Herbert of Bosham was shocked and made no pretense of it, even when Thomas chastised him for clucking over a grown man. But no further word did he speak on how wretched the archbishop appeared.

Jaw clenched, a tic at his mouth, the man who had preceded Thomas in fleeing France accepted introductions to Elias’s party, then said low, though not so much others could not hear, “You are certain they can be trusted, Your Grace?”

Thomas’s faint smile showed in the light of torches set on either side of the abbey’s gate. “I do not believe I would be here without their aid. At much cost they have done as the Lord would have them do.”

Elias’s patience approaching a length beyond which it could stretch no further, it being dark and all damp, chilled, and exhausted, he said, “What news have you from England?”

Herbert flashed him a look between annoyance and resentment, said, “Come, Your Grace, there is much to discuss and little time.”

Having dismounted, Thomas raised his hunched shoulders and stepped through the narrow doorway at the center of the large gate. And halted so abruptly his brethren jostled each other to avoid trampling him. “Little time?” he said before Elias could ask the same.

“After I have arranged accommodations for this knight and his party, I shall take you to the abbot. He is eager to welcome Your Grace.”

“Sir Elias and the others shall join us.”

“But—”

“Do not argue, Herbert. As your urgency bodes ill, whatever news you have of England will likely affect those who aided me.”

The man grunted, then led them not through the great courtyard but into a dim alley that barely allowed two to walk abreast—acceptable only if one did not require room in which to wield a sword.

Not given to letting down his guard in unfamiliar confines, Elias gently pushed Honore in back of him, looked past her to ensure Theo took up the rear behind Cynuit, and set a hand on his sword hilt.

“By what way do we go, Herbert?” the archbishop asked.

“All will be explained, Your Grace. Suffice to say, it is best we discreetly gain the abbot’s quarters.”

Elias liked this even less. Were the brethren not between him and Thomas’s man, he would demand an explanation.

Shortly, light swept into the passage. “Make haste,” Herbert rasped, and when he closed and bolted the door behind Theo, his sigh of relief was so great the scent of onions swept over all.

He led the procession down a short corridor and up wooden steps whose creak and groan would announce their arrival well in advance. Though it appeared to be a back way to the abbot’s quarters, Elias thought it might be more discreet to use the main stairway.

Herbert’s three quick raps on the door granted them entrance, and all filed into a room more sumptuous than would be expected had Elias not known the purpose of the stairway they ascended.

Beautiful tapestries warmed the walls, thick rugs covered the floor, an oaken table set around with upholstered chairs was at the center, two standing desks were in opposite corners, a stone fireplace radiated heat, and a sideboard boasted food and drink.

The abbot, shorter than Thomas and a score of years older, was less kind with his shock over the archbishop’s appearance, but there could be no doubt he was concerned for the well-being of the man whose hand he bent over. A hand to which had been returned the ostentatious ring of Thomas’s office that in no way resembled the one loaned Honore.

“Your Grace, it is an honor to welcome you to Clairmarais.”

“I thank you for your hospitality, Abbot.” When Thomas’s hand was released, it dropped so heavily it swung.

“Methinks you ought to offer the archbishop a seat, Abbot,” Elias said. “The journey has been arduous.”

The holy man looked to the knight whose damp, muddied garments must be an offense, and a question rose in his eyes, likely over the reason for Elias’s presence. Then he said, “Forgive me, Your Grace. I must seem foolish to be so distracted by your presence.” He motioned to two monks on the far side of the room where they stood alongside arched doors beyond which would be a stairway worthier than the one ascended.

The monks hurried forward, pulled out chairs on either end of the table, then those between.

Thomas started to lower into the nearest, but the abbot entreated him to take a high-backed chair so broad it looked almost a throne.

Soon all were seated and a blessing spoken over the meal. As the monks carried platters and pitchers to the table, once more introductions were made, this time by Herbert.

“I know of the De Morvilles,” the abbot said as he considered Elias. “Is not the second son now heir?”

“I am, Abbot. My brother passed.”

The man arched an eyebrow. “You were thought to have passed before him.”

Beside Elias, Honore stirred despite fatigue that surely made her long for bed. And now she would know even more about Elias than he knew of her, and there was shame in that.

The tale the abbot probed was of a son so discontented and selfish he had pained his father. Following the eldest son’s death and unaware the youngest yet lived, Otto De Morville had sought to make more male heirs on an exceedingly young wife whose body had given what it could—daughters only—before ruination that would see no more children born to her aged husband.

“With much regret, I was thought to have died,” Elias allowed.

The abbot nodded. “Was it to England you went with your poems, songs, and dance?”

More stirring beside Elias.

“Abbot, we understand there is much to discuss and little time to do so,” he said.

The holy man waved a hand. “Now you are here, we have time. Let us first satisfy your hunger and thirst.”

Longing to shake the man, Elias watched curiosity rise on his face as he moved his attention to the woman in their midst. “Honore of Bairnwood,” he said. “How do I know the name?”

Elias felt her glance. “I work with foundlings.”

“With what?”

“Foundlings.”

He leaned forward. “As my hearing has begun to fail, pray do not exercise such modesty in the company of godly men, my lady. Lower your gorget so I may hear you better.”

She eased back in her chair as if he were near enough to divest her of the covering, said more loudly, “You are kind to think me a lady, especially as fouled as I am by travel, but I am not. I am but Honore, and it is my habit to wear a gorget in this manner.”

