The word of a Wulfen-trained knight. A powerful thing. All the more reason not to speak it unless certain of what one promised.

Elias looked over his shoulder, first at his squire who kept pace though the boy holding to him further burdened his mount and the wet ground from which great clods of earth flew sought to slow horse and rider.

Next, he looked to Honore where she rode several lengths behind. The palfrey Everard had given her was swift and of good temperament, but pushed to its limits by the woman whose dark blond hair whipped out behind her like the turbulent waters of the English Channel toward which they rode. Given no choice but to remove the veil to avoid losing it, Honore had retained the gorget draped beneath her nose.

Elias hated acknowledging it, but though she could no longer be named a young woman, it appeared she was cut from a cloth similar to Queen Eleanor who was ten years older than her husband, Henry.

Excepting Honore’s eyes, he did not think she possessed the great beauty for which the queen was lauded, though that could not be truly known without seeing the entirety of a face glimpsed when he dragged Honore from the stream. Regardless, likely she would still be lovely a dozen years hence upon attaining Eleanor’s forty years.

He sighed, once more regretted keeping his word. Though four hours into the ride with one stop to take water, thus far she slowed them only enough to tempt him to deliver her to an abbey.

Think Lettice, he reminded himself as he returned his attention to the land. But he ached over memories of their love before her desperation caused him to believe her too broken to make a life together.

Combating hurt, he turned his thoughts to one he prayed had not been broken by Arblette’s ill. Think Hart, find Hart, save Hart.

She hurt. Her muscles spasmed, bones knew not their places, neck burned and cramped, head felt as if cracked. But she had not fallen far enough behind to satisfy Sir Elias’s desire to be rid of her.

Now as he strode forward to aid in her dismount, it took much that remained of her strength to drag a leg over her horse and set her feet on the ground before he reached her. And there she remained, clinging to the strap of leather from which the stirrup hung, longing to drop her head against the palfrey’s side, legs so bereft of feeling she feared her next bed might be upon the ground.

“Honore?”

She opened her eyes, mused it was nearly as dark before the inn at which they would pass the night as it was behind her lids. “I am well. I just need a moment—”

He did not give her one, swinging her up into his arms. “You proved yourself,” he said with grudging. “Now hold to me.”

She was too tired to resist, but not so much she could not tug up the gorget slipping from beneath her nose. To this she pressed a hand, then slid the other up around the knight’s neck. “I am going across the channel with you?”

“It would seem,” he said, then instructed his squire and the boy to stable the horses and afterward deliver their packs to the inn.

When he shouldered open the door, Honore was not surprised there were few guests at the scattered tables. It was late, their entrance into the port town of Sandwich delayed while soldiers inspected all who came and went. For whom or what they had not revealed though Sir Elias inquired. Suffice it was well over an hour after all those ahead of their party were searched—most thoroughly carts and wagons—before they were let in.

The knight carried Honore to a table against a wall and set her on a bench. “Remain here whilst I arrange for lodging and a meal.”

Telling herself she did not miss his arms around her, she nodded.

Past the glare thrown by the puddling candle at the center of the table, she watched him cross to the bar where a woman of middle years bent her ear to him. Whatever his first request, it turned down her smile. Her smile returned moments later and she nodded.

Guessing there were no rooms available, though drink and food would soon appear, Honore fought the temptation to lower her head to the table and set to tightening the gorget. Once done, she unknotted the veil she had tied around her neck for the ride and draped its wrinkled folds over her hair. Then clasping her hands before her, she studied the other occupants of the inn—four men cast in shadows at a corner table, a man and woman on bar stools, and a bearded fellow at a distant table, his nodding head telling soon he would sleep.

Sir Elias returned to her with two tankards, set one in front of her, and lowered alongside. “No rooms, and the innkeeper tells we are not likely to find any elsewhere, the storm having delayed all travel these past days. But as offered these others, she will provide blankets and accommodate us here for a quarter the cost.”

Abandoning the hope of a straw-filled pallet, Honore said, “I can find my rest on a bench. But what of a ship to deliver us across the channel? Does she think they will sail on the morrow?”

“That is the hope, but she says not to expect to depart for several days since many ahead of us have secured passage.”

Might Finwyn be among them? she wondered, then asked, “What are we to do?”

He took a long drink. “I shall buy my way aboard ship, but I do not think it possible to find space for three more and our mounts.”

