“These past six months,” Honore said, “was there a boy of about seven years at your master’s home, Cynuit?”
“Not that I seen.”
Feeling her body moved by what seemed a sob, Elias said, “We must ride.” Then he lifted her onto the saddle and swung up behind her.
“Take me with ye,” the boy beseeched. “Does he return—”
“He will not,” Elias bit, but as he started to turn his mount toward the village, the lad gripped his leg.
“He will kill me, milord. If not this day, another.”
Though Elias meant to shake him off the sooner to spur away, he paused over the lad’s desperation.
“Pray, have pity,” Honore beseeched.
Silently cursing being moved to kindness he had no time to spare, Elias said, “Theo, take the lad up behind you.”
“I thank you,” the woman before him said as Elias urged his destrier in the direction of the cottage where once he had courted Lettice. There he had delivered her tokens of love purchased with coin he earned as one of a dozen performers whose travels were delayed when the lord of a nearby castle engaged the troupe for a full season. Here upon this barony, the life Elias had chosen over that of a noble had unraveled. Now, even ere he bounded from the saddle outside the dim cottage, he sensed the life to which he had returned was also about to come undone.
He heard the approach of his squire’s mount but wasted no time instructing him to keep watch over the woman.
Hoping to find Lettice with her mother and siblings for whom she had sacrificed all, he thrust open the door. But though the occupants of other cottages upon this road stirred, whether due to the pound of hooves or the bark of dogs, the only thing stirring inside—albeit slightly—was an exceedingly tall figure in the farthest corner. Not truly tall, though he assured himself it was so even as he lunged toward one possibly capable of putting a blade through him.
Chapter 10
A SWING OF ROPE
Elias wrapped his arms around the thighs of Lettice who only appeared to be seven feet in height where she hung from a rafter. “Lord, not this!” he shouted and, taking tension off the rope, lifted her so high the back of her head bumped the ceiling.
“Theo!”
He need not have called, the squire immediately appearing beside him with a stool.
“Cut her down!”
He need not have spoken. As he continued to fling prayer to the heavens, the cool body of Lettice gently jerked as the rope around her neck gave to Theo’s blade. Then she slumped over Elias’s shoulder.
He slid her down his body. “Lettice,” he choked as he settled her to the earthen floor.
Theo lowered on the opposite side. “I fear she is long dead, my lord.”
Refusing to look too near upon her death mask, trying not to breathe the dark scent of her, Elias slid a hand over her abraded neck in search of a pulse that had probably coursed its last on the night past after Arblette took her coin.
A gasp sounded from the doorway, and Elias knew it was Honore who claimed to be as much a victim as he. True or not, neither was as unfortunate as Lettice. It may have been made to appear she had taken her life, but he did not believe it—especially with so much coin to her name.
On his knees alongside her, he lowered his head into his hands and beneath his fingers felt the open flesh of his brow. His search for a boy who might be his son had set this in motion. Had he let it be, Lettice would be alive. And were
Honore of no surname innocent, there would have been no cause for her to be summoned and suffer Arblette’s attack.
He dropped his hands, looked around. The veiled woman was on her knees just inside the doorway, the boy who served Arblette standing over her as if his measly collection of bones, muscle, and sinew could protect her. Were he six feet tall, armored and hung with the keenest sword, he could not protect her were she, indeed, Arblette’s accomplice.
Was she? Surely she would not have entered the cottage were it lies she spilled. She would have fled the instant Theo followed his lord inside. The lad had to be the means by which Arblette summoned her.
Though Elias wanted to absolve her of wrongdoing, his desire to believe the best of others could see a warrior dead. Thus, he would cease with the accusations but keep close watch on her.
Feeling twice his weight, he forced himself upright and crossed to the woman. “It does not end here, Honore of no surname.”
She lowered the hands clasped against her chest, raised her face.
“There will be some gain amid so great a loss,” he continued. “Regardless of whether you truly have a care for her son, regardless of whether I am his father, you will aid me in finding him. For her.”
“I shall,” she said so softly he barely caught the words above the sound of villagers come to investigate what was of such import their sleep should be disturbed.
Elias turned on his heel, started back toward Lettice, halted as Everard’s lesson to give reason and strategy their due once more returned to him. It mattered not what number it was, only that never had he greater cause to heed it.
He was certain he could prove his innocence if accused of Lettice’s murder, but soon the sheriff would be summoned and the inquiry could last days, easily putting a hundred leagues between Arblette and justice.
As the shadow of someone approaching the doorway lumbered across the moonlit floor, Elias strode to the body laid on the scant rushes, dropped to a knee, and rasped in the English of the woman he had loved, “Whither thou goest my heart’s first love, I go not until your son is safe and justice done. My vow I give.” He kissed her chill brow. “At long last, be at peace, sweet Lettice.”
