I do not argue the necessity of rescuing the boy,” Everard said where he stood alongside Elias inside the hall, the manor doors open before them. “I would do the same, but do you continue your pursuit in weather like this”—he jutted his chin at the rain-soaked sky—“your chance of success is seriously jeopardized. Stay and be comforted knowing Arblette must also shelter until the storm passes.”

No rising sun to be seen across early morn, Elias shifted his jaw. “Already he has many leagues on me, mayhap enough he is beyond this foul weather.”

“I think not, Elias. That storm smells of conception on the sea and birth upon the coast. Were I my brother, Abel, I would wager all travel along the eastern coast crawls.”

As would Elias, but despite hours of prayer on the night past that made his eyes gritty, teeth throb, and throat ache, little peace had he found amidst the interruptions to which he subjected himself.

Whilst kneeling before the Lord, memories of what had transpired in the wood jostled him—flashes of Honore face down in the water, Lettice hung from a rope, inappropriate familiarity with one he had no cause or right to be attracted to. Then there were imaginings of the children being exploited by the troupe. And revenge.

When he ought to have prostrated himself, his arms had quaked with the force of bunched fists. He knew he should not make decisions with such emotions coursing his blood, but the peace required to temper his feelings remained elusive.

“Stay,” Everard said.

Elias shifted his regard to the warrior. “If France is Arblette’s destination and he hunkers down to wait out the storm, once it passes he will take the first boat across the narrow sea. Thus, I need these hours to gain on him lest he reaches the troupe first and takes Hart, leaving me no trace to follow.”

“I understand, but I also know you will be of little use to the boy if this weather proves your undoing.”

“It will not. Do I leave the woman and boy, this day Theo and I can cover many leagues.”

Everard’s brow lowered. “Providing you do not lose your way whilst rain falls so thick you can hardly see the land before you. Providing your horse does not stumble and break a leg—and your neck. Providing you do not turn ill from a drenched body. Providing you choose the same port by which Arblette departs England. If he departs.”

Argument shot through Elias, but a voice within made itself heard over the churn of blood. Until you can submit heart and mind to the Lord, let this warrior—your friend—be your peace.

He exhaled sharply, nodded. “I wish you were wrong.”

“As do I. Now let us talk of other things.” Everard closed the doors and returned to the hearth where they had broken their fast with sweet white bread and goat cheese.

“How goes the training at Wulfen?” Elias asked as he dropped into a chair.

“Intense as ever.” Everard stretched his legs out before him. “And more work it is now all three brothers are rarely in residence at the same time.”

Elias raised an eyebrow. “Is that regret?”

“Some.” Everard smiled. “But for naught would I exchange my life with Susanna for life before. She is what it means to be complete—to be alive beyond the draw of breath and the trudge of days.”

Elias was surprised he could laugh without reminding himself to do so as done whilst giving tale of the events at Forkney to Everard and his son. Amid this current darkness, it seemed Elias Cant could still be found. “You sound a poet, my friend,” he mused.

“Susanna again. That two become one in marriage are not merely pretty vows. She composes words of love for me and our son—in ink, wax, dust, and upon the air. As for my effect on her, she may not be sword-wielding Lady Annyn, but the greater our days together, the more fierce she becomes. Woe to any who think to make sport of those she holds dear.”

Elias had seen it himself. The desperate, emotionally abused lady whom he had aided in fleeing Cheverel with her nephew no longer existed, the sorrow of her slain by love. The thought lightened Elias as he mused only love ought to have the power to slay.

“You are smiling,” Everard said.

So he was, and it seemed wrong so near Lettice’s death. Easing the curve of his mouth, he asked, “How fare Garr and Abel? Their wives and children?”

“As blessed as I. I think there will be no shortage of Wulfriths for years to come.”

“Let us pray never. Certes, it is as your king and queen do.”

Everard inclined his head. “Now they have our family’s support.”

As once they had not, Elias reflected. “Who lords Wulfen Castle now?”

“Abel that I shall be at my lady’s side when she gives another son or daughter into my arms.”

Elias quaffed the remains of his ale, asked, “How goes Baron Soames’s training? Has he proven Wulfen worthy?”

“More and more. Though Abel was averse to instructing him and displeased when I determined that were the offer made—no matter it was but a taunt—it must be honored, methinks he has taken a liking to the baron. Not that he would admit it.”

That surprised. Soames had been a party to drugging Elias so the baron could wed Lady Beata against the queen’s wishes. Thus, Elias had no great liking for Soames, even though that marriage had been annulled and Queen Eleanor had arranged for him to wed another. Hoping his wife was not miserable—that Soames was Wulfen worthy—Elias thanked the Lord that King Henry’s wife had yet to seek a match for him as Elias’s father would be pleased for her to do. But if Elias did not soon wed one of his own choosing…

He closed his eyes. Of such things he should not ponder following the loss of one he had loved and would have wed had she been faithful. He nearly spoke her name, but the sense of being watched returned his regard to Everard.

“Truly,” his friend said, “I am sorry for your loss. It is one kind of ache to lose a woman to another man, a more terrible one to lose her to death.”

Elias could not be offended. Everard had experience with the same, though his first love had not suffered the violence to which Lettice had been subjected. Everard had shared that tale some time ago, honoring Elias with friendship of a strength he could be entrusted with something so private.

Susanna had said that, providing Elias was judicious, only occasionally dipping beneath the surface of the Wulfriths, the troubadour knight could serve as the family’s tale bearer. And so he did when he had occasion to entertain their family and others in need of lighter hearts. Much remained beneath the surface, but when he dipped he was careful to change certain names and places. Perhaps with the Wulfrith’s permission, one day he would write what could be called The Book of Wulfrith. Though hard to believe such a family would fade across the centuries, parchment and ink would ensure they were not forgotten.

“Where have you gone, Elias?”

Everard’s question made him sit forward. “Respite only, and refreshing it was.”

“Doubtless, you slept poorly on the night past.”

Could it be called sleep, Elias thought. “So I did, but I am not so tired I could not further entertain were I called upon.”

“Another tale would do us good.”

Sensing tension about Everard that had hovered just out of reach until that moment, Elias said, “Something is amiss?”

Silence.

“I would not presume to be your confidant, Everard, but do you wish to speak, you have my ear and my aid.”

Just when Elias determined the private Everard would tell no more, the man said, “The Wulfrith siblings may number beyond five.”

“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.”