Then he meant to leave her. “But—”

He leaned near. “I asked the innkeeper if she knew of a troupe that recently set sail. She said none sought drink or rooms here, but she heard of one making the crossing to Boulogne ten days past. Regardless of whether Arblette has set after them or yet seeks to, the troupe is of utmost importance—even if I must leave you and the others to sooner reach Hart.”

“I understand, but we will follow, will we not?”

His hesitation was a barb beneath her skin. “Be assured, Theo and I shall look well over those who board the ships lest Arblette has secured passage.”

Hoping the miscreant had chosen the small port of Sandwich and had yet to depart so one threat to Hart could be removed, Honore watched the innkeeper approach with viands and two more tankards for Theo and Cynuit once they finished with the horses.

More keenly feeling her thirst, she was glad there were so few people within. She had but to turn aside and none would see her lower the gorget.

The woman set the tray on the table. “Eat hearty, rest well,” she said.

Bread, cheese, slices of ripe fruit, and thin cuts of an unidentifiable meat made Honore long to set herself at them. Not since departing Bairnwood had she eaten well. Except in easing the worst of her hunger at Cheverel in the privacy of her chamber, she had mostly nibbled.

Her stomach groaned, and as heat climbed up her neck, Sir Elias reached forward and pinched the candle’s wick, inviting shadows to close around the pungent gray smoke ribboning upward.

“Allay your hunger, Honore.”

She could only make out the shape of his face and sparkle of eyes drinking in what light remained in the room. “I thank you,” she said, but still she turned her shoulder to him as she tucked the gorget beneath her chin. She drank half the ale before joining him in picking viands from the platter.

“Forgive me,” she choked when their fingers brushed, causing sensation to spring up her arm. Fool, she silently berated, he does not warrant nor want such feeling. Beware lest your heart turns in a direction that leads nowhere but ache.

A short while later, he said near her ear, “We are watched. And closely.”

Keeping her chin down lest his eyes had adjusted well enough to see what she would not have him see, she turned her face toward his. “Are we in danger?”

“Methinks more than those four do they move upon us ere our numbers match theirs.”

Hoping the squire and boy would soon appear, dissuading the men at the corner table from acting against a knight and the woman with whom he kept company, Honore said, “What should I do?”

“Eat.” He reached to the viands. “But be prepared to act as I order should they approach.”

She chose a piece of cheese that went down so dry she had to follow it with ale.

As she lowered the tankard, one of the men rose.

“Another bite,” Elias said low and, as his left hand moved to his dagger angled in the space between them, she chose a slice of meat.

The tall man said naught until he reached them, and when he spoke it was out of the depths of a hood that, in the absence of candlelight, revealed little of his face. “Sir Knight, I understand you seek passage across the channel,” he spoke in the French of the noble.

Elias stared at the one who had either overheard the conversation with the innkeeper or been informed of it when the woman served him and his companions.

Wishing he had not snuffed the candle to provide Honore privacy, Elias said, “You are?”

In the strained voice of one who either much abused it or sought to render it unrecognizable, he said, “One upon whom you need not draw a Wulfrith dagger, my son.”

Just because he addressed Elias as would one of the Church did not mean he was of the brotherhood. “Your name?” Elias asked again.

“Brother Christian of the Gilbertine Order. And you?”

Elias suppressed a startle when Honore’s hand gripped his thigh, and once more he regretted her accompaniment. Her fear was a distraction, and of greater detriment was the need to safeguard her. He glanced at the table whence this man came and, confirming the others remained seated, said, “Sir Elias De Morville.”

“I know the name. Your family holds French lands from our sovereign, and your sire is…” He paused as if to search his memory. “…Otto?”

If his knowledge was meant to put Elias at ease, it did, but not enough to lighten his grip on the dagger.

“May I sit?” Brother Christian nodded at the bench opposite Elias and Honore.

“You may.”

He lowered and folded his hands atop the table. “I am also in need of reaching France. Unlike you, I have the means to do so.”

“For what do you tell me this?”

“I require the services of a knight possessing the honor and skills of one trained at Wulfen.”

Though grateful for the reputation bestowed by Everard, Elias needed none to tell him he was less worthy than many who received that training. Thus, he availed himself of further training at Wulfen Castle each time he visited England in the hope one day he would prove capable of all expected of him by those who noted the dagger on his belt.

“Continue, Brother Christian.”

“I have business with the pope some would thwart by denying me and my brethren the right to depart England. Thus, in exchange for passage across the narrow sea, I would buy your protection. Do you agree and does the weather hold, we shall leave well ere first light ahead of the ships and boats whose numbers are too few to accommodate all who seek to reach France.”

