THE RAVELING_A Medieval Romance

by Tamara Leigh

  He dipped into the stew that soaked the carved-out loaf of bread, stirred it, returned his attention to her. “You were born at the convent, your mother sent there to conceal her disgrace.”

  “Again, possible, whether she was of noble blood or my sire was—or both.”

  He nodded slowly. “Regardless, misbegotten.”

  “Or merely unwanted.” She touched her lip. “I was born with a gap that had to be sewn closed. Imagine how frightening it must have been for those present at my birth. Thus, either the belief I could not survive or superstition made a foundling of me.”

  “I see,” he said so solemnly she could almost believe he felt for her. He sat straighter. “What I do not see is your purpose. If you are not my son’s lover, what?”

  She felt the brush of Elias’s shoulder against hers, then his breath stirring her hair. “As told, all will be explained later, Father.”

  “I would hear it now.” Otto De Morville swept his gaze over the hall, said, “Privacy among the masses—oft better than privacy behind a closed door that conceals a listener on the other side.”

  Elias turned from the trencher and lady with whom he shared it, angled toward his father to make a wall of his body, and set a forearm on the table. “Over six months gone, a boy was stolen from Bairnwood Abbey—a foundling, one of many for whom Honore cares at the abbey.”

  His father made a wall of his own body, and though Honore had space aplenty, she felt as if squeezed between the two. “That is what took you from France?”

  “Though I did not know he had been stolen, it was for Hart I went to England.”

  “Hart?”

  “That is his name.”

  “How old?” Otto De Morville asked, and Honore knew from his tone he began to understand.

  “Not yet eight.”

  “A foundling, you say. For what was he abandoned?”

  Honore tensed, but Elias said, “His mother could not keep him.”

  For the best, she thought. No reason to further bias Otto De Morville. God willing, Hart would soon be free and Elias’s father could be told of the mark of birth ahead of meeting the boy.

  The older man took up his goblet, as he drank looked from Honore to his son, then asked, “The fate of this boy concerns you how?”

  “As you must have guessed, he is my son. Your grandson.”

  Honore had hoped he would only put forth the possibility Hart was his. Could it be proved the boy was not, now there were two who would be angered by her deception.

  “How can you be certain he is yours?”

  “He is mine, Father.”

  Pray, let it be so, Honore sent heavenward.

  Otto lowered his goblet. “So it was not enough to abandon your family to make England your stage. You had to sow children who could lay claim to us.”

  Elias drew a deep breath. “Only the one, and I loved his mother.”

  “A commoner?”

  “That Lettice was.”

  His father glowered. “Yours or not, you need not take responsibility for him.”

  “I believe the Wulfriths would disagree.” Some of Elias’s anger visible beyond the mask he surely struggled to keep in place, he added, “Indeed, I am certain they would.”

  Clearly, his father did not like that, but he pressed, “If his own mother would not take responsibility for him, why should you?”

  “Because I can. She could not.”

  A growl sounded from the older man. “Then find him and provide for him until he is of an age to make his own way. Whether you return him to the abbey or his mother—”

  “She is dead, murdered by the one who stole Hart and fled to France.”

  The harsh lines in his sire’s face eased but soon returned. “Then the abbey. Regardless, I would not have you bring him into my home.”

  “Be assured, I would not think to subject him to your hatred.”

  Feeling as if suffocated by tension on both sides of her, Honore hissed, “You are father and son. Pray, cease!”

  She was not surprised Elias eased back, but that his sire did made her look sharply at him. And on his face she glimpsed disquiet.

  His throat worked, then he said, “I still know not your purpose.”

  “Honore aids in retrieving my son,” Elias said, “for a short time traveling as my wife—”

  “Wife?” his father choked.

  “Oui, to make it acceptable she accompany me without escort. However, as we neared Saint-Omer where I am better known, I thought it best to name her a distant cousin.”

  After a long silence, Otto said, “How close are you to finding the boy?”

  “He is upon these lands. But be assured I shall do my best to recover him without Costain’s knowledge. As it will be easier done aided by your men, how many accompanied you?”

  “Three.” It was said with grudging acquiescence. “Men-at-arms only, they are quartered in the barracks.” When Elias inclined his head, Otto swung his regard to Honore. “It seems you are owed an apology—though only do you not seek to seduce my son the same as this Lettice.”

  Before her indignation could sound across the hall, Elias leaned so far in his shoulder pressed hers. “One more insult, and it may prove impossible not to humiliate our family—and lay ruin to whatever your reason for accepting Lord Costain’s invitation.”

  Part consternation, part fear flashed in Otto’s eyes. “Settle yourself, Elias. I but take measure of the situation that I may plan accordingly.” He fit a smile that did not fit. “You have noticed Lady Vera is no longer a girl.”

  His words trampled Honore’s heart that had no cause to place itself between father and son. She knew what he implied the same as she knew Elias was attracted to the young woman.

  A good thing, she told herself. She had spent little time with the lady and her sister when shown to their chamber, but she liked her. Presenting as genuinely kind, a good young wife she would make Elias and, God willing, bear healthy children.

