The minor barony of Cheverel did not appear as minor as when he, then known as Elias Cant, sold his sword arm to its lord—a less than admirable man now years beneath the soil.

Its new lord, Sir Everard Wulfrith, had embraced his duty to administer the lands until the heir earned his spurs at Wulfen Castle. Wed to the boy’s aunt, Everard was not only uncle to Judas but had become the father long denied him.

Were not the loss of Lettice so recent, Elias would have smiled as he recalled the role he had played in securing Cheverel for Judas, which had not been an entirely selfless act.

The light of dusk darkened by an approaching storm, Elias glanced over his shoulder at Cynuit who had held to him a half dozen hours, then hastened his mount toward the manor house of which a glimpse was barely afforded now the wooden walls enclosing it had been replaced with stone and raised several feet higher.

Elias would not be surprised if the wooden house was also stone and boasted the powerful presence of a castle when Everard passed the keeping of Cheverel to Judas.

Defense, Everard had once said to Elias. Master it ahead of the sword come unto you, and less often must you defend what others think to take.

Cheverel was now more difficult to conquer, even under siege. One day it might be nearly impossible.

“There are friends here,” Elias said when Theo drew alongside. “Though I prefer to continue on, soon that storm comes to earth.”

For that, an hour past he had adjusted their course to see them sheltered by those he trusted would not only provide the best care for Honore but ensure her safe return to the abbey.

He glanced at the woman who clung to the squire’s back, head resting against it, face turned opposite. She was surely less comfortable than when she had ridden before Elias, but her only complaint was the cough that continued to sound from her.

When his anger had eased after they departed the stream, he had offered to return her to the fore of his saddle, but she had refused as if truly fearing for her virtue. He was a fool to have been so familiar with her.

He cleared his throat. “Soon you will be abed and well cared for, Honore. Lady Susanna Wulfrith is a kind soul.”

She turned her veiled face to him. “I shall be grateful for being all the more ready to resume our journey once the storm passes.”

That last was said firmly as if to assure him he need not leave her. But it was decided. He had one woman’s death on his conscience. He would not have another’s.

It had been a long hope Everard was in residence with his wife and young son, rather than at Wulfen Castle training up England’s worthiest warriors. Now all three brothers were wed, that responsibility was divided between them, but the seasons of spring and autumn were Everard’s. Either responsibilities had been reapportioned or consideration given him for his wife’s advanced pregnancy.

“Elias Cant!” Everard greeted as he ducked beneath the rising portcullis and strode onto the drawbridge, both of which were new additions, as was the still water moat that would rise and churn with the coming rain.

“Stay the saddle, Cynuit,” Elias ordered in English, then dropped to the wood planks and passed the reins to the boy.

A moment later, Elias was embraced by his friend who had once believed him a rival for the affections of the lady watching them from the outer bailey. Alongside her stood a husky boy of very blond hair. Three and a half years aged, his hand was held by his mother, rather than her hand held by his as when last Elias had been in their company.

Over Everard’s shoulder, Elias gave Susanna what he hoped passed for a genuine smile, then sent up a prayer this pregnancy, unlike her last two, gave her another babe in arms. How he loved her and her husband. Surely, no better brother and sister could be had.

Everard drew back and grasped Elias’s upper arms. “Other than a blow to the head, of which I expect to hear tale,” he said in French that carried less of an accent than Elias’s, “you appear in good health. What brings you to our shores?”

Doubtless, the warrior had assessed Elias’s traveling companions when summoned to the wall to receive visitors. Was he remembering the night Elias had ridden on Wulfen Castle with Lady Susanna and Judas in the desperate hope of gaining Everard’s aid and shelter from those whose pursuit could have ended in murder? As then, now again Elias brought a faceless woman to the man’s walls. And a boy.

“You also appear in good health,” Elias said and noted Everard’s hair was as blond as his young son’s and just above shoulder length the same as Elias’s. Now the warrior had the love of Susanna, no longer had he reason to shave his head.

“In very good health,” Everard said.

“I am glad. As for my tale, I come to England for a boy I recently learned I may have fathered years past.”

Everard released him and looked to Cynuit. Doubtless, he questioned the boy’s bruised temple—as he would Honore’s injuries once she showed herself—but Elias guessed the warrior also sought to determine if the lad was worthy of Wulfen training.

“Here your son?” Everard finally said.

Noting disturbance on the boy’s brow, Elias said, “Non, but a lad in need of aid.”

Everard shifted his gaze. “And the woman who shares your squire’s saddle?”

“A servant of Bairnwood Abbey, Honore assists me in recovering the boy who may be mine. Unfortunately, she is taken with a cough. For that, I would see her abed ere we speak further of what transpired.”

“Of course.” Everard turned and led the way beneath the portcullis into the outer bailey.

Elias retrieved the reins from Cynuit and urged his destrier forward, then paused to receive Lady Susanna’s greeting as her husband swung their son onto his shoulders.

