THE RAVELING_A Medieval Romance

by Tamara Leigh

  “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.”

  His eyebrows scissored. “You claim to be a nun?”

  “Nay, a lay servant who answers to the Lord and her abbess.”

  “Your name?”

  “Honore.”

  “Only Honore?”

  She inclined her head. “Of no surname.”

  He moved so swiftly she had no time to tighten her grip on the stick, but he released her after tossing her weapon aside.

  Honore stepped back and her lower calf struck a humped root. Determined to gain more ground to better assure her escape, she said, “I would know your name.”

  “Sir Elias de Morville come from France to learn the fate of the boy born to Lettice of Forkney. You know her?”

  Denial sprang to her lips, but she hesitated. The name was familiar, but distantly so. “I do not. The agreement is the parents remain nameless, not only to ensure their privacy but protect the one who breaks with them to give their babes into my care. Too, as Bairnwood is fairly isolated, I leave its walls only when summoned.”

  Not true, she reminded herself of those first years she had ventured forth on her own, but before she could correct the lie, he said, “Summoned by way of the rope.”

  She glanced at that which had never before adorned the tree. “You think that is how I know when a babe is to be abandoned? That I haunt the wood nightly? Is that how Finwyn convinced you I am a witch?”

  “He told the rope alerts you to leave coin for a babe.”

  More and more Honore feared what unfolded. “He lied.”

  “If not the rope, what?”

  “Who,” she corrected. “Finwyn sends a boy to the abbey, and that same night I bring coin and pray it is not too late for the babe.”

  “Was it too late for Lettice’s son?”

  “As told, I know not whence the babes come. But if you tell how old he would be, mayhap I can reveal his fate.”

  “Seven years.”

  She startled, having expected the one he sought to be much younger. Were he seven, that would be the year she paid Finwyn’s grandsire for three male infants spaced several months apart. And among them was one she could no longer account for.

  “What else can you tell me about him?” She winced at the desperation in her voice. Hoping his delayed response was not born of suspicion, she held her breath.

  “On the day past, I spoke to Lettice. She said the babe was given to the wood for the stain on his face she feared to be a mark of the devil.”

  Honore was grateful she was prepared for his answer. Had she not been, her knees might have buckled.

  “After her departure,” the knight continued, “Finwyn Arblette revealed he had overheard our conversation. He said his grandsire did not leave Lettice’s babe in the wood but sold him to you.”

  Hence, the ruse. Doubtless, Finwyn had been paid to deliver the one who had last seen the babe alive. Mere coincidence he overheard this knight and Lettice? Or did he yet earn coin as his grandsire had rued—arranging the intimate favors of women? Might this Lettice be among those whose sin he promoted?

  “Have you this boy?” the knight pressed. “Does he yet live?”

  Why could it not be the boy adopted by a childless husband and wife in the village of Dunwidden? she silently bemoaned. Or the babe laid in consecrated ground after a four-month struggle to survive?

  “You are too silent,” the knight said.

  She considered telling him his son was the one who had passed, but said, “I know the one you seek.”

  “Where is he?”

  Glad she was not short, wishing she were taller, she said, “He ran away six months past.”

  A shifting of chain mail, then he had her left arm again, and moonlight revealed anger about his eyes and mouth. “I am to believe you?”

  “’Tis the truth.” As she tried to free herself, she caught a flash of red on his hip and saw it was a jeweled dagger a moment before he dragged her close.

  “Why would he run? Did you mistreat him?”

  “Of course not! I am very fond of him.”

  “Fond, and yet he did not want to be with you.”

  It was wrong, but Honore wished she had told him his son had died. “He did not like his discipline for inappropriate behavior. We argued, and the following morn he could not be found inside the abbey nor outside, though many went in search of him.”

  As he considered what she revealed, she cast back to the argument with Hart. Eschewing chores that included helping with the youngest foundlings, the boy had stolen out of the abbey, endangering himself and the friend who accompanied him.

  “Methinks you lie,” said the warrior. “Did you sell him?”

  “Sell?”

  “Sacrifice him?”

  “Neither! Never would I harm my charges. It is the Lord in heaven I worship, not the evil one.”

  “You have three options,” he said. “Give me the boy—”

  “I do not have him.”

  “Take me to the one to whom you sold him.”

  “I did not sell him.”

  “Or deny me, and I will hand you up to be tried for a witch.”

  Fear and outrage were terrible playmates, Honore thought as the two careened toward each other. When they collided, leaving in the wake of scattered reason the primitive need to survive, she thrust her free hand between them and closed it around his dagger’s hilt. Having no experience with weapons, she was grateful he wrenched backward as she dragged the dagger from its scabbard. Otherwise, her attempt to put the blade between them might have opened his throat.

  He captured her wrist, and she had only a moment to note his ominous expression and a whistle across the wood before he fell on her.

  “Almighty!” he erupted as he carried her down toward roots that could snap a back or neck. But of a sudden he released her. Had he not, she would have struck the roots, and all the harder beneath his weight. Instead, she had just enough time to twist around and thrust her arms out before her.