  “Do we discuss this at all,” Elias said, “we will not do so now.”

  His father raised his eyebrows. “Certes, we will discuss it, but it can wait.” He looked to Honore. “Apologies. I am a disappointed man who, weary of waiting on grandsons, feels every year that passes without assurance the De Morville name shall pass to another generation. Can I be forgiven?”

  Honore inclined her head, glanced at Elias as he turned back to his shared trencher.

  Otto sighed. “I know. I am, have ever been, shall ever be a poor father. And husband. But it is too late to change.”

  Sensing the soft of the man beneath the hard, Honore said, “I do not believe that. Has not the Lord given you more years than many? You are…what? Three score?”

  “Three score three.”

  “Nearly twice my age.” She almost laughed at his look of disbelief. “I am aware I appear younger than thirty and two. A good thing, I am told and mostly I agree. Were my face beginning to wizen, I might gain more respect, hmm?”

  He frowned. “I may be nearly twice your age, but you are more than twice that of Lady Vera.”

  And that mattered much, the young woman possessing seventeen more childbearing years.

  Not wanting to think there, regardless if it was Lady Vera whom Elias wed or another, Honore said, “Even if the Lord does not grant you another score of years, surely there is time to better your relationships.”

  He appeared to consider it but said, “For what?”

  Wishing she had not tried to fix what he would have remain broken, she retrieved her goblet. “Now it is I who must be forgiven. I tread where I ought not.”

  Determined to ignore the De Morvilles, she settled back and waited for meal’s end when the troupe would be admitted to entertain late into the night, while outside the walls a sideshow was offered to the perverse.

  Soon, Hart, she silently reached out to him. You will be safe. We will weep over our parting. All you have suffered will be in the past. You will have the father you deserve. Soon.
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  Chapter 33

  SWEET PETALS STAY THE STEM

  Best you return abovestairs.”

  Honore looked up at Elias as he escorted her from the dais. “Surely you do not believe Finwyn will be amongst those who entertain Lord Costain’s guests?” she asked.

  “Not to entertain, but he may move among the guests to search out those interested in a different sort of entertainment.”

  “Then neither of us can be seen.”

  “Thus, I shall observe from the gallery.” He nodded at the balcony coursing one wall. Overlooking the hall, musicians engaged to supplement the music provided by the troupe were settling in with their instruments. “A good vantage from which to see and not be seen.”

  “I would like to watch with you.”

  Elias was tempted to agree since she would recognize the miscreant before he whose dealings with the man were fewer and under cover of night.

  “Should he disguise himself as a performer,” she pressed, “I know his stature and mannerisms well enough to recognize him sooner than you.”

  “I am thinking the same.” He guided her past guests who gathered at the center of the hall while servants moved the dining chairs and benches to the perimeter to afford a better view.

  Halting before the stairs, he said, “I shall follow shortly.”

  She slipped out of his hold and raised her skirt.

  Though inclined to watch her ascend the steps, Elias distanced himself the sooner to shed lingering looks. The De Morvilles were of too much interest.

  “Sir Elias!”

  He donned a face, turned to the sisters. “Ladies.”

  “Did you enjoy the meal?” Lady Vera tilted her head, exposing her neck to the caress of torchlight.

  “I did. I thank you and your mother for a glorious feast.”

  Her eyebrows rose above eyes that could not hope to match the blue nor depth of Honore’s. “What was your favorite dish?”

  How to answer when he knew he had eaten only because his belly did not ache? “Dear lady, that is like asking which of the Costain sisters is the loveliest—the light or the dark, the blue-eyed or the brown-eyed.” He looked between them. “The one most accomplished at song or at dance.”

  Both laughed, pleasing to the ear but not as pleasing as another’s laugh. Too, he liked another’s smile better for its lack of perfection.

  Lady Vera released a long, musical breath. “Food aside, there is one thing that might aid in choosing between my sister and me.”

  Telling himself he had only himself to blame, he said, “That is, my lady?”

  She set her chin higher. “Which of us is more a woman than a girl?”

  As there was no way to avoid offending one or both, she had him where she wanted him. But there was something to smile about, and he did, causing the triumphant turn of her lips to convulse.

  “Lady Vera, you are a treasure worthy of being the only one in a man’s keeping. I am sorry if my decision not to be that man offended, for I believe you will make a very good wife. But as I am certain I could not be as good and worthy a husband to you, it would be wrong to deny you the opportunity to find true happiness—and love.”

  Only when she settled into her heels did he realize she had been on her toes as if to better see his dismay. She clicked her tongue. “It is impossible to dislike you, Sir Elias.”

  “I cannot say I am sorry.”

  She laughed again, as did her watchful sister, then touched his arm. “Will you sit with us?”

  He grinned. “And risk our fathers once more seeking to match us as they please?”

  “You are right.” She sent her gaze around the hall, narrowed it. “Methinks Sir Leofric a bit young—more a boy than a man—but I like him. He and his friend will sit with us, Gwen.” She curtsied and drew her sister away.

  Elias did not realize he was still smiling until the feeling of being watched drew his regard to the gallery. The musicians were visible on their seats near the railing, but not Honore. She stood in shadow to the left alongside a pillar, her presence and gaze entirely felt.

