by Tamara Leigh
He looked around. “Over the next rise you will have your first glimpse of my home, Château des Trois Doigts.”
She drew alongside, guessed from the curl of Rayne’s small body against his that she slept. “Three Fingers Castle,” she said in English. “For what is it named that?”
He adjusted the little girl to ensure her seat, raised his left arm straight out in front of him, reins gripped in that hand, and swept his right hand to his jaw with three fingers splayed. He curled them inward, and with a low whistle released an imaginary string.
“The three-fingered draw of an archer,” Honore said.
He smiled, once more settled an arm around Rayne. “As named by my great grandfather who built it on land awarded him by Duke William of Normandy one hundred years past.”
“England’s conqueror.”
He inclined his head. “Hervé was misbegotten the same as William, of noble and common blood.”
Above which few can rise, she reflected, especially women.
“It is said the two were as good friends as was possible with one such as William. But that is not what earned Hervé these lands. At the Battle of Hastings, William put to good use my ancestor’s skill at archery and ability to command others of the bow. It raised Hervé to knighthood, gained him a worthy—albeit unwilling—bride, and made—”
“Unwilling?”
“That is another tale. Let me finish this one, hmm?” At her nod, he said, “And made of him a great landholder.”
“Fascinating.”
“And much to aspire to.” He nudged his dagger’s hilt with his elbow. “When like the prodigal son I returned to France, my father believed this a good start.”
“Only a good start?” She glanced at the man ahead, wondered if he was privy to their conversation.
Elias shrugged. “He is exacting.” He leaned toward her. “Ever he has demanded more of his sons than was demanded of him.”
Otto De Morville’s head came around. “Because my sire was hardly worthy of our name. I may not have had benefit of Wulfen training—and God knows how you gained it—but I make right what he made wrong.”
“This I know,” Elias said. “I but seek to explain our relationship.”
“To one it does not concern.” Otto moved his glower to her.
“In that you err, Father. I have a great care for Honore of Bairnwood, and much respect for all she has endured to aid me.”
His father turned his head to peer over his other shoulder—at Hart, Honore guessed. When he looked back around, he asked, “Is he yours?”
After a slight hesitation, Elias said, “Certes, he is worthy of the name you highly esteem—as a man may prove worthier than I.”
“Impossible,” his sire bit, and Honore thought herself as surprised as he who surely had not meant to speak those words—and Elias whose head jerked.
The older man made a sound of disgust, pricked his destrier’s sides, and spurred ahead.
“He loves you,” Honore said as they watched Otto grow distant.
“He needs me,” Elias countered. “And resents me for it. That is all.”
“I think that is only what he wishes you to believe because he does not understand how he can care so much for his troubadour son.”
“You are fanciful, Honore. You see love where there is not.”
Were that true, she silently mused, I would think you have more than a great care for me.
“Where it is obvious,” she said and eased her horse back from his.
Château des Trois Doigts was impressive insomuch as could be a wooden castle slowly transitioning to stone, Elias reflected as he tried to see his home through Honore’s eyes. Doubtless, when the fortress was first erected it had been worthy of Duke William’s prize archer. It was yet worthy, so well built it had easily repelled those who sought to enter it uninvited over the last century, but it could be another decade before it rivaled other castles more quickly turned to stone.
I shall see it done in five years, Elias silently vowed, not the ten Otto insisted upon.
It was not mere hope. His father had passed that responsibility to his heir shortly after what seemed Elias’s resurrection from the dead. More progress had been made these two years than in the decade before. The walls and towers of the outer bailey were entirely stone, those of the inner bailey nearing the three-quarter mark. Once the donjon’s second line of defense was complete, section by section the timbers of the lord’s living and working quarters would be replaced.
As Elias swung out of the saddle before the donjon, he silently affirmed, Three years more, the latter two of which I will become a husband and, God willing, father.
Having passed Rayne to one of the servants whom his father had shown great presence of mind to send outside to greet the party, Elias strode to Honore who was halfway out of the saddle. Gripping her waist, he lowered her.
She turned and smiled, another thing for which he was indebted to his sire. None of the women into whose care the little ones were given had shown surprise, curiosity, or dismay over those whose imperfections were obvious. Otto had surely warned them, though probably with an abundance of threat. However, in this instance Elias was grateful.
“Your home is impressive,” Honore said.
He raised an eyebrow. “The donjon is in an unfinished state and some disrepair.”
“It will be stone as well?”
“As quickly as time and funds allow.”
“I would like to see that,” she said unthinkingly, as evidenced by the lowering of her gaze.
As would I, Elias silently agreed.
“Sir Elias!” Hart appeared beside Honore. “May Cynuit and I go inside?”
“You may. I am sure my father has arranged for food and accommodations.”
The boys bounded up the steps, followed by Theo.
“Your sire has been tolerant,” Honore said.
Which she interpreted as love, Elias thought wryly, certain it was only grudging concession. He would not be surprised if Otto pushed Lady Vera on him again as payment for his tolerance. Of course, had there been a chance Costain would reconsider matching his daughter with Elias, after what had transpired on the night past he might no longer. Far better to pick from amongst others seeking her hand.
