THE RAVELING

by Tamara Leigh

  Sister Sebille looked to Honore. “A month ere your birth, I was born of our father’s sin with a noblewoman not his wife. When your mother rejected you for your defect, our father brought you here to die where my mother had birthed me and left me to be raised. Though I would not know it for years, he gave me your name and took his misbegotten month-old daughter to his wife with tale he had prayed for the healing of the defect and God worked a miracle—”

  “Enough!” Honore cried. “This is absurd.”

  “You are Sebille Soames,” the nun continued, “and the name that has long hung around your neck was first mine—Honore of no surname.”

  Honore snapped her gaze to the abbess. “It cannot be.”

  “She speaks true.” The old woman sighed. “Your sister has guessed all I was to hold close. She was given your name and became much loved by your mother for the miracle of her healing. But when the Lady of Lexeter discovered that for nine years her husband had fooled her, she threatened your sister’s life. Thus your father returned her to us.”

  The room was turning around Honore. Or was she turning?

  “Come, sit.” The woman who thought herself Honore took Honore’s arm and guided her to a chair. “I know the deceit is unimaginable, but it is so. And I added to it by taking revenge on your mother for what she—”

  “What of your father?” Honore asked.

  “Our father died shortly after returning me here. Then his wife came to reclaim the daughter she knew I was not. I did not tell her he had revealed to me the truth of my birth and yours. Instead, I set my mind and heart to making her love me again.” She drew a shaky breath. “But no matter how hard I tried, she hated me, making of me little more than a servant and denying me every chance at happiness. It was years ere I accepted what could not be changed, and then I was so embittered I became vengeful, pretending to scrape and bow while behind her back I worked ill to turn her son from her.”

  “Son?” Honore snatched at another sibling she was to believe she had.

  “Your brother, my half brother whom I love very much. His name is Lothaire, and he will be pleased to know you, as will his wife.”

  Honore pressed fingers into her temples. “Does my mother know I survived?”

  Sebille shook her head. “She passed recently, unaware the one she rejected lived.”

  Honore wished she could feel more than a twinge of regret. Had her father not refused, likely her mother would have had her afflicted daughter set out. She looked to the abbess who had come to stand over Sebille’s shoulder. “Did my sire know I lived?”

  “He did.”

  “Did he love me?”

  “I believe so. When I sent word the infant expected to die was receptive to taking milk through a reed, it was he who engaged the physician to close up your lip. The procedure nearly killed you, but when you healed, you thrived. Once a year your father visited to observe you from a distance. He was proud of you and provided substantial funds so one day you could take vows if you wished.”

  Feeling the beads beneath her fingers, Honore looked to the strand that was now four beads shorter than that of the woman kneeling before her. “Why did you give us these, Abbess?”

  “The hope of providing you the comfort of prayer. And sentiment. You were sisters, and though you were not to know it, I wished to bind you to each other even if only by a string of beads made into two. Now they are reunited, I pray it a good thing.”

  “It is,” Sebille said. “I have someone else to love.” She looked nearer upon Honore. “Do you think you might come to care for one who shares half your blood?”

  It was said with such longing Honore ached for the woman whose lovely childhood had been worse than lost. “I am all astir,” she said. “This is much to take in, but I like you, and I am in your debt for defending me to Lady Yolande, for which you will suffer.”

  “She will not,” the abbess said and lowered into the chair near Honore’s. “I have informed her of my decision, which I pray the bishop will support. Henceforth, the bulk of Bairnwood’s funds are to be dedicated to the care of foundlings.”

  Sebille’s gasp nearly matched the volume of Honore’s.

  The abbess inclined her head. “The lady will be leaving us. By week’s end, the foundling door will be completed and word sent out across the barony and those surrounding it that parents unable to care for their children may leave them with us, assured they will be well cared for and placed in good homes when possible. As for the boys who are not placed by the time they attain their tenth year, I believe funds can be raised to construct outside our walls a dormitory, small chapel, and workshop where they can learn a trade.” She moved her gaze to Honore. “The blessings begun with you shall multiply.”

  Of a sudden feeling very fragile, as if a mere breath would birth hundreds of cracks, Honore could only stare. But when the need for air became so painful she had to fill her lungs, she clapped hands to her face and sobbed into them.

  Arms came around her. She told herself this was enough, that into the space of her heart where Elias dwelt she could settle more foundlings, consigning the man she loved to a corner so distant she might forget him there.

  “Methinks these are not entirely happy tears,” the abbess said.

  Honore lifted her moist face. “I am very happy.”

  “I am aware, and yet the sorrow with which you returned to Bairnwood continues to burden you.”

  Sebille drew back. “What troubles you?”

  Though tempted to hold close her ache, Honore said, “It is hard to believe that in so short a time I could love the man who retrieved Hart, but much I feel for him.” She looked to the abbess who had been told of Elias’s belief Lettice’s son was his and what had transpired in the quest to rescue the boy, though not of the aid given Thomas Becket.

  There was alarm in the old woman’s eyes, and Honore shook her head. “Fear not. Just as I greatly value my chastity, he is honorable despite a mistake made in his youth.”

