How long since pieced-together heart yielded to flayed-wide pain? How long since diamond-pricked night yielded to fire-torn day?

Once more rejecting the first of the questions shaped into verse by the poet seeking to distract him from reality, Elias narrowed his eyes to gauge the sun’s position. Mid-morning, meaning they had been astride for…

It mattered not, only that Theo was right. It was time to water and rest the mounts pushed hard whilst bearing more weight than usual.

Elias reined in near the stream his squire had scouted and looked to the woman turned into him. “Honore?”

She did not stir, not even to shiver as she had done often while dark yet shone upon the earth, but just as he accepted she slept, she said with no note of drowsiness, “Sir Elias?”

“We rest now. And talk.”

“I am glad. Do I not soon relieve myself, you shall like me even less.”

He understood her urgency, though not how she could speak as if informing him of the need to fill her belly. Little modesty which, in his experience, even women of common birth at least feigned had they occasion to address that bodily function. Because she was more accustomed to the company of children than adults?

Elias turned her forward, swung a leg over, and dropped to the ground. Ache shot behind his right eye, reminding him of the injury to his head and making him aware of how taut the skin where blood had dried brow to jaw.

He glanced at Theo and the lad hunkered upstream quenching their thirst, then raised his arms to the woman. “Come unto me, Honore.”

She peered at him across her shoulder, and he was struck by eyes lovelier than seen by moonlight. They were as blue as blue could be. Not merely a pretty shade of gray, but neither an unearthly shade of purple. That same shade glimpsed when day first kissed night.

She shifted around, and when she reached to him, he saw the red in the weave of the gorget had darkened, above it a nose lightly bruised on one side up to the inner corner of her eye.

I shall kill you, Arblette, he silently vowed and was surprised by how great the longing that should be reserved for avenging Lettice’s murder.

“Do you not lift me down soon, Sir Elias, truly I may give you good cause to hate me.”

Rebuking himself for staring, he gripped her beneath the arms and lowered her.

“Go,” he said and called to her back, “Do not make me come looking for you.”

Evidencing a slight limp from her encounter with Arblette, she slipped behind a tree.

He held his gaze to it, and though she soon reappeared, he did not seek his own relief until his squire’s private business was concluded and he took watch over the woman.

When Elias returned to the stream, Honore knelt on the bank a fair distance from Theo and the lad. The gorget in the grass alongside her, she scooped water over her face under cover of the hair veil.

Though pricked by curiosity over the whole of her visage, which the blood running from her nose had afforded only a glimpse last eve, he rebuked himself. He ought not care what loveliness was hidden—certes, not whilst he walked in the long shadow thrown by Lettice’s murder.

Allowing Honore the distance she had put between them, he knelt and swept water over his face, grimaced when careless fingers grazed the lightly-scabbed gash. Had there been time, he would have had the flesh sewn to ensure the scar was less unsightly, but better it would serve as a reminder of when he had come looking for a son and set in motion the taking of Lettice’s life.

He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, saw Honore sink the gorget in the water to cleanse the blood from its weave.

As his squire and the lad began filling their bellies with viands purchased from the innkeeper in the dark hours of early morn, Elias bent farther forward and stuck his head in the chill water to cool his scalp and dissolve the blood crusting it. He scrubbed fingers over it, then tossed his head back and sent water flying.

He stood, turned to Honore where she wrung the moisture from the gorget. After shaking it out, she gave her back to Elias and lowered the veil to her shoulders. She positioned the gorget, secured its ties, and draped the veil over it.

If truly a lay servant, why so modest? he wondered, then told himself he did not care and strode to where Theo and the lad sat chewing bread and dried fish and passing an ale-skin between them.

The boy looked up, and Elias saw from the swelling and purpling at his temple he had been struck hard. Though Finwyn Arblette’s suffering would be great, even then his debt would not be paid in full.

“You are called Cynuit?” Elias asked in English.

The lad gulped down a mouthful. “Aye, milord.”

“How long have you served your master?”

“Near on two years.”

“He pays you?”

“Food and shelter, milord, for which I try to be grateful.” He winced. “A mean fist he has.”

“In what capacity do you serve him?”

“Cleaning, cooking, errands—whatever he requires, though sometimes I fail.”

Elias jutted his chin toward Honore. “You feared I sought to harm her. You know her well?”

“Not well, but ever she is kind, feeding me and giving me coin.”

“Ever?”

“When my master sends me to the abbey to arrange meetings.”

