The tidings were unsatisfactory. No confirmation it was the troupe they sought since no amount of discreet inquiry revealed they offered a secret sideshow. And of the names of its members none recalled Finwyn.

But Cynuit had discovered their destination was a castle known to Elias—Château de Sevier whose heir had attended the troupe’s first performance at Saint-Omer and engaged them to travel south to his home. That castle was held by one who also owed allegiance to Duke Henry and, of further note, abutted De Morville lands.

Unfortunately, Elias would not be well received by that family. The Costains and De Morvilles were not enemies, but Elias had offended last year when Otto sought to betroth his heir to the eldest daughter—barely the eldest, having all of ten and four years to her sister’s ten and three.

Elias was not his father. When he wed, it would be to a woman not a girl half his age.

Gaze bridging the fire, he settled it on Honore where she sat on a blanket Cynuit had spread for her. Another blanket clasped around shoulders draped with golden hair, knees drawn to chest, eyes peering over them into the flames, she seemed not of his world. And she was not, her stay here temporary.

Here was a woman, he mused, but she was far older than would be acceptable to Otto De Morville.

Elias growled low over his mind’s wanderings. More and more he felt for Honore, but even were she ten and five, they could never be. He had given his father his word, and he would keep it no matter the sacrifice.

“My lord, what say you to a tale?” Theo said.

Once more Elias was jolted, though more by Honore’s blue gaze shooting to his than his squire’s words. Her eyes… Dear Lord, her eyes…

“Aye, a tale, milord,” Cynuit prompted. “Pray, in English that I may better understand.”

It felt like snapping chains to break from the blue, and he felt strangely weakened when the links gave. “Methinks a good night’s sleep better sought,” he said.

Cynuit glanced at the slowly darkening sky. “’Tis not even an hour past twilight.”

“We rise early to make Sevier Castle ere the nooning hour,” Elias reminded.

“A short tale, then, milord.”

Touched by the boy’s pleading, Elias said, “What sort? One woven of adventure? Laughter? Loss? Darkness?”

“Love.”

That single word, which he had not intended to speak himself, returned his gaze to the one who spoke it.

Chin on her knees, Honore said, “And adventure, laughter, mayhap even loss.”

Though something warned it was at his peril he acceded, he said, “That would be quite the tale. I do not think I know one capable of fulfilling your requirements.”

“Oh but there is one, Sir Elias. I have not heard it—only of it—whilst we paused at Cheverel. The hero’s name… Was it Cant?”

Blessedly, he was prepared to engage the actor, covering an outward show of surprise with confusion. “Cant?” he said, though he knew how she had come by it. It was what Everard had called out upon the arrival of his friend’s party. Had Honore asked Susanna about it? Had its origins been revealed?

“I am certain you must know it,” she prompted. “I believe it tells of a young man who cast off his nobility to travel England with a troupe of performers.” Her smile was slight.

Still, Elias meant to refuse her, but Cynuit said, “That is a tale I would like to hear, milord.”

The lack of guile in the boy’s eyes told the name that had not escaped Honore had escaped him.

“It sounds too unbelievable,” Theo said.

Elias looked to his squire who knew enough of the story to understand how personal it was. Thus, he sought to aid his lord.

“I know some of the tale,” Elias acceded, “but Theo is right. It is unbelievable, and I would not disappoint you, Cynuit. Nor you, Honore.”

“You forget I heard the tale poured into the imagination of Sir Everard and Lady Susanna’s son,” she said. “I am sure you can make it passably believable.”

She would have him bare his soul, make sense of all that had delivered them to this time and place. But he would not. That was in the past and there it must—

He reined in his thoughts. His quest to retrieve his son had made the past his present. And he had made it hers.

Bare away, Elias, he told himself. It is the least owed her. Something to remember you by when once more her life is spent in service to the Lord whilst yours is spent in service to the De Morvilles. A sea between you.

He cleared his throat. “I shall aspire to do the tale justice.”

Her eyes widened, evidencing she did not expect him to yield.

He raised his wineskin, took a draught. Then snatching on the person of Elias Cant, he tossed high his hands. “Hearken to my tale. Hearken well! This one be of adventure, laughter, longing and”—he pointed to Honore—“love.” He turned his mouth down. “But not of a love that lasts. One of loss most tragic. Are you prepared? Have you heart for it?”

Honore blinked at the open-faced man beyond the fire, one she hardly recognized for what seemed joy on a face that, heretofore, had little cause to reflect anything other than momentary pleasure—except when his attempt to coax a smile from her led to a kiss. That had been more than a moment, though it was gone and ought nevermore be felt.

