THE RAVELING: A Medieval Romance (Age of Faith Book 8)

by Tamara Leigh

  “Truly, you would not have him return?”

  “My place is here as ever it has been.”

  “But were he to offer marriage—”

  “I would refuse, Sebille. It would serve neither of us. He has his duty to his family, and I have mine to Bairnwood.”

  The woman’s brow lined. “You do not trust Wilma and Jeannette—and now me—to care for the children?”

  And Hart, Honore mused. Though the restlessness that had reaped discord between him and her before his abduction had hardly abated following his ordeal, he better controlled it and took pride in helping with the foundlings. As of yet, he made relatively few complaints, did not shirk his responsibilities, and had not stolen away from the abbey.

  “I do trust you,” Honore said, “but even the abbess agrees my work must continue, and now the foundling door is working, more help is needed, especially since Lady Yolande departed with her coin.”

  “But—”

  “All is as it should be.” Honore drew the veil up off her shoulders and over her hair. “Now I must put the children to bed.” As she crossed the room, she felt Sebille’s gaze and guessed she sought evidence Honore possessed the rolled parchment. She would find none.

  Chapter 46

  OF RAVELING

  Wulfen Castle

  England

  Durand Marshal was merciful, aware not only was Elias unequal to the task of quarterstaffs due to injuries not yet fully healed, but his mind was elsewhere—namely on Lothaire Soames who had departed the enclosure with Abel Wulfrith where the two had practiced at swords. Now the warriors observed the contest between Elias and Durand. If what had come to a quick end could be called that.

  Having arrived at Wulfen with Durand last eve, shortly after all bedded down, there had been no opportunity to speak with Soames. Nor this morn when, awakening late as usual since sustaining injuries that nearly killed him, Elias descended to the empty hall.

  He had satisfied his hunger in the kitchen then gone in search of the one Sister Sebille believed could gain him admittance to Bairnwood. Finding Soames battling with Abel in the midst of young men determined to prove worthy of a Wulfrith dagger, Elias had approached Durand who made good use of his visit by training squires. Though reluctant to practice with Elias, he had yielded.

  As evidenced by how often Durand did not deliver a blow easily landed, he did not believe Elias well enough healed. Still, it had felt good to beat against another’s weapon and feel blood pound through his veins.

  Now having lost his quarterstaff, the butt of Durand’s against his chest, Elias splayed his arms.

  “Well met, Durand!” Abel called. “As for you, Sir Elias, we shall have to get a good quantity of drink in you to learn what so distracts.”

  On the night past, Elias had not revealed to the Lord of Wulfen he had come to ask a boon of Soames. Still, Abel surely knew it was more than distraction that rendered the troubadour knight a far from worthy opponent.

  Durand tossed aside his quarterstaff, and he and Elias strode to the two men.

  “You read me near as well as your brother, Everard,” Elias said. “But drink is not required to loosen my tongue.” He looked to Soames. “What distracts is the reason I asked Durand to accompany me to Wulfen.”

  “Ah, I thought something afoot,” Abel said. “But if it can wait a while longer, first I would have the two of you bear witness to the award of a Wulfrith dagger.” He nodded at Soames.

  Then the man was worthy. “It can wait,” Elias said.

  “You agree to bear witness?”

  “I would be honored,” Durand said without hesitation.

  “Elias?” Abel raised his eyebrows.

  “I trust your judgment.”

  “As well you should.” The Lord of Wulfen turned away. “Once we are shed of this filth and stink, we shall meet in the solar.”

  Two hours later, following the ceremonial award of the dagger, Elias informed Soames he was at Wulfen to speak with him. The man’s surprise—and suspicion—palpable, he had suggested they converse outside, but Elias assured him there was no need, that Durand knew and Abel ought to.

  Thus, seated around the great table where they would take supper later, Elias told the tale of the boy who was not his son, the flight of Thomas Becket, and the woman he hoped to make his wife.