  Her hands landed on moss-covered ground, but her hip struck a root. Though it hurt, it surprised the pain was not ten-fold worse considering how loud the crack of bone on wood.

  Was this shock? If so, De Morville would have no difficulty subduing her, especially as she was no longer in possession of his dagger.

  She thrust onto her side. Further astonished the movement did not more greatly pain, she searched beyond the drape of her veil for the blade amid misted roots. And before her was the reason she merely ached.

  The knight lay face down on roots that formed the near rim of the cradle. The crack had not been her hip but his head striking a root. But what sense to be made of the shaft protruding at an angle from his upper back? How had that come to be? And was he dead?

  Dear Lord, she silently despaired, what evil is about?

  The rustle and squelch of fallen leaves brought her chin up, and she followed the sound to one who approached from far to the left of where De Morville’s squire had earlier concealed himself.

  He carried a bow, and as he advanced, hooked it over his head and an arm and let it fall across his torso like the sling Honore had brought to carry the foundlings.

  Recalling the whistle heard before the knight fell on her, she understood. De Morville had not attacked her. The force of Finwyn’s arrow burying itself in the knight had driven him against her. And in saving herself, the man who sought his son was the one victimized by the roots—were he not already dead by way of the arrow.

  “Heavenly Father,” she whispered, “preserve him.”

  Chapter 6

  BEYOND THE MOONLIT VEIL

  Never had she seen a dagger as mean as the one Finwyn drew, its blade long and curved. Fearing it was meant for her, she thrust to her feet.

  “I would not!” he shouted. “My throwi
ng arm is better than my bow arm.”

  The moment she saw him she ought to have fled. Now, as he had traversed much of the distance, it was unlikely his throw would miss even were his boast without merit.

  Near where De Morville had earlier halted, he did the same. Despite moonlight at his back, she saw the grin favoring one side of his mouth. “’Tis a pity it must be this way, Honore of Bairnwood, but you give me no choice.”

  Her tongue clicked off her palate, and in like English she demanded, “What say you?”

  “You think to ruin my business. Unfortunately for De Morville, he set my plan in motion earlier than intended. Fortunately for me, his interference shall make the tale of the unholy one who steals babes all the more believable when ’tis discovered she and her kind murdered a nobleman who sought to claim his misbegotten son.”

  Honore shifted her gaze to the fallen knight, searched for proof of breath, but detected no movement beyond that of the milling mist. Were he no longer of this world, was it due to a cracked skull?

  Guilt gripped her. Had she not wrenched free, she would have struck the roots and the knight would be putting an end to Finwyn.

  “If he is not yet dead, he shall be,” the murderer said, and her insides churned more forcefully knowing their thoughts were traveling companions. “As for you, I am thinking after your man shot Sir Elias, I rushed to the knight’s defense and you and I struggled over the dagger you took from him. I gained it, but not before you cut out your tongue—with aid from me, though those who have begun to question the fate of undesirables need not know that.”

  She stared. Though what he told was horribly fantastic, it must be the truth, the same as the rumor about joined twins which made some question if Finwyn did leave babes to the wood or further profit from them. Thus, another must be blamed, not he who would claim that after he did as paid to do, a witch stole the little ones.

  He raised his eyebrows. “A good tale, eh?”

  “Hardly believable,” she hissed. “Why would I cut out my own tongue?”

  “So you could not be made to reveal the devil’s schemes.”

  Those schemes being Finwyn’s, she thought, hopelessness moving through her.

  He whistled low. “You will burn all the brighter for that. And when ’tis seen what you hide ’neath your covering…”

  Beginning to tremble, she tried to convince herself this was not happening, that it was imagination terrorizing her until the bells of morn or a fitful foundling awakened her.

  Keeping his dagger pointed at her, Finwyn stepped alongside De Morville, further stirring the mist in which the knight was partially shrouded. “There is the second half of what is due me.” He toed something, and she heard the jangle of coins. “He paid far better than expected for an introduction to one who might lead him to his son.”

  Stalked by the horror of witnessing the evil worked on the knight and the creep of apathy telling her she could do naught to prevent the same from befalling her, Honore reminded herself how much she was needed by those in her care and those to come. “Do not do this, Finwyn. You know it is wrong.”

  “You forced me to it.”

  She opened empty hands. “I near the end of my coin. By next summer I would have no more to give.”

  He scoffed. “Bairnwood is rich. More coin can be had.”

  “Perhaps, but of greater import is saving those whose parents cannot afford to pay to set out unwanted babes and do so themselves. Once they can leave them at the abbey, none need know they have abandoned a child and their hearts will be less weighted by desperation that otherwise condemns their babes to death.”

  “But those who can pay no longer shall, will they? And have you not considered that do you not pain their purses, they have no reason to be more cautious in breeding undesirables?”

  Honore nearly choked. He thought only of the coin to be had from others’ suffering.

  “In the cradle.” He jerked his chin at the depression amidst the roots.

  She nearly asked the reason, but he had given one. There he meant to remove her tongue. “With or without me, the abbey will receive foundlings,” she said.

