All was falling dark when the skiff gently slid onto the shore of Oye in Boulogne as if eased out of God’s palm.

After offloading the passengers a league distant from the port of Gravelines, the captain took payment from one of the brethren and he and his crew put out to sea again.

When it became evident Thomas was so sick of stomach and weakened by exhaustion he was unable to complete the journey to Gravelines without assistance, Elias sent Theo with one of the archbishop’s companions to secure mounts though it was unlikely any of worth would be found in the small community near the sea.

They returned with a single packhorse less worthy than expected. However, the animal sufficed to carry Thomas, allowing their party of eight to reach the town two hours after nightfall.

Just as throughout the remainder of the channel crossing following the audience with the archbishop, no further word passed between Elias and Honore as they walked to Gravelines with Elias at the fore and his squire bringing up the rear.

At last they reached a wayside inn. The aid given Thomas having already greatly endangered the De Morvilles, Elias determined it best the two parties enter separately. But though tempted to consign Honore to the brethren, a single woman amongst men of God would draw more notice. Too, as he had not considered in Sandwich, it would be better if she appeared to be his wife. He did not like it, but as wroth as he was with her and the archbishop, he would protect both.

After the brethren aided in Thomas’s dismount in the alley between inn and stables, Elias said, “Have any a small ring that can be set upon Honore’s hand?”

“For what?” she asked.

“This eve you play a knight’s wife. Granted, a humble, modest one.”

Her eyes widened, and he thought she might protest, but Thomas said, “I have one.” He raised hands above the cuffs of wide, hanging sleeves and tugged a ring from his smallest finger. “It may be too large, but do you keep your fingers together, none need know it was not given by Sir Elias.” He extended it.

When she remained unmoving, Elias took it. “Given by Sir Elias, indeed,” he said and lifted her hand, “though I do not know it will make the part easier to play.” He slid the ring on. It was loose, but not noticeably so.

Her eyes rose from the simply elegant band, and he thought he glimpsed hurt there.

“Done,” he said and looked to Thomas. “We go in first. If all appears safe, I will send Theo to you. When you enter, note where we sit and choose a table in back of us and well within sight so I can protect you should it be necessary.”

The archbishop inclined his head. “We thank you, Sir Knight.”

Elias looked to those he claimed as his own though Honore would not much longer be among their ranks. “Speak little, listen much,” he said, then took her arm and led her forward with the other two on their heels.

The inn was fairly crowded, forcing Elias to claim a central table not easily defensible should any think to increase their fortunes by setting on a nobleman surely in possession of far more coin than they.

After seating Honore to his right, he took the chair facing the entrance and motioned Theo into the one across from him so the squire could watch those at the rear. Cynuit dropped into the chair to Elias’s left, lowered his head to the table, and sighed.

Elias could not deny the lad reprieve due one his age who had not complained despite being ill throughout the crossing and weak of knees as they made their way to Gravelines.

Once the other occupants of the inn were assessed and Elias determined who should be watched, he nodded for his squire to signal the brethren.

As Theo strode to the door, Honore set a hand on Elias’s arm. “We are safe?”

Hating so simple a touch could make him overly aware of the space between them, he said, “We are not.” When fear surfaced the beautiful blue, he added, “But the risk is acceptable.”

She withdrew her hand.

As Elias ordered drinks and viands, Theo returned. Minutes later, the four men of God entered and garnered more interest than had Elias’s party though all kept their heads covered as they strode amongst the tables. They passed, and he heard them take the table behind and to the left.

The din increased as others joined or began conversations, but there was a low hum about the inn, calling to mind wisdom imparted by the greatest trainer of knights, Baron Wulfrith.

Listen for the small voices, whether your own or others’. Oft they are small only because they carry such depth of meaning they have either come out of hiding or seek to hide.

Elias hoped he was wrong about those voices but doubted it. Aboard the skiff he had heard talk between the oarsmen of Thomas’s flight from Northampton a fortnight past, the many days it had taken to reach Sandwich evidencing his route had been circuitous to evade capture. Likely, word of it had spread to France.