As she had told.

“You have attended these meetings?”

“Nay, milord. I but tell her when, not even where.”

Further proof she was as much a victim as he? “You know how Arblette earned his living?”

Cynuit lowered his gaze. “By way of sin. He arranges for women to sell their bodies.”

Was that how Lettice knew him? Thrusting aside the question, Elias asked, “What of the babes set out?”

“Aye, another means of earning coin.”

“On the nights he takes an infant to the wood, they are the same he meets with that woman?”

“Sometimes, milord.”

Meaning when Arblette did not send the lad to her, he sold undesirables to the troupe whose rumor the miscreant had himself passed along?

“Why did he wish to meet with her?” Elias asked and, hearing a cough, looked to where she moved toward them.

“I did ask, milord. Only once.” The boy drew a shoulder up to his ear in what seemed more defense against being struck than a shrug. “It angered my master, and he gave no answer.”

Honore halted to the right of Elias and set a hand on Cynuit’s shoulder. “I am sorry he hurt you again and grateful you came away.” There was a rasp to the muffled words she spoke in English, and he guessed it a result of her cough. “You are done serving him. Like it or nay, I shall find a home for you.”

“I thank ye, but I am all hope this knight will give me work.” He shifted his gaze to Elias. “I am young and not very strong, but I will grow older and stronger.”

Elias had no need of him, his squire serving him well, but he said, “We will speak later. Now Honore and I must talk.”

“Aye, milord.”

Elias accepted the bread and fish Theo passed to him, then took hold of the woman’s arm but released it when she tensed. He gestured to a slab of rock, and as she walked beside him, asked, “How did you injure your leg?”

“Not my leg. When you fell on me at the tree—an attack, I thought—I turned aside.” She raised an arm, coughed into its crook.

Might she be seriously ailing? He prayed not, for her sake as well as that of finding Hart.

“Rather than break my back on the roots beneath your weight, I struck my hip. I believe it only bruised like my nose, but it is of some discomfort.” She looked sidelong at him. “I thought he put an arrow through you, and when I saw no evidence of breath, feared you dead.”

“The blow to the head rendered me unconscious. My chain mail saved me—and, methinks, you.”

She halted. “Me?”

He turned back. “At close range, the arrow could have penetrated my mail had it struck straight on, but when you drew my dagger against me, I swung to the side and the arrowhead proved of more detriment to my mantle.”

“Then I ought not feel guilty I let you take the brunt of the fall?”

“Indeed not. And had you suffered greater ill, I would be more shamed at being knocked senseless by a root.”

She lowered to the rock and, as he seated himself a suitable distance away, turned her partially-covered face to him. “As it seems you are well enough satisfied I spoke true, let us turn our attention to recovering Hart.”

He met her gaze. Not as blue as earlier, but yet a shock of color in her pale face. And now he noticed age at the corners of her eyes. They were fine lines of the sort indicating she smiled often. Could he look beneath the gorget, he imagined their cousins would reside alongside her mouth. If, as seemed likely, she had given her life to saving unwanted children, had the little ones written those lines in a face he very much wished to see in its entirety?

Cease! he silently admonished. There is naught for you here, troubadour. If ever you are to prove worthy of your training, stay the warrior who requires but one thing from her—aid in finding Hart.

Slamming himself back into the armor of Elias De Morville, he broke off a chunk of bread and passed it and a piece of fish to Honore.

She hesitated, and he wondered if she did so over concern for how to satisfy her hunger without removing the gorget in his presence. She took both, cupped them in her lap.

“Tell me about Hart,” Elias said.

Wariness glinted in her eyes. “What more need be told?”

“I know only he was born to Lettice, was to have been abandoned to the wood because of the mark, you bought him from Arblette’s grandsire, and he is aged seven and of a disposition that requires discipline.”

Her eyes widened. “All children require discipline, as did I and, assuredly, you.”

“I would not argue that. Now tell, what offense did the boy commit that led to the belief he ran away?”

She looked down, picked at the bread’s crust. “He stole out of the abbey, endangering himself and a friend who joined him. They wished to fish at the stream, but they are too young to protect themselves from the beasts of the wood whether those creatures are of human or animal form.”

Adventurous, restless, daring, Elias mused. As was I at that age. That last reminded him of another thing he wished to know that might prove whether he was the boy’s sire. The answer would not keep him from searching out Lettice’s son, but it would prepare him for how great his role in Hart’s life.