  A stick thumped the floor, then Lord Costain’s son boomed, “The performance is about to begin. Take your seats!”

  Amid the rush to comply, Elias ascended to the gallery. Mostly ignored by those tuning their instruments, he strode behind them.

  It was a mistake to share the dark with Honore he realized when struck by the longing to slide an arm around her and draw her back against him. But were they to work together and stay out of sight, it was necessary.

  Peering across her shoulder, she said low, “Lady Vera is lovely and seems of a kindly disposition.”

  “She is.”

  “Methinks your father has chosen well.”

  “She is very young.”

  “That sounds a complaint. Most men—”

  “I am not most men. When I wed, it is a wife I want, not a daughter I must raise to womanhood.”

  He felt her surprise. Though he meant what he said, he regretted sounding angry.

  “Admirable,” she murmured. “I did not mean to offend.”

  “You do not. What offends are men—especially ones old enough to be a father or grandfather—who steal a girl’s youth, health, even her life to gain immortality by making sons on her. Men who think naught of disposing of daughters by wedding them to whoever proves most advantageous to their purses.”

  As the musicians began strumming, blowing, plucking, and drumming, she said, “Your father.”

  “One among many. When he believed me dead alongside my older brother, he ruined a girl who birthed only daughters ere she could give no more. Do I not soon provide a grandson, he will set her aside and ruin another.”

  “And yet you will not wed Lady Vera.”

  “Though now more a woman than a year past when I offended her family and angered my father by refusing to take to wife a fourteen-year-old, I will not wed one nearly half my age.”

  “But you seem taken with her.”

  “Calculated flirtation to make amends and ensure our welcome.”

  He heard her swallow. “Then whom will you wed so your sire does not ruin another girl?”

  “I know not, but I have a year ere that must be done.”

  “A year?”

  “To repair the rift with my sire, I gave my word that within two years I would wed a lady acceptable to both of us. One year remains.”

  After a long moment, she said, “You will make a good husband, Elias De Morville. And father.”

  The stick sounding again, its thump echoing around the walls and silencing the musicians, Honore turned forward.

  Forcing his gaze past golden hair that tempted his fingers, Elias looked to the doors before which Sir Damien stood and felt excitement stir as if he were outside waiting to be let in, as if the tales he would tell swirled above his thoughts, the dance he would dance twitched his feet, the songs he would sing expanded his lungs.

  When a hush of anticipation fell over all, Sir Damien stepped to the side and nodded at the porters.

  The doors were swung wide, and against the night the performers were a feast of color, from painted faces to costumes, instruments, batons, balls, and exotic animals.

  “The family of Costain are pleased to present Jake the Jack and his Troupe Fantastique!” Sir Damien announced.

  The man at the fore, garbed in close-fitting chausses and tunic fashioned of blocks of red, black, and yellow material, and holding white batons, gave a sweeping bow. Then he leapt forward, tossed the batons high ahead of him, and twice sprang from hands to feet before recapturing the sticks.

  As his audience roared and clapped, he dropped his head back and smiled out of a face colored white but for eyes and mouth rimmed in black. “Fantastique!” he shouted in an unnaturally deep voice. Then, running, tumbling, and dancing, the other performers entered the hall.

  The first act, accompanied by the musicians in the gallery, was so breathtaking Elias could have lost himself in it if not for the
reason he was here. He could not forget those exploited by a troupe likely led by Jake the Jack.

  “I have never seen such,” Honore whispered.

  “Oui, they are very good.”

  She set a shoulder against a pillar. “A pity their hearts are black.”

  Once more struggling against pulling her into his arms, he said, “Hopefully, not all.”

  “Certes, Jake the Jack.”

  As he had concluded, and in that moment whatever he felt for Honore he felt more. No girl this. A woman unafraid to engage her mind ahead of her body.

  Singing followed, causing other members of the troupe to take to the walls behind their audience. Most settled in, but some moved around the perimeter. It was these Elias observed and would have directed Honore to watch did she not point them out.

  Next, a troubadour clothed in a tunic painted to look like chain mail and holding the reins of a great wolfhound fit with a saddle, transfixed all with the tale of ill-fated lovers Pyramus and Thisbe. So perfectly and passionately was it delivered Elias knew he could learn from the man were he able to give his undivided attention. He could not. And he was glad of it when he saw a male singer crouch behind a nobleman several seats removed from Otto.

  “There,” Elias said.

  “I see him.”

  Over the next several minutes, with the troubadour’s tale and accompanying song more annoyance than entertainment, they watched the exchange between nobleman and performer. It was so discreet it seemed no others noticed. Then the nobleman nodded, dipped into his purse, and as if merely clearing the hair from his brow, passed payment over his shoulder.

  As the singer resumed his place against the wall, the thick-necked woman who had earlier bent herself out of shape approached the young knights seated with the Costain sisters. A quick end was put to that encounter by the one alongside Lady Vera. The knight backhanded the air and nearly struck the woman’s face, causing her to retreat so quickly others would have noticed were they not enraptured by the tale.