  “I think not. Though the sisters may continue your work for a time, they did not commit their lives to the Lord to tend needy children. Nay, they are happiest on their knees glorying in the great peace promised them, and that is where they shall return.”

  “You are wrong.”

  “We shall see.” He drew his arm back as if to send the dagger flying. “Get in.”

  “Consider your grandsire, Finwyn. What would he say?”

  “What he cannot. ’Tis good he is dead, hmm?”

  That hurt. Though he had earned his living in a heinous manner ere the bargain struck with her, she had seen enough good in the old man to become fond of him.

  His grandson sighed. “Ever I rued disappointing him, especially when he had drink in him. You know he beat me, aye?”

  She did. He had owned to it years past, asking her to seek the abbess’s prayers for the defiant and unruly boy whom he feared would become a deceptive and violent man. His wife’s fault, he had claimed. Ever the boy’s grandmother was soft on him. After her passing, it had fallen to her husband to take Finwyn in hand—and that old Arblette had done. But when he came to the end of his patience, he resorted to slaps and punches to control the boy’s wayward leanings.

  “But we have no time for the past,” Finwyn said. “Though I expected I would have to put through the squire ere doing the same to his lord—and a great risk that would be had he cried out—it was a boon he chased your man who is not a man.”

  Honore caught her breath. How did he know of Jeannette?

  Before she could ask, he continued, “Providing the squire does not soon return, and does so without your long-legged Jean, he shall make a good witness to your murder of his lord. As for who shot the arrow that killed this unfortunate warrior, it seems reasonable a third witch got away whilst I fought you for the dagger.”

  Honore’s head lightened with imaginings she stood before the devil.

  “Now get in the cradle.” He jerked the hand alongside his ear, once more threatening to throw the dagger.

  As if she ought to fear it over that other death planned for her, she mused. But a moment later, something leapt in her—something akin to humor, though of a sort she hardly knew. Not unlike that with which she was acquainted, it roused bitter laughter.

  “What?” Finwyn demanded.

  She pushed a hand back through her hair, causing veil and gorget to slide down around her shoulders. Not planned, and the loss made her catch her breath, but she laughed again. She had naught to hide from this miscreant who already knew her affliction. And of further benefit, the more unsettled he was, the more likely his aim would suffer.

  Wondering if moonlight made her more unsightly, she raised her chin higher, causing him to wince. “You think one who is to lose her tongue, be lashed to a stake, and set afire fears the quick death of a dagger? As your grandsire bemoaned, you are too boastful of past and future successes that oft fail.”

  Certain it was hurt slackening his face, she felt a stab of guilt over wielding such against him, but the grandson old Arblette had prayed would not become a deceptive and violent man stood before her. And was more to be feared than ever imagined.

  Baring his teeth, he jabbed his dagger toward the cradle. “Move!”

  With his blade no longer ready to fly, she nearly took the opportunity to flee, but what she glimpsed when she looked where he indicated presented another opportunity.

  A flash of red and silver alongside the bundle on the left revealed De Morville’s dagger had landed there. She did not know if it was a better opportunity, but the blade was a means of defense, and though she doubted she could turn it on another person, the threat of doing so would give the squire time in which to return before her tongue could no longer defend her.

  No stretch to appear defeated, she slumped her shoulders as she picked her way among the
roots. She walked wide around Finwyn, then drew so near the knight her gown brushed his shoulder. Once past him, she hitched up her skirts and stepped into the cradle.

  “On your knees,” Finwyn ordered.

  All the better, she thought as she lowered before the bundles and ran her hands over the lures.

  Finwyn chuckled. “The babes are not real, fool!”

  But the dagger she had earlier pulled from the knight’s scabbard was, its iron hilt cold in her grasp. Slowly drawing it across the cradle’s floor under cover of mist and straw-stuffed bundles, she sat back on her heels.

  “We shall make quick work of this,” Finwyn said, having turned alongside the knight to face her, “but first…” He bent and swept his dagger low.

  She nearly cried out for fear he meant to cut the knight’s throat to ensure his death, but a heartbeat later, he held the purse cut from De Morville’s belt.

  As ever, boastful, Honore reflected as he thrust the stolen coin inside his tunic.

  “Now for that tongue of yours.” He began to move around the cradle’s rim to where she sat with her back against it. She did not know why she had not guessed he would come at her from behind, but her expectation she could hold him off by brandishing the dagger was for naught.

  Panic tightening her throat, she struggled against the impulse to spring from the cradle, which would likely see her stuck.

  But what else to do? she silently demanded of Honore of no surname.

  When Finwyn’s hand was in her hair, fear-driven instinct provided an answer. As his blade came around the side of her face, she used the knight’s dagger to part her mantle and swept it upward. The ring of metal on metal told the two daggers met, and the sting above her ear that she had not entirely escaped a keen edge. Then a clatter sounded that made her fear she had once more lost the knight’s dagger, but her hand remained upon it.

  Realizing the sound was Finwyn’s blade, she surged forward. Though her scalp protested the strain on her hair, she wrenched free. With his hands scrabbling at her back and shoulders, she sprang from the cradle and, ignoring the ache of a bruised hip, clambered over the roots.