THE RAVELING_A Medieval Romance

by Tamara Leigh

  “What?”

  Everard nodded. “It could be false, but Garr fears not.”

  “Then your sire…”

  “Our parents’ marriage was a poor one. No love, no friendship, little forgiveness. Thus, it is possible we have one or more misbegotten siblings.”

  “I am sorry. If there is anything I can do, you will let me know?”

  “I shall.” His gaze flicked past Elias, and he said low, “Hopefully, the matter will soon be put to rest and our mother saved further heartache.”

  “Papa!” called the one who had come to his father’s notice.

  Everard leaned to the side and beckoned to Ambrose who tugged free of Susanna as the two came off the stairs. The boy flung himself across the distance, slapped hands to Everard’s knees. “I want to play with my wooden sword.”

  “What does your mother say?”

  The boy groaned. “Eat first, sword later. She not a warrior.”

  Susanna halted alongside Everard and set a hand on her husband’s shoulder, over which the knight placed his own hand.

  “Not a warrior?” Everard said. “Are you certain? I think your mother most formidable.”

  Ambrose looked to her. “She has not a sword. And there a baby in her. If bad man comes, I would have to ’tect her.”

  “Possibly, but methinks she would prove fierce, especially with the babe to protect.”

  The boy blew breath up his face. “I wish her not a girl.”

  Everard chuckled. “Then she would not be your mother.”

  “A boy can fight with a sword.”

  “A woman can learn the long blade. Is not your Aunt Annyn proficient with such?”

  A grunt. “You say, but I not see her wear one.”

  “Once she did.”

  Ambrose leaned in. “When?”

  “Elias,” Everard said, “Mayhap you would tell the tale of Lady Annyn Bretanne and our son’s uncle, Baron Wulfrith?”

  His wide-eyed son swung around. “Another tale, Sir Knight!”

  Something lit up inside Elias, and he did not doubt Everard knew what was required to unburden—even if only temporarily—his friend. “I would be happy to weave another tale.”

  “Whilst you eat, Ambrose,” Susanna said.

  He hopped to the platter of viands on the table beside his father, grabbed bread and cheese, and seated himself at Elias’s feet.

  “Think now, young Wulfrith,” Elias began. “What if a woman were to disguise herself as a man so she might train at Wulfen Castle? Preposterous? Non, it happened. What might cause one lovely of face and slight of figure to do so bold a thing? Vengeance? Oui, that which seeks to twist the soul. What terrible wrong was done her that could only be set aright by the edge of a blade? Think, Ambrose Wulfrith. Think. Now…listen.”

  Chapter 15

  PLUCKED PETALS WITHOUT BRUISE

  Is the tale true?” Honore whispered.

  “He embellishes here, unembellishes there—if that is a word.” Lady Susanna smiled. “But it is mostly as told me by Lady Annyn. And her husband did not gainsay her. He but gazed upon her much the same as Everard gazes upon me, as if only half present, the other half praising God for the one he beholds.”

  Honore savored the lady’s words that were as nourishing to the imagination, heart, and soul as those penned in the depths of Sir Elias and sent across tongue and past lips for nearly an hour. Upon hearing his voice, she had started to return to her chamber, but the tale of a woman garbed as a man and in possession of a sword had made her lower out of sight on the stairs.

  The story had intrigued, and more so knowing there was truth to it, but what entranced was the means by which it was delivered. Sir Elias was no ordinary warrior. He was that of which she had only heard tale—a troubadour knight. And as he had woven his words under and over and in and out of her imagination, she had longed for her foundlings of an age not easily given to fright to sit at his feet. They knew happiness at Bairnwood, but—oh!—to lose big and small hurts in this man’s company.

  “Certes, a gift he has,” Honore said low, though the conclusion of the tale had caused those gathered around him—including Squire Theo and Cynuit—to chatter and their feet to creak the floorboards.

  “Indeed,” Lady Susanna said where she had lowered alongside Honore upon discovering her on the stairs.