  “I do not question that.”

  “Then?”

  “Now it is known you are noble both sides and legitimate, if he feels for you as you feel for him, he might come for you were he told. And more than ever you are needed here.”

  “Worry not, Abbess. I have no intention of claiming the Soames name. And even if I did, it would be of no use. I have endangered Sir Elias’s family, am responsible for his injuries, and…” She trailed off, sent up another prayer for his recovery. “…I gave his father my word I will have no further contact with him. Bairnwood shall remain my home.”

  “But what if he does come for you?” Sebille asked.

  “I do not believe he will, but should he, I will not see him.” Honore looked to the abbess. “I will keep my word to his father, and Sir Elias will wed one of better childbearing years to ensure the De Morville name continues.”

  “I am glad you choose this life,” the abbess said. “You yet have so much to give the Lord.” She turned her gaze upon Sebille. “What think you of serving the Lord other than by way of prayers for the dead, Sister?”

  “If you speak of working with foundlings, I would like that.”

  “Then providing Honore agrees, it is settled.”

  Honore considered this found sister whom Wilma and Jeannette liked well, nodded. “It is settled.”

  Chapter 44

  TURNS DARK TO DAY

  Marlborough Castle

  England

  Elias had been prepared to stand alone before King Henry, but when he came seeking an audience at Marlborough Castle, Sir Durand and Lady Beata appeared. He had felt a fool for not seeing their advance, but their warm greeting put him at ease—as much as was possible for one whose actions could bring a swifter end to the De Morville name than lack of a male heir.

  “You have no say in this.” Durand leaned toward Elias. “I know not how much I can sway Henry, but I will stand your side.”

  Elias shook his head. “This is my mess. I would not have you bear the cost of
defending me.”

  Beata also sat forward. Dark braid catching between her shoulder and her husband’s, she said, “It is what friends do, Elias. Certes, were there time to summon Everard Wulfrith, he would also be here.”

  As Otto had wished, but Elias had refused to send an appeal to Everard, not only because the man was soon to be a father again—and as told by Beata had been so blessed a sennight past—but because Elias was determined to do this himself. And yet, as if the Lord agreed with Otto that support be given by friends, the day of Elias’s arrival at court coincided with the departure of Durand and Beata who had been summoned by Queen Eleanor that she might look upon the two she had matched—they who would ever be grateful for her meddling.

  “What of your children?” Elias said, knowing the two were eager to return to their infant twins, a healthy boy and girl.

  “One more day will do no harm,” Beata said.

  “We know you can do this on your own,” her husband prompted. “We but wish to ease the passage if possible—and a rough one it may prove, as fitful as Henry is over Becket.”

  Pride nearly caused Elias to more forcefully protest their aid, but the hope of keeping Honore from her sovereign’s wrath made him accede. “I thank you, my friends. I shall be glad to have you at my side, though I ask you speak naught unless Henry has me dragged before the executioner.”

  They agreed, though he did not quite believe them, then Durand eyed the slants of sunlight streaking the great hall. “We are to meet Queen Eleanor in the garden to receive her blessing for our safe travels. I am sure she will be pleased to see you again, might even be compelled to speak with her husband on your behalf.”

  Too much to hope for, Elias thought. But her reaction, she who likely knew of Honore’s missive that Otto had sent ahead and whatever tale Sir Neville had carried, could better prepare Elias for his meeting with Henry.

  Elias stood and grimaced at the ache in his side that reminded him he was not fully healed. He followed the hand-holding couple outside beneath a cloudless sky that made these last days of autumn seem nearer their middle. Quite the blessing, travel from Château des Trois Doigts having been chill and weepy, and more so during the channel crossing. Now if the Lord would extend that blessing, calming the storm that could rise in England’s king…

  “There are her ladies.” Beata nodded at women chatting before an arbor. “Eleanor will be near.”

  The ladies greeted Durand and Beata, puzzled over Elias, then said the queen waited on them.

  The three stepped past, and there on a bench sat Eleanor, face turned up to the sun.

  “Your Majesty,” Durand called.

  Without looking around, she said, “Come, come.”

  “We bring our friend, Your Majesty, one we are certain you will welcome.”

  “Oh?” Still she did not look their way.

  “Sir Elias De Morville,” Elias announced himself.

  She turned her head, and her eyes widened. “Otto’s pup!”

  As she had called him when, following his knighting by Everard, she informed him of his brother’s death that would make him heir if he reconciled with his sire.

  The three halted before her, bowed.

  “Why, this is most fortuitous, Sir Elias.”

  “Your Majesty?”

  “That we should deliver unto our husband the vassal with whom he heartily wishes to speak.”

  Elias tensed further.

  “Such courage to deliver yourself to England—all things Becket considered. We cannot speak for our husband, but it inclines us to believe what that little nun wrote.”

  “Nun? You speak of Honore of Bairnwood?”

  “That is her name. She is not of the sisterhood?”

  “She is not, Your Majesty, though she is responsible for the abbey’s work with foundlings.”

