THE RAVELING_A Medieval Romance

by Tamara Leigh

  Elias could not know if there was truth to the charge, but the heart with which he ought not think was moved to believe it was an attempt to control a man determined to answer to his heavenly sovereign ahead of his earthly one.

  That hard stool had been of further benefit, allowing Elias to ensure a measure of safety for the brethren sleeping overhead. Had a commotion ensued, in moments he could have been abovestairs with sword in hand.

  The serving woman who had often sought his gaze across the room whilst he was at meal had furthered his purpose, aiding his performance so none would question it. She had hung on his shoulder, shared his drink, and several times scooted onto his lap. Once the tables were mostly vacated he had made it appear he so succumbed to drink he could not move from the bar.

  Clumsily, he had removed coins from his purse, pressed them into her hand, then dropped his head atop the leather bag—a seemingly drunken move that ensured none cut his purse from his belt.

  The woman had departed, and during the hours remaining of night, Elias made it appear he slept off his stupor. It gave him time in which to think on all that had transpired these past days. And the woman he must pardon for the greater role in the part she had unwittingly played when he conspired with Finwyn to summon her. Before he left her at the abbey, he would forgive her.

  Now once more leading the brethren, this time along a fairly well-traveled road to Clairmarais and Saint-Omer beyond, Elias’s head throbbed from lack of sleep and disquiet over an encounter with a mounted knight an hour past.

  The young man and his companions had indulged in falconry, as evidenced by a prize bird on the knight’s wrist.

  Thomas’s hood had been down. Had that not raised suspicion amongst those who surely knew the Archbishop of Canterbury sought sanctuary in France, his great interest in the gyrfalcon would have. Of the exploits abandoned upon his resignation of the chancellorship to devote himself to his new position with the Church, probably best known was his passion for falconry.

  Thus, shortly after the young knight bestowed on Elias a scornful lift of the eyebrows, doubtless over his fellow nobleman’s foul and mountless state, he had called out, “Is this not the errant Archbishop of Canterbury?”

  Though enough distance was maintained between Elias’s party and the brethren to make it appear they but traveled the same road and lessen further exposing Elias to association with his liege’s enemy, he had readied mind and body to defend Thomas.

  It had not been necessary, the guffawing of one of the brethren and scorn of another who said the pompous, extravagant archbishop would never lower himself to travel so humbly causing the hunting party to pass by without further comment.

  Now a rumble raised Elias’s gaze to the darkening heavens no longer in a mood to delay the storm gathered to its bosom. Still, he would push their party to slog through it. He wanted to believe the young knight would forget the encounter, but danger lurked in the possibility he would revisit it, even if only to tell a good tale that could alert others the archbishop headed in the direction of Saint-Omer.

  A quarter hour later, the rain added hail to its assault on the travelers, turning the road muddy and slippery.

  It was the one who had avoided him all day—speaking few words and averting her gaze—who caused them to seek shelter when pelting ice knocked her slippered feet out from under her as it only threatened those who wore boots.

  Cynuit reached her first, but Elias scooped her up.

  Muddied chest pressed to his, she hooked an arm around his neck and set her face against his shoulder as he commanded all to follow him into the wood.

  Shelter was not easily found, but finally Theo called from where he scouted ahead and led them to an outcropping of rock whose chiseled center was deep enough to offer protection from the onslaught and high enough for all to enter without bending.

  “I thank you,” Honore murmured when set to her feet, then turned from Elias to adjust veil and gorget.

  She was a mess and had made him one, but that was not the reason he begrudged aiding her. Despite her deception, too much he liked the feel of her.

  While they waited out the weather, they partook of provisions provided by the innkeeper with whom Thomas had spent time in prayer before departing the inn.

  Elias left Honore to herself while she ate apart from the others, but when it was clear she had finished, he decided to settle things between them as much as possible.

  He crossed to where she sat with her back him. “I do it for Hart,” he said. “More easily I can aid him with you safely tucked away.”

  Her head turned slightly toward him. “I understand.” There was no muffle to her voice, evidencing the gorget remained beneath her chin. “Is that all?”

  It should be. “I also understand, Honore.”

  “What?”

  “The archbishop’s deception. Perhaps even yours.”

  She secured the gorget, stood and turned. “I wish I had not deceived you, but I feared if you thought it the archbishop who would sooner deliver us to France, you would not give aid and it could be long ere a crossing was possible—days that could matter to Hart.”

  Though it was dim and the storm beyond made it difficult for others to hear their exchange, Elias stepped nearer. “Days which would have been of no benefit to him had the guard at Sandwich intercepted us. Though we escaped, now the threat of disposal hangs over all that is not yet mine to dispose of.”

  “I am sorry, but I believe the life of the boy who may be your son is more important. Too, you made a promise.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “I heard the words you spoke to Lettice. They were so heartfelt I believed you worthy of the trust required for me to travel with you.”

  He did not want to return to that dark hovel and the one who had not been of great height but of a length of rope, but there he was again. Whither thou goest my heart’s first love, he had said to one long gone, I go not until your son is safe and justice done. My vow I give.