“My lady!” Elias surged to his feet, the garments and weapons of a warrior a stunning contrast to what he was becoming. “I must know. Have you heart for my tale?” He raised a finger. “But ere you answer, ’tis only fair I warn this one is sure to make you ache near as great were it your tale and most true.” He raised his eyebrows, and she realized he sought a response as if she were also a player.

She sat straighter. “My heart is strong enough to weather your tale.”

He smiled as she had not seen him do, moved his smile to Cynuit. “You bear witness, lad. Does the lady’s heart fall from her breast, I am not to blame.”

Cynuit laughed. “If you will not aid the lady in retrieving her heart, I shall.”

The heart of which they so lightly spoke made more space for this boy, further crowding her foundlings, Hart, the abbess, and…Elias.

“Then we continue.” He winked. “The setting… Let us place the tale here in France, specifically Normandy held by that wild, flame-headed king of England, duke this side of the narrow sea. The hero… Simply Cant, the second son of a nobleman and spare heir to one determined to see the boy trained for knighthood though his interests lie in poetry, song, dance, and storytelling.”

Though Honore had guessed it must be so, she felt for the boy into whose hands weapons had been placed rather than quill and parchment.

Elias groaned. “Forbid he should defy his sire. And truly impossible for one so young and dependent. Until…”

A single stride carried him to Cynuit, and he dropped to his haunches. As the boy stared at him, the teller of tales said, “At the age of ten and six, Cant rebelled. Have you ever rebelled, lad?”

The boy jerked his chin. “Against my master.”

“Good. No matter how heavy the boot on one’s back, the Almighty would not have men or women suffer servitude, do you not agree?”

Cynuit looked uncertain but murmured, “Aye, milord.”

Elias rose. “But—caution here!—that does not grant one permission to harm others with their rebellion. One must think and pray ere acting. That Cant did not do. He wished another life, one he thought possible only if he”—Elias shot arms high, splayed fingers, danced them downward—“disappeared.”

Honore startled when his eyes sprang to hers.

“With hardly a thought for those left behind who would think ill befell him, he fled the lord with whom he fostered and crossed to England.” Elias returned to his place before the fire and dropped to sitting. Legs crossed, hands loose on his knees, he lowered his head. “Selfish, cruel, immature.”

She stared. Though he played a role, it was his. And she did not doubt his remorse required little acting.

He was silent so long she thought he would end his tale there, then he surged to his feet.

“Four years!” He held up that many fingers. “Four years Cant traveled town to town, castle to castle playing the troubadour. Much he loved the living. Much he did not.” He rounded on Theo. “Not? you ask. Had he not what he longed for? Days and nights of laughter, song, and dance? Aye, and an audience who inhaled his every word whether he snatched them from the air”—he closed fingers around a handful above his head—“or spilled forth those practiced for hours and days on end. And the ladies! Oh, the ladies!”

He winked, came around the fire, bowed before Honore. Then he captured one of her hands clasped around her knees and pulled her to standing.

“Elias!” she cried as the blanket fell from her shoulders. “You cannot!”

“The name is Cant. And I can—do you allow me, my lady.”

Distant from him by half the length of his arm, she looked up. “Allow you what?”

“To lead you in the dance.”

“I know not how to dance.”

He laughed. “For that, I shall lead, my lady.”

“I do not…”

“I will take that as agreement.” He retrieved her other hand, pulled her away from the fire. “Step as I step, as if you are my mirror.”

“Elias—”

“Cant,” he corrected again and looked across his shoulder. “Encouragement, lads! If the lady is to forget propriety and see the fun in life, even if only this night, you must encourage her. Clap, whistle, snap your fingers.”

And so they did, uncertainly at first, then enthusiastically when Elias demonstrated between their bodies the steps and movements of the tune sounding from his throat.

“Now you, my lady.” He met her gaze.

“I was not watching closely.”

“Not watching closely, she says! Mayhap she is too rapt over joining hands with the charming Cant, eh lads?” Another wink.

She was rapt, but she said, “You flatter yourself!”

“So I do. And often.” He chortled. “It seems I shall have to give the lady what she truly wishes—a dance of the common folk.”

He reeled her in. When she stumbled against him, he slid one arm around her waist to anchor her to him, raised her left hand, and pushed his fingers through hers. “Dear lady, either stand on my boots or I shall have to lift you higher against me.”

Against him… “Methinks the tale well enough told,” she said.