  Soames agreed to his sister’s plan—with the proviso it wait. He was a month gone from his expectant wife. Due to return to her on the morrow, he would not disappoint her. Thus, three days hence he would meet Elias and give aid in breaching Honore’s walls.

  The tale of Théâtre des Abominations, renamed Théâtre d’Innocents, found a rapt audience in the young men gathered before the hearth. And provided Durand further insight into what had befallen his friend.

  Elias had sensed his deepening disquiet throughout the performance that, despite the absence of Becket, required little embellishment to put a lean in bodies and gapes upon many a mouth. Thus, as those training toward knighthood prepared to bed down, Elias was not surprised when his friend dropped into the chair across from him.

  “You have something to say.” It was no question Elias put to him.

  Durand stretched his legs out before him. “I am sure I need not remind you once I questioned your worthiness, believing Everard’s award of a Wulfrith dagger done more out of gratitude than merit.”

  “You need not.”

  “No longer do I question it, Elias. Indeed, I have not since ere Beata and I wed. But from the disparaging of the hero of your tale—albeit cloaked in jest—and that you did not own to him being Wulfen-trained, still you question it.”

  Elias leaned back. “There was very little exaggeration to my tale. Though in the end I prevailed, it was surely by God’s grace. Were I truly worthy of the dagger this day awarded to Baron Soames, I would have better prepared and protected myself—more, those in my charge.”

  Durand gave a short laugh. “You think being Wulfen-trained makes one incapable of error? Invincible?” He raised an eyebrow. “Certes, I am far from that, and I trained here from childhood. Even those who bear the name Wulfrith sometimes fail themselves and others.”

  That Elias knew, and yet—

  “Of the scars you see upon Garr, Everard, and Abel,” his friend continued, “several were life-threatening. Then there are those unseen.”

  Of which Elias was not unaware, many the Wulfrith tale shared with him.

  “Surely more than any other place, Wulfen brings out the best in one who aspires to defend family, home, and country. Thus, do you look without prejudice to the man in your tale, you will see there the heart of a troubadour that has made ample room for the warrior to defend all entrusted to him. Not flawlessly, but exceedingly well.” Durand sat forward. “Better said, worthy.”

  Persuasive. Because Elias wished him to be? Because he longed for assurance he would not disappoint his family and people? Because one unworthy had no right to seek Honore’s hand in marriage?

  Durand dropped back in his chair, grumbled, “Perhaps not in all ways worthy.”

  The frustration rumpling his face made Elias laugh. And it felt good. “Tell, how am I unworthy?”

  “In the grave disservice you do Everard by questioning his judgment as once I did. Now, just as I do not question Abel’s judgment in awarding Soames a dagger, you ought not question he who raised you above many a knight. God’s grace, I agree, but grace given a warrior.”

  Though part of Elias resisted casting backward, as best he could he looked without prejudice upon the man in his tale—there the troubadour with whom he believed himself most familiar, there the warrior ever he questioned. Beginning with learning he might have fathered a child, the latter was most often present throughout a journey in which his knightly skills had been tested as never before. Errors aplenty, but those he had defended lived, and against odds he yet breathed.

  Everard’s training given a troubadour knight. God’s grace given a warrior…

  Elias breat
hed deeply, nodded. “I believe you have set me aright, Durand. Do I have occasion to tell again the tale of Théâtre d’Innocents, I will not disparage my hero.” He smiled. “Well, perhaps a little poking and plucking. There is fun to be had with his failings. And forget not the lessons.”

  “Certes, you will have occasion, Elias.” Durand stood, and as he turned toward the stairs, put across his shoulder, “As you should, my friend.”

  Chapter 47

  AND TRAVELING

  Bairnwood Abbey

  England

  She had thought herself prepared, Sebille having told she sent word to her brother days past. Though she assured Honore she had not revealed the reason for the summons, the man who awaited his sister in the largest of Bairnwood’s guest rooms did not look questioningly at the second woman who entered and halted in his shadow. It was almost as if he expected her.

