Becket.

Though an hour had passed since he who called himself Brother Christian picked his way past the oarsmen to the bow and dropped his hood to watch the sun rise, only now did he turn and reveal the lie.

It was many years since Elias had performed for nobles that included one who had been King Henry’s chancellor before being further raised from modest beginnings to the office of Archbishop of Canterbury, but Elias knew the long, albeit somewhat fuller face. Yet handsome, it boasted a broad brow, large eyes no longer bright with good humor, aquiline nose, and firm mouth whose spread on this first day of self-imposed exile flashed no teeth.

A greater risk on both sides than you yet know, my son, he had said.

Elias De Morville, his family vassals of the Duke of Normandy—a man yet more powerful for also being England’s king—had aided in snatching from Henry who ought not be crossed a man who stood far above the lowest rungs of the Church. So far that Thomas Becket would have the pope’s ear providing the sea churned by the wind billowing the sails did not turn deadly.

“Dear Lord,” Elias rasped, “what have I done?”

The holy man raised the hand he had pressed to his belly, beckoned to the one who had not felt less worthy since Sir Everard bestowed knighthood with a slap to the face made all the more memorable for leaving Elias bruised.

“Sir Elias!”

The shout roused several, including Theo and two brethren, but it was the lifting of Honore’s head where Cynuit and she huddled on one side of the boat that captured his regard. Her gaze flew to the archbishop, and when next it flew to Elias, her eyes widened further.

Alarm because only now she realized who had secured the services of one whose fealty belonged to Duke Henry? Or because she had known the identity of Brother Christian and feared Elias’s anger? Hoping the former, ignorance far easier to forgive than deception, Elias crossed to her.

That she did not avoid his gaze breeding more hope she was innocent, he said, “You know who that is?”

Her nod was wary.

“When did you first know?”

Movement behind the gorget told she moistened her lips. “With certainty…now.”

Though the qualifier condemned her, he was loath for it to do so. “Last eve you suspected he was more than a Gilbertine? That he is the one with whom your king quarrels?”

Her throat bobbed. “I am sorry, but the sooner we reach France—”

“The sooner you reach France!” Feeling the sharpening of eyes upon them, he bent near. “You who I told was not needed. You whose guile and recklessness further endangers the boy. You whose thoughtlessness could see me and mine stripped of our lands. You who for all your modesty know well how to move a man beyond his purpose.”

Tears wetting eyes whose beauty he refused to acknowledge, she offered no further defense.

“I would speak with you, Sir Knight!” Thomas called.

Elias straightened, considered the man in the bow, then slashed his gaze to the betrayer. “You and I are done, Honore of Bairnwood. When we reach France, I shall leave you at the nearest abbey.”

“What of Hart?”

“He is my responsibility. You did your part in saving him from the beasts of the wood, now I shall save him from the beasts of mankind.” Salty air whipping hair across his brow, he strode to the archbishop who stood several inches taller than he. Elias bowed, took the hand offered, and noting the absence of an extravagant ring that would have revealed he was no mere priest, kissed Thomas’s knuckles.

“Your Grace,” he said, the honorific returning him to the struggle to reach the skiff. It was as Honore had named the man, though Elias thought it God she called upon to save him and his squire. She may not have been certain of Brother Christian’s identity, but certain enough she should have alerted Elias.

Thomas the archbishop resettled his hand on his belly. Grimacing as if pained by the boat’s movement across water he surely prayed did not turn more turbulent, he considered the knight, during which Elias wondered if he was recognized as one who had years past woven for the chancellor and other nobles a tale of the Norman Conquest of England. Not likely. Elias had been considerably younger and painted his face in the manner for which his troupe was known.

“I hope you will forgive me the deception, my son. As feared, it was necessary to gain your aid, and methinks we both know you would have been loath to give it had you known whom you acted against.”

“Henry.”

Thomas inclined his head. “A man who thinks naught of gaining something against one’s honor and, upon attaining it, regards the corrupted as contemptibly weak. He whom I so happily took to heart I did not see my folly, too late realizing one such as he ought to be approached with the greatest restraint and fewest words.”

“I do not question your analysis nor your regret, Your Grace, but it does not change that I answer to one who is owed the fealty of me and mine.”

“I understand, but surely you know there is another to whom you answer first.” He looked heavenward. “If you believe God appointed Henry Plantagenet King of England, you must accept our heavenly father as Henry’s sovereign—our sovereign above all no matter how magnificent the earthly crowns His appointed wear.”

“I do not argue that. I argue against answering to you. You claim to be God’s representative on Earth, but so do those who oppose you in standing Henry’s side. You believe you know God’s mind, and perhaps you do, but until I am blessed with greater discernment, I know not who speaks true. Now, rather than stay the side of the one I serve here on Earth, your deception renders me a traitor.”