“Hardly.” He lifted her off her feet, resumed humming his tune, and turned her so swiftly cool air swept up her billowing skirts.

Honore knew she ought to further protest, but…

This is warmth for cold nights when all that shares your bed are memories made of Elias, whether of De Morville or Cant, spoke the voice with which Elias was making her familiar. Embrace it, Honore. It is but a dance. Longing in it, true, but no sin.

“He turns her ’round again,” Elias announced. “And dips her.”

Finding herself bent back over his forearm, loosed hair swinging, she looked up and saw his body followed the bend of hers, firelight in eyes and rimming his smile.

“Dips her lower.”

So he did.

“She thinks he may steal a kiss. And he would but, alas, he dare not offend her betrothed.” He straightened. Once Honore’s feet settled atop his boots, he looked past her to Theo and Cynuit whose encouraging din had abated.

They were entranced, though not as much as she who ought not be.

“Betrothed? you ask.” Elias’s wink was more exaggerated than the others. “There must be one, for who would not claim so lovely a maiden?”

He went too far in reminding her of what could not be. Just as he would wed another, she would remain wed to her work at Bairnwood.

“Elias,” she whispered, and when he continued to bestow a smile upon his audience, pulled her hand from his and set it on his shoulder. “Elias!”

His face came around, and their noses brushed.

She eased back. “I am not part of Cant’s tale, and that is the tale we seek.” She hated the tears the fire would bring to light. “Not the tale of Elias De Morville, a Wulfen-trained knight whose quest is to find his son. Cant’s tale. Only that.”

As he peered into her, on the other side of Cant who held her she saw Elias who should not hold her. That one pushed through and said low, “Forgive me.” Gently he set her back, loosed one of her hands, and as he turned to face Theo and Cynuit, smiled so broadly she knew that expression more false than any she had seen him wear.

“End of act one,” he announced. Then raising her hand with his, he bowed low.

Honore knew she ought to fold over as well, but like the steps of the dance, performance was foreign to her.

Belatedly, Theo and Cynuit clapped.

“Much appreciated,” Elias trumpeted and led her back to her place before the fire. As he released her hand, he said, “I thank you for your assistance in demonstrating how well the women liked Cant, my lady.”

Not knowing how to respond, she was grateful when Cynuit said, “What happened next, milord?”

As Honore lowered and drew her blanket around her, Elias turned to the boy. “Much, lad. But do you know, some of the best tales are those not told in full, giving the audience time to mull and imagine the road next traveled. For that, methinks we ought to take up the remainder another night.”

“Ah nay, milord! Though you gave much time to the dance, it is early. Tell, why did Cant not love the living? Something bad happened to him?”

Despite the dance, Honore also wished him to continue, certain Hart was at the end of Cant’s tale. Still, she felt for Elias who surely longed to take first watch and slip away among the trees.

“Please, milord.”

He returned to his side of the fire, but rather than seat himself on the ground, further distanced himself by perching on a large rock. “The living was not as Cant imagined. But though at times he regretted rejecting his life of privilege, mostly he was content.”

“You no longer show, milord.” Cynuit looked to Elias’s squire. “Aye, Theo?”

At the young man’s shrug, the lad said, “You just tell, milord.”

So he did, Elias silently acknowledged. A tale merely told was not worth the breath expended. But it had been too easy to become Cant and push boundaries he should not, especially with Honore. It was long since he had so greatly missed being one other than Elias De Morville. Becoming the performer again, he could do and be, think and say, and want and choose as he pleased. Thus, he had wanted, as Honore guessed, to make her part of the carefree troubadour’s tale.

“You are right, Cynuit. I am better than that.” He sat straighter and, determining it best to look only to the left and right of Honore, returned volume and life to his voice.

“Mostly Cant was content. But then he learned that which he played at was no game. He discovered the power of the nobility, the helplessness of the common man. Ah!” He leaned forward. “I have your interest again, Cynuit. Have I yours, Theo? Aye, I see the devilry in your eyes, the lust for story.”

“Take the devilry from our eyes, milord!” Cynuit cried.

Elias slid a bit of devilry into his laugher, then once more set his face in serious lines. “Cant’s troupe was engaged to pass the winter at a barony in Northern England.” Upon which the village of Forkney lay, he did not say. “There the young man fell in love with a serving girl who hung on his every tale. And what of she?” He grinned, winked. “Of course she returned his love. Madly. Deeply. Wondrously. But”—he held up a hand—“too soon, too soon, dear listeners. Pray, curb your enthusiasm. Hold not thy breath, for a lengthy detour we must take.”

