No sleep, but much had come of the night.

Elias’s vigil on a stool at the bar yielded up tidings of a troupe recently arrived from England that had passed through Gravelines a sennight gone as they journeyed to Saint-Omer, a fort northeast of Thomas’s destination of Clairmarais Abbey. Though the troupe may have moved on, it was there Elias would journey even if only to learn their next destination. God willing, it was the same troupe that made perversion of those born different from others.

Elias had also learned more about that which caused the Archbishop of Canterbury to flee England. Having refused to give way on the rights of the Church which King Henry wished bent to his will, Thomas found himself accused of embezzling royal funds whilst he held the office of chancellor.

Elias could not know if there was truth to the charge, but the heart with which he ought not think was moved to believe it was an attempt to control a man determined to answer to his heavenly sovereign ahead of his earthly one.

That hard stool had been of further benefit, allowing Elias to ensure a measure of safety for the brethren sleeping overhead. Had a commotion ensued, in moments he could have been abovestairs with sword in hand.

The serving woman who had often sought his gaze across the room whilst he was at meal had furthered his purpose, aiding his performance so none would question it. She had hung on his shoulder, shared his drink, and several times scooted onto his lap. Once the tables were mostly vacated he had made it appear he so succumbed to drink he could not move from the bar.

Clumsily, he had removed coins from his purse, pressed them into her hand, then dropped his head atop the leather bag—a seemingly drunken move that ensured none cut his purse from his belt.

The woman had departed, and during the hours remaining of night, Elias made it appear he slept off his stupor. It gave him time in which to think on all that had transpired these past days. And the woman he must pardon for the greater role in the part she had unwittingly played when he conspired with Finwyn to summon her. Before he left her at the abbey, he would forgive her.

Now once more leading the brethren, this time along a fairly well-traveled road to Clairmarais and Saint-Omer beyond, Elias’s head throbbed from lack of sleep and disquiet over an encounter with a mounted knight an hour past.

The young man and his companions had indulged in falconry, as evidenced by a prize bird on the knight’s wrist.

Thomas’s hood had been down. Had that not raised suspicion amongst those who surely knew the Archbishop of Canterbury sought sanctuary in France, his great interest in the gyrfalcon would have. Of the exploits abandoned upon his resignation of the chancellorship to devote himself to his new position with the Church, probably best known was his passion for falconry.

Thus, shortly after the young knight bestowed on Elias a scornful lift of the eyebrows, doubtless over his fellow nobleman’s foul and mountless state, he had called out, “Is this not the errant Archbishop of Canterbury?”

Though enough distance was maintained between Elias’s party and the brethren to make it appear they but traveled the same road and lessen further exposing Elias to association with his liege’s enemy, he had readied mind and body to defend Thomas.

It had not been necessary, the guffawing of one of the brethren and scorn of another who said the pompous, extravagant archbishop would never lower himself to travel so humbly causing the hunting party to pass by without further comment.

Now a rumble raised Elias’s gaze to the darkening heavens no longer in a mood to delay the storm gathered to its bosom. Still, he would push their party to slog through it. He wanted to believe the young knight would forget the encounter, but danger lurked in the possibility he would revisit it, even if only to tell a good tale that could alert others the archbishop headed in the direction of Saint-Omer.

A quarter hour later, the rain added hail to its assault on the travelers, turning the road muddy and slippery.

It was the one who had avoided him all day—speaking few words and averting her gaze—who caused them to seek shelter when pelting ice knocked her slippered feet out from under her as it only threatened those who wore boots.

Cynuit reached her first, but Elias scooped her up.

Muddied chest pressed to his, she hooked an arm around his neck and set her face against his shoulder as he commanded all to follow him into the wood.

Shelter was not easily found, but finally Theo called from where he scouted ahead and led them to an outcropping of rock whose chiseled center was deep enough to offer protection from the onslaught and high enough for all to enter without bending.

“I thank you,” Honore murmured when set to her feet, then turned from Elias to adjust veil and gorget.