  Sebille closed the door, crossed the room, and embraced her brother.

  He returned the affection, causing Honore to hope one day he would be fond enough of her to grant a brotherly embrace.

  “I am pleased to see you,” Sebille said when he released her.

  “As I am to see you, Sister Sebille.” He reached to the purse on his belt, opened it, and removed a strand of beads. “I am certain you have missed these.”

  “So I have.”

  Honore frowned. To keep from thinking on Elias’s words forever lost to her, she had so immersed herself in her work she had not noted Sebille’s beads were missing. For what had she sent them to her brother?

  The woman turned back. “This is Honore, Lothaire.”

  He inclined his head, causing the sparse light come through the one window whose shutters had been set back to sweep blond hair caught close at the nape.

  Of a similar shade to her own, Honore noted. And the face Elias had her look upon in the mirror bore a strong, albeit feminine, resemblance to this man’s.

  “I am pleased to meet you, Honore, though there is another—”

  “Hold,” Sebille said as he started to turn. “I am grateful you so quickly answered my summons, but ere we speak of the reason, there is something you must know.”

  He raised an eyebrow.

  Sebille drew her sister forward and met resistance. “Come,” she entreated. “I vow he does not bite.”

  Reluctantly, Honore yielded and halted before the man whose height well exceeded hers and Sebille’s.

  She knew when the eyes roving her face noted her scarred lip and saw there a question that seemed more disbelief than curiosity.

  “Oui,” Sebille said, “she lived. And as I was given her name when our father exchanged us, she was given mine.”

  He drew a sharp breath, and his eyes lowered to the beads around Honore’s neck.

  “You see it,” Sebille said. “All these years she had the other half of that which the abbess gifted me ere your mother came to return me to Lexeter.” At his silence, she prompted. “Have you naught to say?”

  He swallowed. “It is…difficult to believe I have two sisters.”

  A sound—or was it a stirring of air?—moved Honore’s gaze to the right of Baron Soames. The far corner alongside the bed was painted with shadows in various shades of dark. Was it a tall chair there?

  Gently, Sebille squeezed Honore’s arm. “It is only recently revealed and verified by the abbess, but methinks Honore does not yet believe she is no longer alone in the world—that she has a sister and brother, that I am the misbegotten one and she is noble both sides.”

  Not a chair, Honore determined. A presence, as of one capable of breath.

  Sebille gripped her arm tighter as if to keep Honore from venturing where her gaze had gone. “Near a miracle, is it not, Lothaire?”

  “It is.” Out of the corner of her eye seeing him reach to her, Honore returned her regard to him, startled when his hand cupped her jaw. “Did our father know you lived, Honore?”

  “He knew,” Sebille answered for her. “It was he who sent the physician to repair her lip, he who provided funds should she wish to take vows.”

  “But you did not,” he said.

  Honore started to shake her head, but he did not ask for confirmation. True, her gown was a different color from Sebille’s, but the style was the same and the hair veils identical, and oft she was mistaken for a sister by visitors not of the Church. Was she wrong in believing though he had not known she was his sister he had knowledge of Honore of Bairnwood before his arrival?

  Eyes once more drawn to the corner, Honore said, “My work is with foundlings.”

  “So it is.”

  Again, no questioning. Do I only imagine Elias here? she wondered. Or has this sister who believes a future for us possible aided him in entering Bairnwood?

  She moistened her lips. “Who is here with you, Baron Soames?”

  He dropped his hand from her. “One whose presence was meant to be revealed sooner.”

  The shadows shifted and Elias stepped into the light. Whole, no evidence of death crouching near as when last she had seen him.

  Though she rejoiced at further proof the Lord had answered her prayers, it hurt terribly to be so near him again.

  He halted alongside her found brother, said, “You gave me no choice, Honore.”