The boy groaned.

Honore, out of sight but not mind, tempted his regard. And Theo, who was to know more of the tale than before, ineffectually suppressed a sigh.

“I vow ’tis essential,” Elias said and, knowing Theo and Honore would substitute the name Lettice said, “Her name was Violet, and a violet she was—fair, soft, fragrant. And sweet, though her burdens were many for one so young.”

It was no act to express sorrow. The act would have been in suppressing how great that sorrow were Elias not many years removed from Cant. “Violet’s father had died, and so deeply her mother mourned she neglected her little ones, leaving Violet to care for them with the coin earned as a servant—so little she had to seek other work.”

Feeling his hands move toward fists, Elias opened them and, attempting to incorporate his reaction into the tale, turned them palms up. “The work of…” He hesitated, not for effect but to question if he should relate this to a boy of ten. Cynuit was from Forkney where such work was mostly shrugged off. Too, his master had been Arblette.

“The work of a joy woman,” Elias said, and Cynuit’s slow nod told he knew that was the name preferred by women whom men were more likely to name harlots. “Cant tried to save her by sharing his food and earnings so she need only serve at the castle, but she persisted until he vowed to leave the troupe, remain with her, and make her his wife.”

Elias did not mean to look to Honore, but his eyes played him false and once more he saw she peered at him over her knees.

“Did she stay true?” Cynuit asked, further evidence he was exposed to those moved by desperation to barter their bodies.

“Cant believed so.” Elias stood, looked to the heavens. “The Lord sees all. He knew Violet’s sins. He knew Cant’s. He knew what had been, what was, and what was to be. Thus, he knew never would Cant speak vows with Violet.”

“Because she did not stay true?” Cynuit pressed.

Elias forced lightness about a face whose muscles sought to express pain. “Accursed desperation, lad. It makes sinners of men and women alike.”

“How did he discover her lie? And Sir Elias, again you tell rather than show.”

Elias hung a smile whose curve was so weighted it might snap. “Alas, I am fatigued, Cynuit, much of the blame for which belongs to Honore. We shall have to teach her to dance on her own feet, hmm?”

The boy glanced at her. “Pray, finish the tale, milord.”

“If you wish the show of it, you shall have to wait.”

A long-drawn sigh. “I cannot.”

Best I am done with it, Elias determined. Then no more need be told Honore.

“Ere Violet and Cant were to wed, he happened on her. He was certain the knight with her had not her permission since her word she had given she would be Cant’s alone.”

Elias made a show of drawing breath as memories of Lettice in the arms of another man swept him—of her angry protest not directed at the one with whom she was intimate.

Lungs unable to contain more air, he continued in a strained voice, “And so the troubadour set himself upon one whose rank would have been inferior to his had he completed his knighthood training—had he not donned the person, mind, and heart of a commoner. And that knight beat Cant and dragged him before the lord of the castle who had him beat again for being a commoner who struck a nobleman.”

Outrage gathered on Cynuit’s face. “He should have revealed his noble blood, milord! That would have put end to it.”

“Ah, but not only was Cant unworthy of his name for forsaking it, but do you not think it would have sounded a lie? One so offensive it warranted further beating, perhaps unto death?”

Trying to stay in front of memories of what he would next tell, allowing them only near enough to bring the story to its conclusion, Elias continued, “The wretch sought out Violet, and she whose sweet petals were more bruised than he had known hardly saw her love’s bruises, cuts, and swellings. She said his jealousy ruined all, that never would her lord allow them to wed. Though Cant ought to have left her then, he had to know for what she betrayed him.”

Elias narrowed his eyes at Cynuit. “Coin to buy shoes for her sister. But still he lingered, assuring her he would have given her coin out of his next earnings.” Lettice’s face rose before him, and he saw the glint in her eyes and curl of her upper lip. “Then she delivered the blow that snuffed the slightest hope of a life together. Violet said it was only her body and there was no easier way to see her palm filled with coin.”

“Desperation,” Cynuit breathed.

Elias inclined his head. “At last Cant accepted she was broken—that in times of need the easier way would prevail over love for him.”

“So he left her,” the lad said with what sounded approval.

“He did, but do you think it best?”

“Of course. Her lord would not allow them to wed, she would not be faithful, and how was Cant to earn a living under the rule of one who ordered him beaten a second time?”

It had been Elias’s reasoning, and until Lettice’s murder only on occasion had he questioned if it was sound. But guilt over her death argued that had he truly loved her, he would not have given up, would have found a way to make a life with her in which never again must she sell her body.