“I am gladdened to see you, Elias!” She drew back from their embrace and, peering up, winced over the injury to his forehead. But it was his mouth that longest held her regard. She tapped its corner. “I am much concerned over this.”

He frowned. “What?”

“I know well your smile, and it has gone missing.”

“With good cause, but I shall share the reason once the woman who accompanies me is attended. As told your lord husband, she ails.”

Susanna looked to Honore where she rested against Theo’s back. “Fear not, I shall tend her and, if necessary, summon the physician.”

“He is not here?”

She hooked an arm through his and turned to follow her husband and son to the manor house. “He departed yestermorn to treat a woman in the village who continues to bleed after losing a babe born well ere its time.”

Once more reminded of the two Susanna had lost early in the pregnancies, Elias said, “You are well?”

She touched the bulge pressing against her skirts. “The seventh month, and we have much movement from this little one. I hardly cease praying for another healthy child, and though I know not how the Lord shall answer me, I have great hope Everard and I will grow our family to five.”

Elias did not question that number, knowing their nephew, Judas, was as a son to them. “As ever, I shall keep you in my prayers, my lady.”

Upon reaching the manor house, Elias disengaged from her, and as Cynuit dismounted, stepped to his squire’s horse. “Come down, Honore.”

She straightened, and again he noted the bloodstain on her gorget was not entirely washed away. When he raised his arms, she slid into them.

As he set her to her feet, her hands on his forearms tightened and her blue eyes, now shot with red, widened. “Truly, I am sorry for my mean, thoughtless words, Sir Elias. Do not leave me here.”

He had hoped not to discuss the matter further, that he would simply arise early on the morrow and be gone ere she awakened. But she guessed his intent. “If you are sufficiently recovered, you may accompany me. Otherwise, I shall concentrate my efforts on Hart. Do you truly care for him, you will agree he is of utmost importance.”

Her lids momentarily lowered, then she released him. “I agree.”

Though she had earlier accused him of impropriety, he would have scooped her into his arms were she not fairly steady on her feet. Still, he gently gripped her elbow as they crossed to where Everard and his wife awaited them before the manor.

“Sir Everard, Lady Susanna, I beg you make the acquaintance of Honore of Bairnwood Abbey. Honore, here are my friends, the Lord and Lady of Cheverel.”

“Honor,” said the little boy perched high, his dimpled chin resting atop his sire’s head. “Knight’s honor, Papa. Knight’s honor!”

Everard smiled. “That is one kind of honor, Ambrose. This is another.” Eyes upon what could be seen of the veiled woman, Everard said, “I am pleased to welcome you to Cheverel, Honore.”

“As am I,” Susanna said and drew the woman out of Elias’s hold. “I know you must be weary. Allow me to show you to your chamber.”

Honore did not resist but looked around as she was led forward, first at the darkening sky then Elias, and her eyes voiced what her mouth did not—pleadings he not abandon her.

Remorse gripped him, but not so hard he revised the morrow. He would leave her to speed her recovery so she might sooner return to Bairnwood.

Elias instructed his squire and Cynuit to ensure the horses were properly stabled, then followed Everard into a modest-sized hall. When the two women ascended the stairs, the Lord of Cheverel said, “Worry not, I shall see her safely returned to the abbey.”

As thought, he had heard the hushed exchange with Honore. And understood Elias’s search for Hart was more easily accomplished without her. “I thank you, my friend.”

Everard gestured toward the hearth, called for wine, then lifted his son from his shoulders and lowered into the chair opposite the one Elias took. As he settled the boy on his thighs, the heavens began to rumble.

“A storm, Papa,” his son said excitedly.

“Indeed. We may have to kindle the fire, especially now Sir Elias is here, he who ever has a good tale to weave.”

Ambrose considered Elias without the wariness of the young, whether because he recalled other visits by his father’s friend or was as bold as a Wulfrith ought to be. “Does your tale have a sword, Sir Knight?” he asked in a voice smaller than his presence.

“It does.”

His breath caught. “A dagger?”

Elias winked. “Oui, and no simple one this—a Wulfrith dagger.”

The boy’s eyes shot to Elias’s belt, and after appreciatively eyeing the jeweled hilt, he said, “Ten and seven years, then I have one.” He peered over his shoulder. “Oui, Papa?”

“Do you train hard,” Everard said, “and I believe you shall.”

Ambrose gave a decisive nod and returned his attention to Elias. “What else your tale have?”

Elias’s thoughts shifted to last eve. “A wood tucked up in blankets of middle night mist, a woman who conceals her fair face behind veil and gorget, a villain armed with bow and arrow, ropes and lies.” Once more he drew a smile from his depths. “Some of which I will tell now, some of which must wait until you are nearer being awarded a Wulfrith dagger.”

The boy bobbed his head. “I am ready.”

Thus, Elias wove a tale just a little frightening but well enough true that Everard knew the questions to pose once his wife’s maid retrieved his son to see him fed and put to bed.