How know you of the babe? And what?”

Straight-fingered Arblette raised one of those fingers, and Elias thought it ironic it had a bend to it, then the man looked to the pretty girl who approached the table chosen for its relative privacy at the back of the inn Elias had insisted on over the dilapidated alehouse.

“There ye be!” She lowered two of four tankards—so hard ale slopped and dripped between the planks onto Elias’s boots. “I be back for me coin.”

As she turned toward a table occupied by a half dozen men, several of whom seemed overly interested in Elias and his companion, Arblette slapped her rear.

She gasped, teasingly protested, “Naughty!” and swayed away.

Lifting his tankard, Arblette returned his regard to Elias. “Not as naughty as she wishes me to be.” His grin would have been all teeth were he not missing several. “But I aim to marry better, so unless she defies her brute of a father, she must needs be content with pats and pinches.”

Then given the chance, he would ruin the lass without ruffling his conscience. Disliking him more, Elias searched out the owner of the inn in which he and his squire had taken a room for the night. The man was of good size, his fat bettered by a greater amount of muscle that bunched as he stared at the one overly familiar with his daughter.

Arblette was not the only patron to trespass, a man at a nearby table hooking an arm around the young woman’s waist as she delivered his tankard.

Again she protested, though without teasing, then swatted free. And yet it was at Arblette her father continued to stare.

“You have your ale,” Elias said. “Now tell how you know of Lettice’s babe.”

He took a long draught, belched. “I know ’cause my grandsire disposed of that devil-licked thing.”

Though rarely moved to violence outside of defending himself and others, Elias curled his fingers into a fist atop the table. “Disposed?”

“Ah, now!” Arblette splayed a hand as if to ward off an attack. “Not that way, milord, though ’twas as my grandsire was paid to do.”

Then the child was not dead? Or had he been snuffed out in a supposedly more humane manner than exposure to the elements and beasts of the wood?

“What way?”

“The way of a good Christian.” He took another drink, wiggled his eyebrows. “Albeit one in need of funds.”

As Elias tensed further in preparation to lunge across the table, the serving girl reappeared. “Give over, milord.”

He drew breath between his teeth, opened the purse his squire had delivered him upon his return to the inn, and dropped a coin in her palm that more than covered the ale. “Go.”

She gave a squeak of delight and trotted away.

“That there coin buys me three more fills!” Arblette called.

Laughing, she flicked a hand as if to rid herself of a fly.

He dropped his smile. “Tell milord, how much would you pay for a look inside my head?”

Elias shifted his cramped jaw, dug two more coins from his purse, and pushed them across the table.

Arblette grunted. “Since we seem to be talkin’ about yer son, surely more is warranted.”

Elias raised his eyebrows. “If what you know is useful.”

The man blew breath up his face, causing straight black hair to fly upward and settle aslant on his brow. “You are good for it?”

“As told, if what you know bears fruit.”

Arblette leaned across the table. “Seven, mayhap eight years gone, the mother of your harlot—er, Lettice,” he corrected as Elias’s face warmed, “sent for my grandsire. It was to him all ’round these parts turned when they could not stomach ridding themselves of undesirables.”

Senses warning he and Arblette had become of greater interest, Elias glanced around. Though the voices of those unconcerned with what transpired at this table ensured privacy, he further lowered his own. “Undesirables?”

“Unwanted babes, whether of the lesser sex when ’tis a son a man needs, sickly, deformed, misbegotten, or devil-marked like your boy.”

“Continue.”

“My grandsire was paid for the disposal of Lettice’s newborn son.” Hastily, he added, “Though as told, not the usual sort of disposal.”

“What sort?”

“Whilst setting out a babe some years before, my grandsire was approached by one who offered to pay him for all those destined to breathe their last in the wood.” He raised a hand to keep Elias from speaking. “He agreed, as ever it was with heavy heart he did what needed doing and he was certain whatever their fate it was better than death by abandonment. A decent man he was. Now what she does with those babes…”

A woman then, but for what purpose did she buy undesirables?

“I pray…” Arblette’s voice caught, and he gripped his hands atop the table as if to address heaven. “I pray the Lord forgives my grandsire and me for whatever part we played in that woman’s ungodly schemes.”

Chill crept through Elias. He was not superstitious—rather, not foolishly so—but he knew there was evil in the world eager to manifest itself through weak men and women, whether they acted on behalf of the devil or in their own interest.

Arblette looked up from white-knuckled hands. “Though in the beginning my grandsire thought her intentions good, that she provided for the babes as best she could, he began to suspect she was sent by the devil to claim his brood and those whose only sin was of being born of poverty and shame.”

He believed she gave the babes to the devil? Through sacrifice?

Now it was Elias who addressed heaven. Lord, not that. Heart making its beat felt, he said, “What roused his suspicion?”

“Ever she denied him her name. Ever she kept her face hidden. Ever she appeared within hours of him marking the tree beneath which he was to leave a babe.”

“How was the tree marked?”

“As instructed, a rope tied ’round its trunk.”

Elias jutted his chin. “What else?”

“Were she not walking hand in hand with the devil, she would have to dwell near to daily pass that portion of the wood to verify the rope was present, and only once a month—more usual every other month—the tree was marked. And yet ever she appeared when summoned, and for all the babes given into her care over the years, there is no evidence of her or them in these parts.”

“No others have seen her?”

“Only my grandsire and I.”

Elias narrowed his eyes. “Once he suspected her intentions, why did he continue selling her babes?”