Elias offered Honore his arm. “Come meet my stepmother and sisters.”
As their arrival was several hours ere supper, the great hall was far from its usual teeming self. No tables had been erected to accommodate the dozens who usually shared meals with their lord and lady. Excepting the little ones who had surely been delivered abovestairs to take their meals there, all were seated at the high table on either side of Otto—Theo, Cynuit, Hart, and the men-at-arms who had accompanied their lord to Sevier.
Seeing his stepmother sat at the hearth holding an embroidery frame in one hand, with the other pushing a needle through tautly-stretched cloth, Elias led Honore to her.
His father’s young wife set aside her frame and stood. “I am glad you are returned, Elias.”
“As am I.” He inclined his head, introduced Honore.
“Well come,” his stepmother said, then to Elias, “Your sisters have lain down for their afternoon rest. When they awaken, they will be pleased to see you.”
“Doubtless, they will wish a tale.”
Her smile had its usual weary edge, but she looked healthy. Time away from Otto was ever of benefit to one who had given her youth to a man old enough to be her grandfather. Certes, her daughters were her greatest happiness, possibly her next greatest was that her body could give no more. Thus, to ensure a convent did not separate her from her girls, Elias must provide the next male heir.
“After so long a ride, you must be pained with hunger and thirst.” She gestured at the high table. “Pray, seat yourselves.”
Honore thanked the lady, and Elias led her across the hall. There being only two chairs available, one alongside Otto, the other between Hart and a man-at-arms, Elias handed her into the latter
and joined his father.
“I have word of that rascal, Becket,” Otto said.
Though Elias did not peer down the table at Honore, he knew she had heard and also waited with held breath.
“A merry chase he leads Henry,” his father said, “though never would I name it such in his hearing.”
Elias picked a block of cheese from the platter between them, swallowed it down with ale.
“De Lucy found him,” his sire continued, “confronted him at Saint Bertin’s, and tried to persuade him to submit to Henry’s will.”
“Did he?”
Otto chuckled. “Refused, and quite the break that caused. De Lucy was Becket’s vassal, you know. But no more.”
“You think the archbishop will have to yield to Henry?”
“I think he must, but from what I hear tell of the man, I do not believe he will, especially if King Louis sides with him.”
“What chance that?”
“Though Henry’s men, Foliot and D’Aubigny, were well chosen to seek an audience with Louis, which I am sure will soon be granted if it has not already, the King of France is hardly inclined to accommodate the man who wed his cast-off wife without his permission.”
Elias agreed. The union of Henry Plantagenet with France’s greatest heiress and former queen was a great sore unlikely to heal, especially since Eleanor of Aquitaine had given Henry what she had not given Louis—sons.
“Too, as Louis is exceedingly pious, he is more apt to side with a man of God than one who gives him good cause to name him the devil.”
Though there was much to admire in Henry, Elias had no illusions about how ruthless their liege could be. His temper was legendary, his need to control men dangerous.
For the sake of the De Morvilles, Elias prayed England’s king would never know of his role in Becket’s escape. Unfortunately, that meant Elias could not reclaim the horses he had paid to send across the channel though done under a false name. His fine destrier, after which his father had asked this morn and been told there was no time to arrange for its crossing, would soon have a new master.
The conversation shifted to matters of the demesne, of greatest concern the delay of quarried stone to complete the inner wall. Elias assured his sire he would see to it and a half dozen other matters that interfered with the smooth working of Château des Trois Doigts.
An hour later, his stepmother escorted Honore to Elias’s chamber that had been given her and the children for the duration of their stay.
The shorter the better, he told himself, and yet he conceded he would not mind were the shorter a lifetime.
Chapter 38
BY HONORE BOUND
Three days, Honore numbered as she stared at Elias where he stood before the chest containing his clothes. As he had been occupied with demesne business since their arrival and, a half hour past, Otto’s wife and Hart had taken the children to the garden, there seemed no better time for confession.
“Can we speak, Elias?”
Chausses in one hand, tunic in the other, he turned. “If it is important. If it can wait, as it seems my sire cannot, better we speak later.”
“It is important, but it can wait.”
He inclined his head and crossed the chamber.
“This eve?” she called.
He paused in the doorway, chided himself for making much of Otto’s wish for his son to accompany him to the nearest village. But something in Honore’s tone told he would not like what she had to say.
The children were doing well, including Alice who breathed easier and no longer coughed. Likely, Honore wished to begin preparations for their departure, which meant Elias would have to reveal Hart was not his. Though he would make a place for Lettice’s son if he wished a life beyond the abbey, which would be forced on Hart when he attained the age of ten, it was a decision the boy and Honore must make rather than a man who was not a father.
“This eve?” she said again.
“Much depends on the hour I return. But if not this eve, the morrow.”
She nodded.