The archbishop laid a hand on Elias’s shoulder. “My deception. To that I shall attest should the king learn you aided me.”

As if Henry would heed a man now his enemy…

Dear Lord, Elias silently bemoaned, mayhap I should have remained a commoner, a performer, a poet. Had the spare heir not returned home to be groomed to take Otto De Morville’s place, Elias’s uncle could have been heir. And surely his actions would not have threatened to ruin the family.

Elias berated himself for not staying current on England’s politics that would have put meat on the bone of suspicion that made him reconsider his bargain with Brother Christian.

Tidings of the growing rift between Henry and his archbishop had crossed the channel, and much had been made of the disagreement unraveling the friendship that had once roused nearly as much talk as when Henry wed Eleanor of Aquitaine. As Otto’s heir and vassal to Henry, Elias had attended to the tidings as seriously as he was able. But upon learning he might be a father, he had become nearly deaf to them as he put his affairs in order the sooner to sail for England.

Knowing he had violated one or more Wulfrith lessons, he said, “I do not mean to be disrespectful, Your Grace, but if your disagreement with King Henry has so widened you must flee England, I see no worth in you defending me.”

Pain shot across the man’s face, but not from Elias’s words as told by the hand on his belly that curled into a fist and the groan suppressed behind colorless lips.

Elias gripped his arm. “Your Grace?”

“I suffer from disturbed digestion, but the sea…” He shook his head. “All the more it makes havoc of my infirmity.”

“You ought to sit.”

“Not until I set eyes on France.” He glanced over his shoulder, sighed. “You are right, my son. My defense would be of no benefit, but be assured never will I or my brethren speak of what you did for us.”

Of little consolation. The clash with the patrol and the skiff’s escape would lead to an investigation to discover who had fled England. And were the innkeeper questioned and did she reveal she accepted coin to arrange for the transport of horses, those who sought the archbishop might find De Morville. Though Elias had not provided his surname, that which he had called himself while performing with the troupe—Cant—could lead to him, even if he did not reclaim those worthy mounts.

“As I would not further impose on you,” Thomas said, “I will understand if you wish to part ways as soon as we are ashore.”

Ashore where Elias would make arrangements for Honore’s return to England. “May I ask if you plan to pause at an abbey, Your Grace?”

The archbishop hesitated as if questioning whether to trust Elias with his plans, said, “My man, Herbert of Bosham, traveled to France ahead of me. We shall reunite at the abbey of Clairmarais.”

That holy place of both monks and nuns, Elias reflected.

As if guessing the reason behind the inquiry, Thomas said, “You are angry with Honore of Bairnwood.” When Elias did not respond, the archbishop sighed. “A risk I took in revealing she and I had met, but as it seemed the greatest obstacle to securing your aid was doubt I was of the Church, I chanced it. I but hoped in keeping my face hidden and disguising my voice she would not guess my identity—and did she suspect, she would say naught.” He nodded. “For this a great division grows between you.”

He made it sound as wide as that between Henry and him. Was it? Resenting memories of the night past when he held Honore and thought…

What had he thought? Or had he thought? Certes, he had felt. But what?

Naught, he told himself. “Against my better judgment,” he said, “I allowed the woman to accompany me to search for a boy I may have fathered. Now her silence could cost me and mine all.”

Thomas frowned. “You speak of one of her foundlings?”

“I do. When I learned of his existence, I journeyed to England to claim him if he is mine and discovered he was stolen from the abbey six months past.”

The archbishop’s gaze sharpened. “For what was he stolen?”

“A large mark of birth on his face resembling—”

“Britain,” Thomas said, that knowledge surely gained when he visited Bairnwood and met Honore. And, it seemed, Hart.

Thomas nodded. “Remarkable it is, though I did not look as near and long upon it as did Prince Henry.”

The King of England’s heir, Elias realized, having forgotten Thomas had once fostered the boy. As told whilst under cover of the name Brother Christian, once he was greatly esteemed by a man now his foe.

“For that you believe he was taken?” Thomas asked.

“I do.”

“By whom? And what makes you think he is in France?”

“You have heard of Théâtre des Abominations?”

The archbishop’s eyes widened. “I petitioned King Henry to eject that foul troupe from England when we met at Clarendon Palace ere…” He rubbed his head. “Ere I realized the slope upon which I found myself was so steep I might lose my footing and yield up my life.” He looked past Elias. “I fear I shall not see England again.”

Might he know something of the troupe that would aid in locating Hart? Elias wondered as he waited for him to resume their conversation. When he did, it was in no way welcome.

“Honore approaches, De Morville. Doubtless, you will not like my expression of gratitude, but it is her due as the Lord would agree.”