Though it could not be known he had reached these shores, his arrival must be expected. It was confirmed when Elias heard a man to his left rasp, “Do you think it him?”

Lord, Elias silently appealed, if any move beyond speculation, I may have to offer further protection. Pray, let Thomas and his brethren be discreet.

After the serving woman delivered drink and food, the furrowing of Theo’s brow as he looked past Elias made his lord raise an eyebrow.

The young man leaned forward on the pretense of gaining a handful of nuts on the far side of the platter. “They have lowered their hoods, my lord.”

Elias tensed, though greater suspicion over the holy men could be roused if they kept their faces concealed. Reaching to Theo’s side of the platter, he pinched a piece of rye bread. “Are there shadows enough to conceal him?”

“Oui. He seated himself well, but…”

Theo glanced up at the serving woman who bustled past their table. “He is notable—his height, bearing, air of authority. If he speaks, I fear—”

The archbishop did speak, ordering for him and his companions in a voice that, though not loud, impressed upon listeners his refined diction and fluency of speech.

Silently naming him a fool, Elias wondered how Thomas had risen so far in station.

“He is going to reveal himself,” Honore said low, and Elias saw her look sidelong at Thomas.

“Whatever happens,” he said to her and Cynuit who lifted his head to partake of the meal, “you are to stay clear and await my command or Theo’s.”

Both nodded, and lest their table draw too much attention, Elias took a draught of ale and set about decimating the food—no difficult thing as hungry as he was.

Naught untoward happened as the newest arrivals at the inn availed themselves of drink and food. However, after the serving woman retrieved the empty platters, one whose orders to those attending the patrons told he was the innkeeper, approached the brethren’s table.

Though the man’s smile seemed genuine, Elias set a hand on his sword hilt and discreetly placed his feet and angled his body to launch himself from the chair.

“A fine establishment you have here,” Thomas greeted the man.

“Lord, I thank God I am deemed worthy for you to grace my home.”

Above Elias’s inward groan, he heard Honore’s sound of distress, but he did not spring to Thomas’s defense. From the innkeeper’s manner, it was not he who could prove a danger to the archbishop beyond the prideful words that could rouse those sympathetic to King Henry.

“Who am I, then?” Thomas asked with what seemed genuine confusion. “Am I not but Brother Christian?”

When the innkeeper spoke again, his voice was so low Elias barely heard. “I know you are a great man, though your king spreads tidings far and wide that Thomas, formerly Archbishop of Canterbury, fled the realm like a traitor.”

As if pained by the denouncement, Thomas was slow to respond. “You do me great honor.” Acquiescence carried upon his words. “I am in your debt, and more greatly shall I be if you have even the smallest, barest room in which my brethren and I may pass the night.”

“The inn is full, Your Grace, but you shall have my quarters.”

Elias did not catch Thomas’s response but knew it was of acceptance when he heard chairs scape as they parted ways with the table. Sidelong, he watched the brethren cross the room and ascend the stairs behind the innkeeper.

“What will you do?” Honore asked.

Elias glanced at Theo, noted Cynuit’s head was down again. “It seems the holy man with no place to lay his head has found a room at the inn. It is we who shall bed down in the stables.”

“And come the morrow?” Theo asked.

“Much depends on whether I am able to learn anything of the troupe, and that I shall seek to do whilst you, Honore, and Cynuit gain your rest.” He glanced at the bar. “If there is anything to be known, there is where I shall find it.” And he knew how to extract information that aroused the least amount of suspicion. He would turn performer, donning the behavior of a nobleman so eager to gain respite from a nagging wife he appeared to consume great quantities of drink whilst playing on the advances of any woman who saw him as easy coin. Though particularly averse to the latter that made ruin of Sisters of Mary by men who then named them Daughters of Eve, his attentions would not progress beyond a public embrace.

“Regardless,” Elias said, “on the morrow we shall see the brethren set upon the road to Clairmarais so Thomas may rendezvous with his man.”

Clairmarais, Honore mused, a Cistercian abbey inhabited by monks as well as nuns. “You intend to set me upon that same road,” she said.

“The archbishop will arrange for your return to England. If Cynuit wishes to enter my service he may. If not, he shall accompany you.”