  “Were he not noble,” Honore continued, “methinks a good living could be made traveling village to village and castle to castle with such tales.”

  The lady laughed softly. “Who says he has not?

  Honore stared. “Has he?”

  “That is best heard from him though…” Her shrug was apologetic. “…I would wait. Methinks the story of Lady Annyn and Baron Wulfrith has lightened him, but his loss will surely be eager to return to his shoulders. And with one who possesses a heart like his, that loss may be weightier beneath guilt over this brief escape.”

  Honore understood, in that moment jagged by guilt at the realization she had escaped fear and worry over Hart. She had gasped, smiled, suppressed laughter, and at times felt so light she was happy.

  “Mama! You missed Sir Elias’s tale!”

  Both women startled to find the little boy before the stairs, and Honore held her breath as she looked up the man whose hand Lady Susanna’s son held.

  “I did not miss it.” The lady gripped the railing and raised her bulk. “Not a single word, did we Honore?” She looked across her shoulder.

  Honore hastened to her feet. Unfortunately, the added height made it more obvious she avoided Sir Elias’s gaze, having ventured no higher than his tanned neck.

  Less grateful for the gorget’s cover that provided no distraction for the eyes above, the blue of which surely reflected guilt as if she had eavesdropped, Honore set her eyes upon his. “No word did we miss,” she said and wished it were the troubadour knight before her, certain the excitement and joy in his voice had shown upon his face. Once more there was no lightness about it. Once more, she was the woman who accused him of her own wrongdoing.

  “A well-told tale, Sir Elias,” she said as Lady Susanna descended the steps. “Many a time I was near breathless.”

  His eyebrows rose, then as if she paid him no compliment, he said, “Your cough is resolved?”

  As evidenced by its absence that had concealed her presence on the stairs. “I feel better. Lady Susanna tended me well. When you are ready to depart, so shall I be.”

  “You are leaving, Sir Knight?” the boy exclaimed.

  Sir Elias looked down. “Regrettably, not this day. But God willing, on the morrow.”

  “Then you can speak me another tale!”

  “Perhaps this eve.”

  “About papa and mama?”

  “Possibly, or your Uncle Abel and Aunt Helene. Too, I have tales of your aunts Beatrix and Gaenor, and one of my friends Sir Durand and Lady Beata that began upon a storm-tossed sea.”

  “And Judas?” The boy’s eyes widened further, and there was no doubt he admired his older cousin.

  Sir Elias ruffled his hair, and once more Honore heard lightness in his voice when he said, “Judas as well, though his tale is best told alongside your parents’ tale.”

  “That is the tale I want!”

  “I make no promise, but I shall do my best to reveal it ere Squire Theo and I depart.”

  Honore stiffened. Oversight only? Or did he plan to leave her behind regardless of her health? She descended a step. “May I speak with you, Sir Elias?”

  He looked to her, and she wished he retained some of the smile he had gifted the boy. “Of?”

  Before she could answer, Lady Susanna said, “We shall leave you to it,” and turned her son back into the hall.

  Displeasure flickered across the knight’s face, and she guessed it due to the accusation she had made at the stream.

  “Of what do you wish to speak, Honore?”

  “As told, I am sufficiently recovered to continue our search for Hart. I seek assurance you will allow
me to accompany you.”

  He set a forearm on the wall alongside its turning up the stairway. “I fear you and the boy will slow me. Were you able to ride a horse—”

  “I am able. If Sir Everard will lend me a mount, I can keep pace.”

  “Just because you have been astride a work horse and tugged the reins and tapped it forward does not mean you know how to ride.”

  “Certes, not as you do, but as told, I have visited the children placed in homes outside Bairnwood.”

  “As also told, never have you been more than ten leagues distant from the abbey. That does not make you able.”

  “But I am.” She moistened her lips, and once more tasting the fouled gorget, wished there were time to launder it. “I did not walk my horse all those leagues. I gave it full rein. It was dangerous, but only until Brother Will gave me lessons. And that he did because I sat a horse well. A natural, he said.”