“But you cannot eat or drink.”

“Thus, perhaps you will allow me to take my meal where I shall rest this eve.”

He sighed, and as if forgetting the answer her muffled voice had denied him, began picking at the viands on his plate.

Elias leaned toward Honore. “Certes, you hunger and thirst. I will arrange for you to be shown to your lodgings.”

“Non, I shall remain.”

Frustrated she denied herself sustenance, he kept his hand nearest her firm on his thigh lest he yank down the gorget to allow her to eat. “As you will,” he said and set about curtailing his own hunger.

The archbishop was also eager to make quick work of the meal, his long, elegant fingers popping morsel after morsel into his mouth. With minimal chewing, he swallowed and, shortly, pushed away his plate. Motioning the others to continue eating, he looked to Herbert. “Begin at Canterbury. What did you gain there, my friend?”

Herbert’s mouth flattened. “Not as much as hoped—one hundred marks and some silver cups.”

Thomas’s breath shuddered from him. “Disappointing, but that is the least of my concerns, is it not?”

“Permit me,” the abbot said and cleared his throat. “On the day past, Your Grace, Henry sent envoys to France by way of Dover—two groups, one to ride to Sens to meet with the pope and seek your deposition, the other to meet with King Louis at Compiègne to gain his assurance he will deny you refuge.”

Thomas’s hand atop the table curled into a fist. “I am guessing Gilbert Foliot and the Earl of Arundel are among the envoy.”

“They are. Also there is Hilary of Chichester and Roger of Pont l’Evêque. But they are of no immediate concern. That to which you must attend is Saint-Omer since it is where you mean to go next, is it not?”

“It is.”

“Either delay, Your Grace, or bypass. Henry’s envoys lodge there this eve.”

Where Elias hoped to find the troupe.

“God help me,” the archbishop murmured. “You can accommodate us a day or two until they set off?”

“We can, Your Grace, but circumstances dictate you leave us this eve.”

“My presence endangers you?”

“Non, you are the one in danger and, quite possibly, Sir Elias. This day, three soldiers from Sandwich arrived at our gate.”

Heart beating hard, Elias heard Honore swallow, felt Thomas’s eyes shoot to him.

“They enquired if three—mayhap four—brethren in the company of a knight and his companions paused at Clairmarais,” the abbot continued. “When I said we had no such visitors, they requested several nights lodging whilst they search the vicinity. Lest you arrived this night, I had them placed in rooms at the rear of the guest house to lessen the possibility they noted your entrance. As further precaution, Herbert delivered you to my apartment by way of the rear stairs.”

“Then I cannot remain even one night.”

Truth, Elias silently agreed. If those from Sandwich laid hands on the ones responsible for the fallen on the beach, capture by King Henry could prove of less detriment. And here was another truth—whilst the soldiers lodged here, Honore could not.

But an excuse, his conscience elbowed him. The abbot can keep her hidden until his guests depart. Think better on it, Elias De Morville.

He would. Later.

“I believe it safe providing you depart ere first light, Your Grace,” the abbot said. “You and the brethren may take my sleeping chamber, and there are two rooms at the back of the chapel where pallets can be laid for the others.”

Thomas shook his head. “I fear it best we leave this eve.”

“I can arrange for a rowboat to take us across the marshes to Oldminster,” Herbert said.

Elias frowned. “Oldminster?”

“A hermitage not far from here,” the abbot supplied. “Oui, it seems the best course. There you shall have days aplenty in which to recover, giving Sandwich’s soldiers and the king’s men time to distance themselves.”

Though Elias balked at the troupe gaining a greater lead and further exposing his family to Henry’s wrath, he said to Herbert, “Is the crossing to Oldminster safe?”

“It is. Your services are no longer required, Sir Knight.”

Elias looked to Thomas who inclined head. “Here we part ways, De Morville. But know this, regardless of what becomes of Thomas the archbishop, formerly Thomas the chancellor, never shall our tales cross. Does history remember my name, it shall not do so alongside yours. Never will it tell of the great service rendered me.”

Elias felt Honore’s relief nearly as much as his own. Even if the troupe he followed to Saint-Omer was not the one they sought, he would be days nearer to finding Hart. “Then we shall avail ourselves of the rooms, Abbot.”

“And horses,” Thomas said. “I am sure Clairmarais can provide worthy mounts to speed your journey.”

With reluctance, the abbot agreed, then directed the monks to lay three pallets in one room, one pallet in the other.

Honore rose with the others and made it to Thomas’s side ahead of Elias. “Your Grace?”

He motioned his brethren to continue. “Honore?”

She removed the ring. “No longer do I need this.”

He glanced at Elias where he halted beside her. “You are certain?”

“I am.”

He took it, mused, “A gift from Henry during our younger, better years.” He touched one of the small sapphires, then sighed so long his chest sunk. “As it no longer holds meaning for either of us, I give it to you, Honore.” He extended it, and when she stared, caught up her hand and returned the ring to her finger.

“Your Grace—”

“If not in remembrance of me and gratitude owed you, accept it that you may sell it to aid your foundlings.”

“But—”

“It will bring a pretty sum,” he spoke over her again, then made the sign of the cross. “May God bless and speed your journey, my friends.”

They gave back his words, but the parting with the Archbishop of Canterbury was delayed a moment longer when he drew Honore aside. For her ears alone, he said, “I pray Sir Elias and you find your son, Honore.”

Then he was gone as if their tales had never crossed.