  His voice tempted her into arms she sensed would open to her. And make what was hard to let loose almost impossible.

  “You should not have come,” she said and looked to Sebille. “You had no right.”

  Her sister’s eyes moistened. “I could not stand you forsaking love the same as I.”

  “I do not forsake love. My place is at Bairnwood with those I do love.”

  “Are you saying you do not love me?” Elias asked.

  She raised her chin higher. “I am not without feelings for you, but they do not compare to what I feel for others.” It was true, though not as she would have him believe. “I am very glad you are recovered from the injuries for which I am responsible, but now I would have you go with all haste lest you fall into King Henry’s hands.”

  He took a step nearer, and she had to fight the impulse to retreat born of fear the opposite impulse would see her in his arms. “Ere I journeyed to Bairnwood,” he said, “I was with King Henry at Marlborough. Your missive sent ahead by my sire and the audience Henry granted has seen all set aright.” His mouth curved slightly. “We made our peace. The De Morville lands are safe.”

  Such relief swept her she nearly sought a hand hold. “I am pleased. It is said our king is much aggrieved by his break with the archbishop.”

  “He is.” Elias looked to the other two. “I would speak with Honore alone.”

  She had nearly forgotten them. “There is naught else we must discuss, Sir Elias. Methinks it best you return to France forthwith.”

  “Did the abbess give you my missive?”

  She tensed. “She did.”

  He looked disappointed, as if hoping its absence explained her rejection. “And?”

  She raised her eyebrows, gave back, “And?”

  “Knowing how much I feel for you, that is all you can say?”

  She did not know how much he felt for her—at least by way of the missive. That he was here told he felt enough he would not keep his word to his father and would be ruined if she did not keep her word. Then when Otto De Morville passed, his people and lands would suffer for lack of one worthy to rule.

  “That is all,” she said.

  A muscle in his jaw convulsed. “Read it again.”

  Could one read ashes, she might. “I need not.”

  He took another step toward her. “Read it again, Honore.”

  “Impossible. I burned it.”

  His eyes widened.

  “It was of no use to me,” she rushed on. “A great service you rendered Hart and the little ones, and I am grateful, but that is where we end. Now if you will not go, I must.” She looked to her brother and, ignoring his weighted brow said, “Let us speak later.”

  “I meant eve
ry word,” Elias said as she turned away.

  The ache in his voice made her falter, but the need for breath kept one foot moving in front of the other—down the corridor and stairs, into the courtyard where still there was not enough air to breathe deep.

  “Honore?”

  She gasped, looked to the right at the abbess whose habit was covered by a woolen mantle now autumn had lost its battle to hold back winter. Honore’s bones were not so old she had taken the time to don her own covering when Sebille received word of her brother’s arrival, but now she wished she had. Of course, the chill coursing her had little to do with the cold.

  “What is wrong, Child?” The abbess halted before Honore.

  “I am but tired.”

  The woman’s brow bunched. “As hard as you work, I am not surprised, but you look as if you might cry.” She glanced past Honore. “Were you in the guest house?”

  “Oui, Sebille’s brother has come. I have made his acquaintance.”

  “Was he unkind?”

  “He was not. Indeed, I will be glad to know him better when I am rested.”

  “Then go and lie down a while.”

  “The children—”

  “I will aid Jeannette.”

  The two walked side by side, but as they neared the dormitory, Honore said, “First, I would go to the chapel.”

  “I think that a good thing.”

  Honore turned aside. Had she looked around ere entering the chapel, she would have seen the abbess turn back the way they had come.

  She had so little regard for his feelings, she had set his words afire. The only sense Elias could make of it was he did not know her as believed. Just as he had not truly known Lettice.

  “Fool,” he muttered. Exiting the guest house where he had left Soames with one of what had become two sisters, he stepped into the path of the elderly woman to whom he had entrusted the missive of which ashes had been made.

  “Sir Elias!” She clapped a hand to her chest as if to hold her heart inside.