“In what month was he born?”

Her fingers crumbling the crust stilled, then she pinched off a soft portion and carried it halfway to her mouth before lowering her hand as if remembering the gorget. “It was long ago. Late winter? Early spring?” She shrugged. “You would know better than I.”

He would not, though only because Lettice had not been faithful. He knew the one time he had been intimate with her but not when others had been. “What makes the mark on his face so special he should be sold to the troupe?” he asked. “There are others born with such stains.”

Her eyes flew to his. “To many who have gazed upon it, it is very special.”

“How?”

“It is interesting, even beautiful. Though less obvious when he was an infant, as he has grown, its shape has emerged fully to depict Britain—England, Wales, Scotland—much like a map.”

Then for that, Hart was exploited, a mark that resembled a country whose shape and boundaries were less certain than the dried ink which time and again sought to render an accurate representation of this island kingdom.

“Even the bishop who visits Bairnwood once and twice a year never departs without looking upon Hart. Unlike other foundlings, whether they are hale of body and face or present deformities of birth or accident, Hart intrigues him, so much I have had to entreat the abbess not to allow him to take Hart into his service.”

Of that Elias approved lest the man’s interest was no more pure than men and women who paid coin to look upon those displayed by the troupe.

“At least, not until he attains his tenth year,” Honore added, “and only then if I cannot place him in a good home.”

“Why ten?”

“That is the age at which boys must leave, the abbey being a refuge for women, whether they have given themselves as brides of Christ or committed to have no relations with men.”

Elias nodded. “What else can you tell me?”

Fine, dark eyebrows arched. “I have told much. Now the question is what you can tell of the information gained when we paused at the inn. I am guessing it was that which sent us in this direction.”

The innkeeper had been eager to discover what stirred the village past middle night and aghast when he learned of Arblette’s attack on Elias and a lay servant of Bairnwood. Elias would not have spent so much time relating the events had he not sought information in kind. Information he prayed was accurate.

The innkeeper had spilled much in the hope a man he disliked would be brought to ground. It was he who had questioned Arblette’s meetings at the inn with a member of the troupe which often passed near the village, he who put together the two rumors—the first of joined twins born to a local woman who had them set out in the wood, the second of such twins secretly on display for those who wished to ogle evidence of the devil walking the earth.

“Oui,” Elias said, “the innkeeper sent us in this direction.”

“Which is?”

“Toward the coast. As Arblette dare not return to Forkney, there is a good chance he followed the troupe King Henry ejected from England, the same the innkeeper told named its secret sideshow of what they call peculiars, Théâtre des Abominations.”

“Abominations?” she gasped as if dealt a blow, then lowered her head and leaned forward. “Oh, dear Hart.” When finally she sat back, the soft had gone out of her eyes. In its place determination, she said, “Think you the troupe remains in England?”

“As it passed through Forkney a fortnight gone, not likely.” Meaning, he did not say, it had probably been on French soil before Elias departed for England. He might even have crossed the channel on the same ship from which the troupe disembarked. “Still,” he continued, “methinks Arblette will be fast on their heels.”

“What if we cannot overtake him ere he crosses the narrow sea?”

“Regardless of whether we run him to ground, regardless of whether he follows the troupe, we go to France. Though I will see that knave punished, of greatest import is finding Hart. If the boy was never at Arblette’s home as Cynuit tells, it seems our greatest chance of recovering him is to locate the troupe. And there we may also find Arblette.”

“I understand, but…I have never been more than ten leagues distant from the abbey, and only then to visit the children placed with families so I may ensure they are treated well. Do I not soon return to Bairnwood, my abbess will fear—”

“I paid the innkeeper to send word to her that you aid Elias De Morville whose family holds French lands from her king and is kindly regarded by Henry.”

What he did not tell was that when Elias asked after Lettice’s family, the innkeeper revealed her mother and all but one of her siblings had died from a sweating sickness. The one surviving brother blamed their deaths on the sins of his sister and left Forkney. All those for whom Lettice had rejected Elias were gone.

“And the sheriff?” Honore asked. “He must be told what happened.”

“When he arrives to investigate Lettice’s death, the innkeeper will inform him Arblette attacked us and of his motive for Lettice’s murder as evidenced by the coin purse found at his home.”

He had thought of all, Honore reflected as another itch in her throat ached to be scratched by a cough. She swallowed, whispered, “I see,” then coughed into the crook of an arm.

A hand settled on her back. “Methinks you sicken, Honore.”