  “If you meant it,” Honore said, “then I am justified in denying you the temptation of showing more concern for your lands than Lettice’s son.”

  “I meant it,” he said sharply. “I will find Hart, but even to keep such a promise I would not become thief nor executioner.”

  “Thief? Executioner?”

  “Thoughtlessly endangering my family as it appears I have done. I would have given time to considering other means of retrieving the boy who may be—”

  He closed his mouth. Though the miscreant with whom he had found the woman he loved could as easily be Hart’s father, in that moment he determined that no matter his sire’s disapproval and anger over a half-common boy bearing the family name, henceforth Hart of no surname had one. “I would have sought another means of more quickly retrieving Hart De Morville.”

  Honore gasped at hearing him claimed. It warmed one side of her that found much to admire in Elias, chilled the other lest it prove a false claim that gave him naught to admire in her. Though she longed to seek confirmation he would stay true to his word even if he knew with certainty Hart was not his, she could not risk it—especially if it led him to consider the foul Finwyn had fathered the boy. If anything caused him to abandon his vow to Lettice, it would be that, whether out of distaste for the boy or Hart’s abduction being of less concern committed by a parent.

  Elias sighed. “As difficult as you have made this for me and mine, I know you did what you believed was right. Now tell, what else do you keep from me?”

  She dropped back a step.

  His eyes momentarily closed. “There is something.”

  Glad he gave her no opportunity to lie, she said, “Though later I may bear your wrath, it cannot be revealed.”

  “When?”

  “I do not know it will be necessary, but my word I give you will know it should you need to.”

  His nostrils flared. “So just as I resolve to forgive your deception, I learn once more you would have me venture forth half blind
.”

  She gripped his arm. “What I do not tell has little bearing on what we do in France.” Providing, she did not say, he stayed true to his promise.

  He glanced at her hand on him, and she saw what he saw—that which she had worked around and around since first it was placed there to proclaim her the wife she could never be.

  “If what you withhold further harms my family, I do not know I will be able to forgive you, Honore.”

  “I am aware.”

  He pulled free and, as he started to turn away, said, “As soon as the weather lifts, we resume our journey.”

  Clasping her right hand over the left, feeling the ring temporarily binding them, she said, “Elias?”

  He looked around.

  “I understand why you shall leave me at Clairmarais, but rather than arrange for my return to England, allow me to remain there until Hart is found so I may see him one last time and be assured he is well.”

  Refusing her answer, he returned to the others.

  Chapter 24

  WHAT TRUTH THE BLUE HATH SPOKE

  Clairmarais Abbey

  France

  Herbert of Bosham was shocked and made no pretense of it, even when Thomas chastised him for clucking over a grown man. But no further word did he speak on how wretched the archbishop appeared.

  Jaw clenched, a tic at his mouth, the man who had preceded Thomas in fleeing France accepted introductions to Elias’s party, then said low, though not so much others could not hear, “You are certain they can be trusted, Your Grace?”

  Thomas’s faint smile showed in the light of torches set on either side of the abbey’s gate. “I do not believe I would be here without their aid. At much cost they have done as the Lord would have them do.”

  Elias’s patience approaching a length beyond which it could stretch no further, it being dark and all damp, chilled, and exhausted, he said, “What news have you from England?”

  Herbert flashed him a look between annoyance and resentment, said, “Come, Your Grace, there is much to discuss and little time.”

  Having dismounted, Thomas raised his hunched shoulders and stepped through the narrow doorway at the center of the large gate. And halted so abruptly his brethren jostled each other to avoid trampling him. “Little time?” he said before Elias could ask the same.

  “After I have arranged accommodations for this knight and his party, I shall take you to the abbot. He is eager to welcome Your Grace.”

  “Sir Elias and the others shall join us.”

  “But—”

  “Do not argue, Herbert. As your urgency bodes ill, whatever news you have of England will likely affect those who aided me.”

  The man grunted, then led them not through the great courtyard but into a dim alley that barely allowed two to walk abreast—acceptable only if one did not require room in which to wield a sword.

  Not given to letting down his guard in unfamiliar confines, Elias gently pushed Honore in back of him, looked past her to ensure Theo took up the rear behind Cynuit, and set a hand on his sword hilt.

  “By what way do we go, Herbert?” the archbishop asked.

  “All will be explained, Your Grace. Suffice to say, it is best we discreetly gain the abbot’s quarters.”

  Elias liked this even less. Were the brethren not between him and Thomas’s man, he would demand an explanation.

  Shortly, light swept into the passage. “Make haste,” Herbert rasped, and when he closed and bolted the door behind Theo, his sigh of relief was so great the scent of onions swept over all.

  He led the procession down a short corridor and up wooden steps whose creak and groan would announce their arrival well in advance. Though it appeared to be a back way to the abbot’s quarters, Elias thought it might be more discreet to use the main stairway.

  Herbert’s three quick raps on the door granted them entrance, and all filed into a room more sumptuous than would be expected had Elias not known the purpose of the stairway they ascended.