  He did not look pleased at being denied an excuse to break their agreement. But that did not mean he would honor it.

  Keeping her feet firm on the one step up that allowed her to look directly into his eyes, she pressed, “Provide me with a horse of my own, and I will not fall behind.”

  “I believe you will.”

  “Do I, I shall not begrudge you for leaving me.”

  He glowered. “You think me so dishonorable I would abandon you, a woman, that you find your own way back to Bairnwood?”

  The prospect was daunting, but she had a solution. “Methinks I could if necessary, but it will not be. Many are the abbeys across England. You could deliver me to one, and I would be returned to Bairnwood.”

  From the pinch of eyebrows and flare of nostrils, he was frustrated, but if it meant she was winning the argument…

  He pivoted, but before he could stride opposite, she snatched his sleeve. “Sir Elias!”

  The momentum carrying him forward yanked her off the step, and she stumbled against him and might have gone to her knees had he not steadied her.

  They were almost as near as when she had sat the saddle before him, but she felt the narrow space between them more than the absence of space when she had rested against him.

  She released him at the same moment he released her. Ashamed he so affected her, praying he did not know it, she said, “I am sorry for accusing you of impropriety. My only excuse is you were not alone in suffering Finwyn’s ill. I was not myself. I know one such as me does not…”

  She halted her explanation that would not entirely make sense whilst she hid behind the gorget. But before she could correct her course, he said, “One such as you?”

  “A…servant.”

  The narrowing of his lids told her explanation fell short, and she guessed he was thinking of another servant—Lettice with whom he believed he may have made a child. But had she truly fallen short? After all, he had not wed the woman. In the absence of a ring, he had relations with her.

  Wishing she could work a smile on him as some women did to move a man in a direction he did not care to go, she said, “Pray, Sir Elias, keep the word of a Wulfen-trained knight. Until I prove a burden, do not leave me behind.”

  He closed his eyes, opened them. “Weather permitting, we depart at dawn. Be ready.”

  Chapter 16

  MOMENTS IN TIME

  The word of a Wulfen-trained knight. A powerful thing. All the more reason not to speak it unless certain of what one promised.

  Elias looked over his shoulder, first at his squire who kept pace though the boy holding to him further burdened his mount and the wet ground from which great clods of earth flew sought to slow horse and rider.

  Next, he looked to Honore where she rode several lengths behind. The palfrey Everard had given her was swift and of good temperament, but pushed to its limits by the woman whose dark blond hair whipped out behind her like the turbulent waters of the English Channel toward which they rode. Given no choice but to remove the veil to avoid losing it, Honore had retained the gorget draped beneath her nose.

  Elias hated acknowledging it, but though she could no longer be named a young woman, it appeared she was cut from a cloth similar to Queen Eleanor who was ten years older than her husband, Henry.

  Excepting Honore’s eyes, he did not think she possessed the great beauty for which the queen was lauded, though that could not be truly known without seeing the entirety of a face glimpsed when he dragged Honore from the stream. Regardless, likely she would still be lovely a dozen years hence upon attaining Eleanor’s forty years.

  He sighed, once more regretted keeping his word. Though four hours into the ride with one stop to take water, thus far she slowed them only enough to tempt him to deliver her to an abbey.

  Think Lettice, he reminded himself as he returned his attention to the land. But he ached over memories of their love before her desperation caused him to believe her too broken to make a life together.

  Combating hurt, he turned his thoughts to one he prayed had not been broken by Arblette’s ill. Think Hart, find Hart, save Hart.

  Port of Sandwich

  England

  She hurt. Her muscles spasmed, bones knew not their places, neck burned and cramped, head felt as if cracked. But she had not fallen far enough behind to satisfy Sir Elias’s desire to be rid of her.

  Now as he strode forward to aid in her dismount, it took much that remained of her strength to drag a leg over her horse and set her feet on the ground before he reached her. And there she remained, clinging to the strap of leather from which the stirrup hung, longing to drop her head against the palfrey’s side, legs so bereft of feeling she feared her next bed might be upon the ground.