Arblette raised his palms apologetically. “Not being of a superstitious nature, I dissuaded him from such thinking. And when I began to believe as he did, I reminded myself—and him—the undesirables were destined for unconsecrated ground. Thus, already their souls were lost.” Moisture gathered in his eyes. “It was selfish, but her coin put more food in our bellies, better clothed us, and made the lean winters more bearable.”

Elias wondered how much was truth and how much fiction. And hoped the latter was heavily weighted, that this was an act to gain more coin. Not only did the life of the boy who might be his son depend on it, but the lives of other innocents.

“I would speak with your grandsire.”

Arblette blinked. “Did I not say? A slow sickness laid him abed two years past, and a year later I put him in the ground. God have mercy on his soul.” He touched a hand to his heart. “Hence, the business is mine.”

“You call it a business?” Elias struggled with anger so sharp he hardly knew himself—he who preferred to laugh, tease, riddle, and arrange words pleasing to heart and soul.

“What else to call it, milord? A business it was, and a fair good one with coins from the wretched mothers one side and coins from the faceless woman the other side.”

“Was? It is no longer your business?”

Arblette winced. “Still I perform a much-needed service, but no more do I take coin from the one who paid me better than the mothers.”

“Why? Have you now proof of those babes’ fate rather than mere suspicion?”

Arblette rubbed his temple as if pained. “The last time I delivered a babe to—well, let us call her what she is—the witch, I prayed for the Lord’s protection and followed her, and what I saw…”

“What did you see?”

“I did not stay for all of it. I could not, it grieved and frightened me so, but ’twas an unholy ritual. She danced around a fire in the wood, chanted, and held the babe aloft as if in offering. I vowed then to never again summon her no matter how great my need for coin. And I have not these three months, though my purse is hardly felt upon my belt.”

Elias continued to watch him closely, well aware among his own shortcomings was gullibility resulting from the need to believe the best of others. It was the poet in him…the teller of tales…the composer of songs. But as for the actor in him, that side was of little use in determining if this man he hardly knew wore a face not his own.

“You think all the babes dead?” he asked.

“I do not. Though surely a great many have been consigned to the dirt, methinks some rove amongst us in search of good Christians to enlist in service to the devil.”

Vile superstition, but therein the possibility the babe, who would now be a boy, lived. A boy in need of a father.

Arblette leaned farther across the table. “Most unusual twins were born in our village a year past. Joined they were—here.” He tapped his chest. “Though sickly, I gave them into the care of the witch thinking they would be comforted as life left them. Then, not long ago I heard rumor such babes are exploited by a troupe of performers who charge to look upon the spectacle, and for it King Henry has ordered their company to leave England.”

“You believe the woman sold them?” Elias said through his teeth.

“I know not what to believe, but it makes one question if the babe I gave—”

“Sold!”

The man lowered his chin, nodded. “Now I wonder if ’tis a business for her as well and what other babes suffer that fate. If your son…” He fell silent, providing time in which to imagine Lettice’s babe exploited for his marked face.

Elias wished the man would look up so his emotions could be read, but when finally he did, he went behind his tankard and drained its contents.

“I must know more about the woman,” Elias said.

Arblette tapped the table. “As told, my business is not as lucrative as it was.”

Elias removed two more coins and pushed them to the man who swept them into his palm.

“I know not her face.”

“As already told.”

“I know not her name.”

Elias glowered.

“I know not whence she hails.”

“But you know how to summon her to dispose of babes,” Elias growled.

“True, but do you recall, I vowed never again to do so no matter how much she offers.”

“What of my coin?”

Arblette raised his eyebrows, motioned to the serving girl. “All this talk makes me dry.”

Grudgingly, Elias waited as the knave’s vessel was refilled. This time Arblette pinched the girl, eliciting a squeal.

Seemingly unconcerned by the anger leveled at him by the innkeeper, Arblette said, “What do you propose, milord?”

Elias set before him a purse of a size slightly larger than the one given Lettice, this one holding a quarter of his remaining coin. “Half now, half when you deliver the woman to me.”

Arblette stared at the offering. “May I?”

Elias loosened the strings and spread the leather to reveal the contents against a silken red lining.

Arblette whistled low.

“Agreed?” Elias said.

“I can but summon the witch under pretense I have another babe to dispose of.” He raised his eyebrows. “’Tis for you to capture her ere she disappears in a sudden fog—which she does sometimes. I would not have the wrath of one such as that fall on me, especially as I am no mighty warrior as your blade proclaims you to be.”

The Wulfrith dagger on his hip, worn not only as a matter of pride but to warn any who thought to set upon its bearer.

“When I have her in hand,” Elias said, “you shall have the second half of your coin—though no clearer conscience if you continue to believe the Lord approves of leaving his loveliest creation in the wood to die.”

“Loveliest…” Arblette snorted. “You may say that of babes merely unwanted for poverty’s sake, the lack of food taking them a bit later than were they left to the wood, but you cannot say that of those sinful creatures born out of wedlock and abominations come forth with misshapen heads and bodies and marked faces.” He nodded. “I do the Lord a service.”

Who crawls beneath my skin? Elias wondered. Not even when foul trickery caused him to yield Lady Beata Fauvel—now Marshal—to an unwanted marriage had he so longed to harm another. Prayer was what he needed. And assurance the boy he may have fathered was not in need of rescue.

He cinched the purse, shoved it at the man. “Summon her.”