  Beautiful tapestries warmed the walls, thick rugs covered the floor, an oaken table set around with upholstered chairs was at the center, two standing desks were in opposite corners, a stone fireplace radiated heat, and a sideboard boasted food and drink.

  The abbot, shorter than Thomas and a score of years older, was less kind with his shock over the archbishop’s appearance, but there could be no doubt he was concerned for the well-being of the man whose hand he bent over. A hand to which had been returned the ostentatious ring of Thomas’s office that in no way resembled the one loaned Honore.

  “Your Grace, it is an honor to welcome you to Clairmarais.”

  “I thank you for your hospitality, Abbot.” When Thomas’s hand was released, it dropped so heavily it swung.

  “Methinks you ought to offer the archbishop a seat, Abbot,” Elias said. “The journey has been arduous.”

  The holy man looked to the knight whose damp, muddied garments must be an offense, and a question rose in his eyes, likely over the reason for Elias’s presence. Then he said, “Forgive me, Your Grace. I must seem foolish to be so distracted by your presence.” He motioned to two monks on the far side of the room where they stood alongside arched doors beyond which would be a stairway worthier than the one ascended.

  The monks hurried forward, pulled out chairs on either end of the table, then those between.

  Thomas started to lower into the nearest, but the abbot entreated him to take a high-backed chair so broad it looked almost a throne.

  Soon all were seated and a blessing spoken over the meal. As the monks carried platters and pitchers to the table, once more introductions were made, this time by Herbert.

  “I know of the De Morvilles,” the abbot said as he considered Elias. “Is not the second son now heir?”

  “I am, Abbot. My brother passed.”

  The man arched an eyebrow. “You were thought to have passed before him.”

  Beside Elias, Honore stirred despite fatigue that surely made her long for bed. And now she would know even more about Elias than he knew of her, and there was shame in that.

  The tale the abbot probed was of a son so discontented and selfish he had pained his father. Following the eldest son’s death and unaware the youngest yet lived, Otto De Morville had sought to make more male heirs on an exceedingly young wife whose body had given what it could—daughters only—before ruination that would see no more children born to her aged husband.

  “With much regret, I was thought to have died,” Elias allowed.

  The abbot nodded. “Was it to England you went with your poems, songs, and dance?”

  More stirring beside Elias.

  “Abbot, we understand there is much to discuss and little time to do so,” he said.

  The holy man waved a hand. “Now you are here, we have time. Let us first satisfy your hunger and thirst.”

  Longing to shake the man, Elias watched curiosity rise on his face as he moved his attention to the woman in their midst. “Honore of Bairnwood,” he said. “How do I know the name?”

  Elias felt her glance. “I work with foundlings.”

  “With what?”

  “Foundlings.”

  He leaned forward. “As my hearing has begun to fail, pray do not exercise such modesty in the company of godly men, my lady. Lower your gorget so I may hear you better.”

  She eased back in her chair as if he were near enough to divest her of the covering, said more loudly, “You are kind to think me a lady, especially as fouled as I am by travel, but I am not. I am but Honore, and it is my habit to wear a gorget in this manner.”

  “But you cannot eat or drink.”

  “Thus, perhaps you will allow me to take my meal where I shall rest this eve.”

  He sighed, and as if forgetting the answer her muffled voice had denied him, began picking at the viands on his plate.

  Elias leaned toward Honore. “Certes, you hunger and thirst. I will arrange for you to be shown to your lodgings.”

  �
�Non, I shall remain.”

  Frustrated she denied herself sustenance, he kept his hand nearest her firm on his thigh lest he yank down the gorget to allow her to eat. “As you will,” he said and set about curtailing his own hunger.

  The archbishop was also eager to make quick work of the meal, his long, elegant fingers popping morsel after morsel into his mouth. With minimal chewing, he swallowed and, shortly, pushed away his plate. Motioning the others to continue eating, he looked to Herbert. “Begin at Canterbury. What did you gain there, my friend?”

  Herbert’s mouth flattened. “Not as much as hoped—one hundred marks and some silver cups.”

  Thomas’s breath shuddered from him. “Disappointing, but that is the least of my concerns, is it not?”

  “Permit me,” the abbot said and cleared his throat. “On the day past, Your Grace, Henry sent envoys to France by way of Dover—two groups, one to ride to Sens to meet with the pope and seek your deposition, the other to meet with King Louis at Compiègne to gain his assurance he will deny you refuge.”

  Thomas’s hand atop the table curled into a fist. “I am guessing Gilbert Foliot and the Earl of Arundel are among the envoy.”

  “They are. Also there is Hilary of Chichester and Roger of Pont l’Evêque. But they are of no immediate concern. That to which you must attend is Saint-Omer since it is where you mean to go next, is it not?”

  “It is.”

  “Either delay, Your Grace, or bypass. Henry’s envoys lodge there this eve.”

  Where Elias hoped to find the troupe.

  “God help me,” the archbishop murmured. “You can accommodate us a day or two until they set off?”

  “We can, Your Grace, but circumstances dictate you leave us this eve.”

  “My presence endangers you?”

  “Non, you are the one in danger and, quite possibly, Sir Elias. This day, three soldiers from Sandwich arrived at our gate.”