She stood, looked to the squire. “I am tired. Will you escort Cynuit and me to the stables?”

You have no right to be angry with Elias, she told herself as Theo pushed upright. But she was and not only because he readied to leave her behind. He should not be so considerate and accommodating ere she gave him cause to be otherwise. Had he continued to treat her like the witch he first thought her, she might not have known how much more loss she must contain beyond that of Hart.

It was silly to feel this way about a man she hardly knew, especially one as far out of reach as was heaven for Lettice’s murderer. The archbishop having seen she moved in a hopeless direction, she could not deny she had arrived—and wearing Elias’s ring that was not truly his. Nor hers.

I do not love him, she told herself.

But you could, she dissented.

She turned, not for the first time noted the regard of the servant who attended tables on the other side of the room. The woman’s eyes were all for Elias. Though she possessed a fairly plain face, were it as flawless as it appeared, she would be more appealing than the woman believed to be the knight’s wife.

Shortly, Theo, Cynuit, and Honore made their beds in a large, vacant stall strewn with fresh straw by the stable boy given a coin to make it as comfortable as possible.

Too much aware of the loose ring on her hand, Honore did not expect to sleep, but she did. For a while.

Theo breathed deeply. Cynuit snored softly. And Elias…

He yet sought information inside the inn. Or slept elsewhere.

Leaning against the stable wall to which she had put her back upon awakening, slowly rolling the ring on her finger, Honore peered through darkness at the bit of light between the stalls on this side of the building and the other side.

Feeling far from rested, she guessed the day she had crossed the channel had yielded to the day she would be abandoned here. And just as she would not likely remain long in France, quite possibly she would not see Hart—or Elias—again.

Throat tightening, she told herself to return to sleep. But she did not move off the wall even when she caught the grumblings of another also come to bed down in the stables.

“We were of an understanding, she and I, then he—”

“Hush on you, lad,” a gruff voice rebuked. “There is nothing to be done.”

“But he—”

“Is a nobleman. Always the greater coin and stronger, cleaner body take the prize.”

“And the greater sin,” the younger one snarled as the two briefly appeared in the aisle between the stalls. “Was that not the knight’s wife with him?”

Honore ceased turning the ring at the realization it was Elias who offended.

“It would seem, lad. But pity the man wed to one either so frigid with modesty she can be no fiery brick in the marital bed or so unsightly she must cover near all her face.”

“Then he should not have wed her!”

He had not—and would not—Honore thought and became aware of a weight on her chest. It was not all imagined, she realized when she looked to her ringed hand pressed between her breasts.

She closed her eyes, wished the pain there had naught to do with her heart, that Elias’s tryst but made her question the character she had deemed honorable enough to safely travel with him unchaperoned. She believed it was the seeking of information that made him remain in the bar, but to learn it had become more for one whose final words to Lettice so touched her…

Regardless, all the more reason not to enlighten him about the possibility Finwyn had fathered Hart. And all the more reason to keep hidden what Elias would think unsightly at best, poor luck at worst.

The quieting of footsteps told the men must have found a stall to accommodate them, the only sound above that of disturbed horses being groans of relief.

Honore removed her hand from her chest, hooked fingers in the gorget, and dragged it down. She touched the imperfect bow on the right side, slid a finger up the unnatural ridge.

Unsightly, as Lady Yolande and others at Bairnwood named it though the abbess scorned such. Like Abbess Abigail, Lady Susanna had called it a small thing, and that it would be were it upon one’s arm. It was altogether different on one’s face, especially that of a woman. Were Honore a man, it could be esteemed as a scar won in battle, and were the one who bore it other than a fighting man, facial hair could cover it. However, among other less than desirable circumstances of birth, Honore had been born a woman, though not even such a woman as the one with whom Elias now kept company.

She cringed over that last regret. Though that woman might be in the arms of a man for whom Honore felt, she could not envy one who gave body, dignity, and faith for coin, whether out of desperation, desire, or both.

This defect of birth could be tenfold worse, and still she would be blessed not to be the one upon whom Elias might now father another Hart.

She eased down the wall. And did not cry.