Elias meant to go straight to the stables where Otto awaited him, but the sound of children’s voices and laughter as he came off the donjon steps drew him around the corner to the garden.
He peered over the gate. His little sisters rolled balls to Alice and Jamie who squealed and rolled them back. Rayne, ever well covered out-of-doors, was being bounced on the leg of a woman servant who shared the bench with Otto’s wife who surprised at being so at ease with Hart’s little ones.
Nearer, Cynuit and Hart knelt beneath a tree. The boys seemed fond of each other, a good thing if Hart decided to remain at Château des Trois Doigts since it would make it easier for him to part from Honore and those he called his little ones.
“It does look like a tooth,” Hart said, examining something Cynuit held. “Do you think it is?”
“It has a curve to it like a fang,” the older boy said. “But it could be a claw.”
Hart took it, raised it to sunlight. And seeing Elias, jumped up. “Sir Knight, see what we found!”
Elias entered the garden. When the boy halted before him, once more his distinctive ears and nose drew notice ahead of the large mark of birth. But whereas when Elias had first looked on those features and been gripped by memories of the knight who beat him, now they held him loosely. Eventually, he would see only Hart.
“What think you?” The boy thrust nearer the tooth that might be a claw.
As Elias reached for it, his gaze drifted past and he looked near on the mark of birth. Though he did not know every curve and hollow of the island kingdom, it was not necessary to appreciate the wondrous rendering.
The lowering of Hart’s hand moved Elias’s gaze to his, and he saw wariness there. “Forgive me, Hart.”
The boy jerked a shoulder. “Everyone looks. I just do not like when they touch or rub it to discover if it is only ink.”
As he had surely endured in the wagon.
Elias lowered to his haunches, placing the boy slightly above him. “I am sorry for all you and your little ones suffered.”
“I took good care of them, and when I am back at Bairnwood, I will help Honore with them so she does not have to work so hard.”
Elias glanced at Cynuit who had returned to digging in the dirt. “Then given the opportunity to remain here with Cynuit in my service, training up into a man-at-arms—or of letters, if you prefer—still you would return to Bairnwood?”
He nodded, then frowned. “In two years, five months I will have to leave the abbey. Can I come to you then?”
The boy knew the end of his time at the abbey down to the month, perhaps even the day. Elias was about to assure him he would collect him himself—a chance to see Honore again—when realization struck. Had it knuckles, it might have knocked him back. Rather than the defect with which Honore had been born, the month of Hart’s birth had to be the other thing she kept from Elias besides the identity of Thomas Becket.
Two years, five months until the boy was ten. It required little calculation to confirm what Elias already knew. Hart was of another, sown well before Lettice was found with that knight.
Elias had told himself she was faithless only the one time, but it was a lie. Another lie. Too many lies. Though this last one in which Honore claimed uncertainty over Hart’s birth was not as dangerous as that of not revealing Elias aided his liege’s enemy, it had been outright—
He backed up his thoughts. Non, a more dangerous lie it had been. It had set him on the path to Becket, and though it seemed the De Morvilles would escape retribution, it could ever be an axe above their necks ready to slip from the hands holding it—those of Becket and his brethren, the abbot of Clairmarais, even Honore who would surely do anything to protect her foundlings.
“Sir Elias?” the uncertain voice returned him to Hart. “Did you not mean it, that I can return here when I am ten?”
He wished he had not offered. Though he would not have to collect the boy himself, ever Har
t’s presence at Château des Trois Doigts would remind him of Honore.
“Sir Elias?”
“I meant it,” he said gruffly.
The boy touched the mark of birth. “This may fade some the older I get. Though I would like to learn the sword, I could become a man of letters. Honore taught me to read.”
Then he feared Elias would prefer to keep him hidden. Hating his inability to respond properly, Elias set a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I believe a hilt will better fit your hand than a quill.”
Hart’s lips curved. “When my work at Bairnwood is done, I will come back here.”
“Two years, five months,” Elias said and straightened.
Hart thrust forward that which had brought him to the gate. “What think you?”
That it was a light gray rock the elements had curved, thickening and blunting one end, thinning and pointing the other. But Elias also knew Hart had need of the wondrous imaginings of children of which Théâtre des Abominations had deprived him.
“Could be tooth or claw, but I guess the tooth of a very large beast, perhaps winged.”
Wide-eyed, Hart closed his fingers around it. “A dragon’s tooth,” he pronounced and ran to Cynuit.
Leaving the boys to their chatter, the little ones to their laughter, Elias closed the gate behind him.
He had kept his father waiting. But what was another quarter hour?
“You lied.”
Honore had heard boots on the stairs but not expected they belonged to Elias who ought to be with his sire rather than accusing her of that of which she was guilty.
Hand on the door of the chamber she had closed behind her, having decided to join the children, she turned to where Elias strode the corridor.
“That is what I wished to speak to you about,” she said when he halted before her. “The greater possibility Hart is not your son, though now it seems more likely he is—”
“He is not mine.”
She swallowed. “You cannot be certain, but do you tell me when last you were intimate with—”