His proposition appealed, but there was much he did not tell. “I guess it is not a ship you have secured, Brother Christian.”

The man grunted. “They are too well watched by those who wish to keep me from the pope.”

Here the reason for the search of those entering and exiting the town. “My party numbers four, including my squire and a boy,” Elias said. “Our horses number three.”

The man nodded. “The skiff that shall carry us across the channel can accommodate four more, but your horses will have to follow later, the arrangements for which I am sure the innkeeper will make for a few coins.” He reached beneath the table, set a purse on the wooden planks. “More than enough coin to hire worthy mounts in Boulogne.”

That place where the troupe had landed and might now perform. Tempted by the guarantee of passage for all even if he must collect their horses later, Elias asked, “Who thwarts you, Brother Christian?”

“One I loved as a brother who so loved me in return he entrusted me with the care of his son. One I would not have believed a tyrant until he revealed his love was contingent on the death of my conscience and betrayal of the Church.”

“Who?”

“It matters not. What matters is I reach France quickly.” He turned his head toward the woman beside Elias. “I know not the reason you are with this knight,” he said, “but methinks you must agree with what I offer, Honore.”

She gasped, voicing Elias’s own surprise, and her hand that had eased on his leg dug into it. “Do I know you?”

“We met at Bairnwood. Recognition of Abbess Abigail’s beloved servant and that your traveling companion is Wulfen-trained persuaded me to risk much in approaching you.”

Elias did not doubt the man’s revelation was meant to further assure the one whose service he hoped to engage that, as presented, he was a man of the Church. It did, though Elias hesitated as he recalled words so forcefully spoken past crossed quarterstaffs Everard’s saliva had wet his opponent’s face.

Here is a lesson, Elias Cant who can if he will but heed the instructor. Given time to plot and maneuver, engage the mind ere the muscles.

Then Everard had hooked a leg around Elias’s and sent him crashing to the ground.

“I think we must aid him,” Honore cut across the silence.

“I thank you,” Brother Christian said, and when still Elias did not respond, added, “I vow, Sir Knight, I am about God’s business.”

Which would sooner see Elias about the business of Hart. “Very well, my sword arm and that of my squire for passage across the channel ere first light.”

The man’s sigh was so long he hunched over it. “God is on my side,” he said, then more softly, “though I must needs tend my sheep from afar.” He lowered his head further, and Elias guessed he prayed. When he rose, he said, “Let us beseech the Lord for kind seas and gain whatever sleep can be had.”

As he started to turn away, Elias said. “I do not require your coin, Brother Christian. Passage only.”

Though it remained too dark beneath the man’s hood to make sense of his visage, what sounded like tears were in his voice when he said, “God bless you, my son.”

After he returned to his companions, Elias looked to Honore and saw the gorget once more covered her lower face. “You do not know him?”

Her shrug was tense. “I do not recognize his voice and name, but that does not mean we have not met. I have been at Bairnwood all my life and oft I join the abbess and her visitors to speak of our work with foundlings.”

All her life… That which he did not seek of her distracting him from what he sought, he guessed her a foundling. Whether conceived by a noblewoman sent to secretly birth her misbegotten babe at the abbey or born to a commoner who set her out in the wood, it must account for her devotion to abandoned babes.

He moved his thoughts back a space. Had her mother been a commoner, for what had she put out her infant? Poverty? Illegitimacy? A defect of birth?

That last drew his gaze to the gorget he had been told was worn for the sake of modesty. A lie? He had seen Honore without it but not clearly. The only thing of note in the dark of night had been blood running from nose to chin. Had it hidden something of which she was ashamed? A mark of birth like that which caused Lettice to reject her son? For this was Honore so fond of Hart?

Her hand came up, touched the covering as if to ensure it had not slipped.

Rebuking himself for making her uncomfortable over something that did not matter, he reminded himself of what mattered and said, “Then we have only the man’s word and his recognition of you to establish he is as he claims.”

She averted her gaze, lowered her hand and cupped it over the other at her waist. “Likely a Brother Christian visited Bairnwood. Perhaps in daylight I shall recognize him.”

Once more her response bothered. Had it a false note? Or was it but weighted by undue attention shown her? Or fatigue over the long ride that put her claim to horsemanship to a test she had struggled to pass?

Before he could probe further, two entered the inn. Packs slung over their shoulders, they stamped mud from their boots and crossed to their lord. And learned what the darkest of morn held for all.