She did. Usually quite healthy, it was obvious when illness crept into her. She glanced at the viands of which she would not partake until alone, then returned her gaze to the man whose resemblance to Hart she could not find. And sensed a struggle in him.

Finally, he said, “Though I covet your aid so greatly I have risked your reputation and health, if you wish to turn back I shall have Squire Theo escort you to Bairnwood.”

She heard his words with nearly the same intensity she felt the warmth of his large hand between her shoulders.

I am depraved, she thought. After the horror of what happened not even a day gone, I am moved by his touch.

Feeling weaker yet, she longed for the strength it seemed to offer—so much it frightened her, not only for the sin of falling prey to the carnal but because the love and comfort of a man was forbidden her. Never would she make a marriage. Thus, no comfort. Certes, no love.

“Honore?”

Further she ached at the concern in his voice that made music of something as plain as her name. It tempted her to move nearer, turn into him, press herself close as done throughout the ride. But it would be wanton, just as her mother may have been in conceiving Honore of no surname. Too, more forbidden it would be were this knight wed.

Alarmed by how warm she had become, she closed her eyes and silently prayed, Lord, what mire is this? Do you test me? Or is it the devil who tempts me?

“Honore?”

Though her lids were lowered, all of her knew he leaned nearer. All of her felt his hand on her back move to her shoulder.

She brought her head up sharply, glimpsed surprise on his face. “You trespass, Sir Knight. I am not one such as that with whom you made a child. Pray, remove your hand from my person.”

Her request was honored so quickly, she was ashamed by what she implied, especially since he was in the midst of mourning the woman from whom he had parted with such beautiful words Honore had wept.

He stood, and when she looked up, his eyes were dark, nostrils flared, mouth flat. “Her name was Lettice. Unlike you, she had no one to care for her, no one to aid in providing for her mother and siblings. And ere you say it, not even me who professed to love her and yet let her go. Dare not judge her, Honore of no surname.”

She felt as if struck, but it was not undeserved. She did not know this knight’s tale, nor that of Lettice of Forkney. All she knew of either was Hart whom she loved, that desperate Lettice had paid to have her marked babe set out in the wood, and whether or not Elias De Morville was the boy’s father, he had come to England to accept responsibility for him.

And there was another thing she knew. It was she who trespassed. This man had shown concern for her ailing, and she had made far more of it. He was not attracted to her. His mind and emotions had not ventured anywhere near where hers had gone.

“Forgive me,” she muffled, then louder, “Pray, forgive me. I—”

“Eat,” he spoke over her. “We shall allow the horses another half hour’s rest, then Squire Theo will return you to Bairnwood.”

Holding to the bread and fish, she thrust upright, stumbled, and saw his hand shoot out to aid her—and just as quickly return to his side. Thankfully, she kept her feet beneath her though the effort placed her nearer him.

“I would accompany you, Sir Elias.”

“You will slow me, thus further endangering the boy,” he said, then Hart’s greatest hope of rescue started back toward those who might not have heard all spoken between the two but understood enough to warrant the offense on Squire Theo’s face and wariness on Cynuit’s.

Resisting the impulse to snatch at the knight’s sleeve, Honore hastened past him and turned into his path, forcing him to halt. “I will not slow you. I vow I will not. I will do as told—”

“You are not needed nor wanted.”

And less she would be had she not lacked tolerance for superstition in her weakened state which caused her to retain the gorget’s cover. If he knew of her defect, like many who believed it rendered ill luck to keep company with those of malformed and marked bodies, he would have greater cause to reject her accompaniment.

“And as there can be no doubt you are ailing,” he continued, “all the more reason we part ways.”

That she could not argue, but she could beg. God willing, he would recover Hart, but if he claimed Lettice’s son as his own, it was unlikely she would see the boy again. France would become his home.

She stepped nearer. “If I cannot keep pace, then your squire can return me to the abbey.” A greater inconvenience than if they began the journey now, but she prayed he would be moved enough to grant her request.

His eyes told he was not, and desperation once more sent offensive words across her tongue. “I ail because of you—the foolery worked on me to deliver me to the wood!”

The steel in his eyes flickered, hardened, flickered again, then he loosed a harsh breath. “The moment the baggage of you becomes too weighty, you shall go your way and I shall go mine.”

She momentarily closed her eyes. “I thank you, Sir Knight. I will not disappoint you.”

“Too late for that,” he muttered and stepped around her.