She was a mess and had made him one, but that was not the reason he begrudged aiding her. Despite her deception, too much he liked the feel of her.

While they waited out the weather, they partook of provisions provided by the innkeeper with whom Thomas had spent time in prayer before departing the inn.

Elias left Honore to herself while she ate apart from the others, but when it was clear she had finished, he decided to settle things between them as much as possible.

He crossed to where she sat with her back him. “I do it for Hart,” he said. “More easily I can aid him with you safely tucked away.”

Her head turned slightly toward him. “I understand.” There was no muffle to her voice, evidencing the gorget remained beneath her chin. “Is that all?”

It should be. “I also understand, Honore.”

“What?”

“The archbishop’s deception. Perhaps even yours.”

She secured the gorget, stood and turned. “I wish I had not deceived you, but I feared if you thought it the archbishop who would sooner deliver us to France, you would not give aid and it could be long ere a crossing was possible—days that could matter to Hart.”

Though it was dim and the storm beyond made it difficult for others to hear their exchange, Elias stepped nearer. “Days which would have been of no benefit to him had the guard at Sandwich intercepted us. Though we escaped, now the threat of disposal hangs over all that is not yet mine to dispose of.”

“I am sorry, but I believe the life of the boy who may be your son is more important. Too, you made a promise.”

He raised his eyebrows.

“I heard the words you spoke to Lettice. They were so heartfelt I believed you worthy of the trust required for me to travel with you.”

He did not want to return to that dark hovel and the one who had not been of great height but of a length of rope, but there he was again. Whither thou goest my heart’s first love, he had said to one long gone, I go not until your son is safe and justice done. My vow I give.

“If you meant it,” Honore said, “then I am justified in denying you the temptation of showing more concern for your lands than Lettice’s son.”

“I meant it,” he said sharply. “I will find Hart, but even to keep such a promise I would not become thief nor executioner.”

“Thief? Executioner?”

“Thoughtlessly endangering my family as it appears I have done. I would have given time to considering other means of retrieving the boy who may be—”

He closed his mouth. Though the miscreant with whom he had found the woman he loved could as easily be Hart’s father, in that moment he determined that no matter his sire’s disapproval and anger over a half-common boy bearing the family name, henceforth Hart of no surname had one. “I would have sought another means of more quickly retrieving Hart De Morville.”

Honore gasped at hearing him claimed. It warmed one side of her that found much to admire in Elias, chilled the other lest it prove a false claim that gave him naught to admire in her. Though she longed to seek confirmation he would stay true to his word even if he knew with certainty Hart was not his, she could not risk it—especially if it led him to consider the foul Finwyn had fathered the boy. If anything caused him to abandon his vow to Lettice, it would be that, whether out of distaste for the boy or Hart’s abduction being of less concern committed by a parent.

Elias sighed. “As difficult as you have made this for me and mine, I know you did what you believed was right. Now tell, what else do you keep from me?”

She dropped back a step.

His eyes momentarily closed. “There is something.”

Glad he gave her no opportunity to lie, she said, “Though later I may bear your wrath, it cannot be revealed.”

“When?”

“I do not know it will be necessary, but my word I give you will know it should you need to.”

His nostrils flared. “So just as I resolve to forgive your deception, I learn once more you would have me venture forth half blind.”

She gripped his arm. “What I do not tell has little bearing on what we do in France.” Providing, she did not say, he stayed true to his promise.

He glanced at her hand on him, and she saw what he saw—that which she had worked around and around since first it was placed there to proclaim her the wife she could never be.

“If what you withhold further harms my family, I do not know I will be able to forgive you, Honore.”

“I am aware.”

He pulled free and, as he started to turn away, said, “As soon as the weather lifts, we resume our journey.”

Clasping her right hand over the left, feeling the ring temporarily binding them, she said, “Elias?”

He looked around.

“I understand why you shall leave me at Clairmarais, but rather than arrange for my return to England, allow me to remain there until Hart is found so I may see him one last time and be assured he is well.”

Refusing her answer, he returned to the others.