  “Only a servant, then. Well, that casts this business in a different light.” She clasped her hands at her waist, studied his face. “Do you love her?”

  He took a step back, felt Beata’s hand on his arm.

  “Ah, Sir Elias, it may prove more difficult to return you to our husband’s good graces than thought.” She flicked a hand at a nearby bench and, when they were seated, continued, “We ought to make quick work of this lest, for once, Henry does not keep us waiting.”

  “He is to meet you here?” Elias asked.

  “He is. Now give answer, Sir Elias.”

  Though he preferred to feign ignorance, he said, “I love her.”

  Amidst Beata’s gasp of surprise, the queen said, “Since we are guessing she is common, what do you intend? Make her your mistress?”

  Elias held her gaze. “My wife, if she will have me.”

  She made a face. “We could arrange a far more suitable match, one that would increase holdings you will not have when your father disavows you for wedding so far beneath his wishes.”

  Struggling against revealing how greatly she offended, he said, “When I returned to my family, I vowed to do my duty, Your Majesty—to wed a woman of whom my sire approves. Do I wed Honore, that vow I will not break.”

  “What say you?”

  “My father has granted I may wed where I will, no matter the woman’s class or how many years she has.”

  “It is not possible you speak of Otto De Morville.”

  “I do.”

  “Then he either grows exceedingly soft in old age, else loses his wits.”

  “Regardless, he will accept Honore of Bairnwood as the mother of his grandchildren.”

  Eleanor held up a hand. “How many years has she?”

  “Thirty and two, Your Majesty.”

  She gave a curt laugh. “Does your father know this?”

  “He knows she is four years beyond me, and though he prefers I marry a girl the same as he, on this he yields.”

  She quieted, and he guessed she was thinking of the greater gap between Henry and herself, Eleanor having been born more than ten years before her husband. “Well, as long as you begin making babes straightaway, you should be able to assure Otto’s name passes to another generation.”

  “As soon as I have made my peace with your lord husband, I will bring Honore to Château des Trois Doigts.”

  “Elias,” Durand said low and tilted his head to the right. He had sooner sensed they no longer numbered four.

  A glance at Eleanor revealed her momentary confusion over Durand’s warning. Then she smiled and said, “We are pleased by your loyalty to the Duke of Normandy, Sir Elias. But of course it is for our lord husband to determine how true your allegiance.” She leaned forward. “Neville Sorrel may think to play him for a fool in the hope of stealing De Morville lands, but as we know well, the greatest of England’s kings is no puppet.” She sat back, once more turned her face to the sun. “He should be here soon.”

  And so he was, though not immediately. Doubtless, he would have none think him disposed toward eavesdropping. Better he was believed omniscient.

  “Marshal,” the king said as he strode from amongst the trees at their backs, “you and your lady wife leave us this day?”

  All three rose, turned, bowed to the man whose hair shone more red in sunlight.

  The faltering of Henry’s bow-legged stride almost believable, he motioned them to straighten. “Elias De Morville,” he growled, “we thought we would have to command you to court to account for your traitorous actions.”

  “Methinks, Lord Husband,” his queen said, “you will be gladdened by what the friend of Everard Wulfrith has to tell.”

  Elias saw irritation flicker across Henry’s tanned, freckled face, felt his own rise. He ought to be grateful for Eleanor’s reminder that Elias was backed by a member of the family on whom the king relied to strengthen England’s defenses, but this was between Elias and Henry.

  “Your Majesty,” Elias said when the king halted between the benches, “I have come to account for the events that found me in the company of your archbishop.”

  “No longer our arch
bishop,” Henry crossed his arms over a chest that strained the seams of a tunic so unremarkable one might question if the one who wore it was, indeed, a king. “Our queen, Lord Marshal, Lady Beata,” he acknowledged each, “methinks this knight capable of speaking in his own defense. Leave us.”

  Ere they departed, Beata once more squeezed Elias’s arm. Providing he was not clapped in irons, her husband and she would be waiting for him at the end of his audience with Henry.

  The king strode to the place his wife had occupied, lowered, jerked his chin at the other bench. Once Elias reseated himself, Henry said, “We are in receipt of the missive written by Honore of Bairnwood and sent by your sire. Is it true what she wrote?”

  “As I was severely injured in an encounter with Sir Neville and his men, I know only what my sire told of the missive. What I know for certain is that the woman is of good character, so much I am sure she accepts more responsibility for—”

  “Good character? She admits to deceiving you. Did she?”

  Elias inclined his head. “To save a boy who—”

  “Théâtre des Abominations,” Henry interrupted again. “The same we ejected from England and you put end to, we understand.”

  “Without regret, Your Majesty. Truly, it was an abomination.”

  “Neville reports he saw you and others in the company of that…” A sharp breath pinched Henry’s nostrils. “He saw you in the company of Becket on the road to Clairmarais.”

  “That is so.”

  “Even then you did not know it was Becket you aided?”

  “I did know, Your Majesty, it being revealed during the channel crossing.”

  “Then you have no excuse for your betrayal.”