  “Honore?”

  She opened her eyes, mused it was nearly as dark before the inn at which they would pass the night as it was behind her lids. “I am well. I just need a moment—”

  He did not give her one, swinging her up into his arms. “You proved yourself,” he said with grudging. “Now hold to me.”

  She was too tired to resist, but not so much she could not tug up the gorget slipping from beneath her nose. To this she pressed a hand, then slid the other up around the knight’s neck. “I am going across the channel with you?”

  “It would seem,” he said, then instructed his squire and the boy to stable the horses and afterward deliver their packs to the inn.

  When he shouldered open the door, Honore was not surprised there were few guests at the scattered tables. It was late, their entrance into the port town of Sandwich delayed while soldiers inspected all who came and went. For whom or what they had not revealed though Sir Elias inquired. Suffice it was well over an hour after all those ahead of their party were searched—most thoroughly carts and wagons—before they were let in.

  The knight carried Honore to a table against a wall and set her on a bench. “Remain here whilst I arrange for lodging and a meal.”

  Telling herself she did not miss his arms around her, she nodded.

  Past the glare thrown by the puddling candle at the center of the table, she watched him cross to the bar where a woman of middle years bent her ear to him. Whatever his first request, it turned down her smile. Her smile returned moments later and she nodded.

  Guessing there were no rooms available, though drink and food would soon appear, Honore fought the temptation to lower her head to the table and set to tightening the gorget. Once done, she unknotted the veil she had tied around her neck for the ride and draped its wrinkled folds over her hair. Then clasping her hands before her, she studied the other occupants of the inn—four men cast in shadows at a corner table, a man and woman on bar stools, and a bearded fellow at a distant table, his nodding head telling soon he would sleep.

  Sir Elias returned to her with two tankards, set one in front of her, and lowered alongside. “No rooms, and the innkeeper tells we are not likely to find any elsewhere, the storm having delayed all travel these past days. But as offered these others, she will provide blankets and accommodate us here for a quarter the cost.�
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  Abandoning the hope of a straw-filled pallet, Honore said, “I can find my rest on a bench. But what of a ship to deliver us across the channel? Does she think they will sail on the morrow?”

  “That is the hope, but she says not to expect to depart for several days since many ahead of us have secured passage.”

  Might Finwyn be among them? she wondered, then asked, “What are we to do?”

  He took a long drink. “I shall buy my way aboard ship, but I do not think it possible to find space for three more and our mounts.”

  Then he meant to leave her. “But—”

  He leaned near. “I asked the innkeeper if she knew of a troupe that recently set sail. She said none sought drink or rooms here, but she heard of one making the crossing to Boulogne ten days past. Regardless of whether Arblette has set after them or yet seeks to, the troupe is of utmost importance—even if I must leave you and the others to sooner reach Hart.”

  “I understand, but we will follow, will we not?”

  His hesitation was a barb beneath her skin. “Be assured, Theo and I shall look well over those who board the ships lest Arblette has secured passage.”

  Hoping the miscreant had chosen the small port of Sandwich and had yet to depart so one threat to Hart could be removed, Honore watched the innkeeper approach with viands and two more tankards for Theo and Cynuit once they finished with the horses.

  More keenly feeling her thirst, she was glad there were so few people within. She had but to turn aside and none would see her lower the gorget.

  The woman set the tray on the table. “Eat hearty, rest well,” she said.

  Bread, cheese, slices of ripe fruit, and thin cuts of an unidentifiable meat made Honore long to set herself at them. Not since departing Bairnwood had she eaten well. Except in easing the worst of her hunger at Cheverel in the privacy of her chamber, she had mostly nibbled.

  Her stomach groaned, and as heat climbed up her neck, Sir Elias reached forward and pinched the candle’s wick, inviting shadows to close around the pungent gray smoke ribboning upward.