Impossible, he silently argued. As a commoner and under those circumstances, no matter your effort you could not have supported her, her siblings, and her mother. And Lettice knew it. It was surely among the reasons she hardened herself against you.

Guilt once more shouldered its way in, suggesting had he thrown himself on his father’s mercy and reclaimed his nobility, he would have had the resources to pull her out of that life.

Fool, he countered. Otto De Morville would not have accepted Lettice and her family. Rather than name you his heir, he would have consigned his ruined young wife to a convent and wed another to make more sons.

It was so, and yet—

“Do you think it best he left her, Sir Elias?” Honore asked, awakening him to the present and its own troubles.

No longer did she clasp her knees, and he guessed beneath her blanket her legs were crossed. And those blues of hers seemed to peer into his soul.

“It matters not what I think. I am but the teller of a tale devised to entertain and encourage its audience not to simply receive words but think on them.”

“I have thought on them,” she said.

He did not want to prompt her lest her answer further fuel his guilt, but the hole would be too noticeable since he had prompted Cynuit. “Your conclusion, my lady?”

She glanced at the lad. “Though God can do all things, I know free will is a great gift. But what we make of what we find inside the wrappings is not entirely up to us. Much is dependent on what others do with their free will, which can render ours trampled. Thus, I may not be as certain as Cynuit it was best your hero leave Violet, but I do not see he had much choice.”

Did she seek to absolve Elias De Morville of a wrong? Certes, she knew it was guilt with which he was stricken.

Elias looked to Theo. “What say you, Squire?”

He was quick to answer though not because he did so thoughtlessly. “It seems all present are in agreement Cant took the only road wide enough to set his feet upon.”

Elias longed to believe that.

“Will you not tell what became of Cant, milord?” Cynuit asked.

“It will be a much-shortened tale, lad, but it unfolds like this…” He picked up the branch with which he had earlier stirred the fire, lowered to his haunches, and poked at the glowing logs, causing orange and yellow embers to fly up like rain turned upside down. “Recompense,” he said. “Retribution. Revenge.”

The blood of the performer once more flowing through him, he looked face to face, most quickly past the one whose blue eyes closely watched him. “The beaten, heartbroken troubadour determined never again to suffer the helplessness of a commoner and departed the village to recover in the next. Two days later, a nobleman came to notice whose boasting became louder and more vile the greater he imbibed.”

“Who?” Cynuit asked.

Elias shot to his feet. “Fortuitous this! Can you guess?”

The lad shook his head.

“It was the foul knight who beat Cant and saw him beat again.”

Cynuit gasped. “Did Cant kill him?”

“He wished to, but he controlled that demon, watching and waiting for the right opportunity to repay him.”

“How?”

“Oh lad, it was wondrous! Once that knave was sated near senseless, he stumbled out of the inn. And our Cant…” He widened his eyes. “From somewhere beneath the terrible injuries that left him unrecognizable and barely able to put one foot in front of the other arose anger so great he felt none of his aches. And delivered a beating whose marks that knight carries to this day.”

And that, Elias reflected, was as much truth as the rest of it, as he had recent occasion to look upon that knight.

“Then what happened?” Cynuit’s eyes were so alight, Elias knew despite the lapse in delivering a tale well when he had spoken of Lettice, he had recaptured his audience’s imagination and made it seem as real as life itself. In the case of Cant, no difficult thing.

“Cant bestowed the great favor of relieving so unworthy a knight of much extra weight.”

Cynuit beamed. “He took his armor!”

“And sword. After all, a man without such does not a knight errant make.”

“Knight errant,” the boy ran his tongue over words he surely found delicious then frowned. “But Cant had not completed his knight’s training.”

“And he would not for some years. Blessedly, once he left the troubadour behind, he proved well enough versed in all the years given to his training that few questioned or challenged one who knew how to play a part. And eventually, he sold his services to a baron.”

An unworthy lord, Elias recalled Lady Susanna’s heartless brother who was better in the ground than above it.

“That cannot be all there is to the tale,” Cynuit said.

Elias smiled large. “You wish a grand finale?”

The lad bobbed his head. “Did he return to his father? Did he find another love, one as faithful to him as he to her?”

Those last words dragged Elias’s eyes where they ought not go, and only with great effort was he able to keep them from traveling beyond the golden hair draped over a shoulder. “Cant returned to his father, but only after the mighty Wulfriths deemed him worthy to be numbered amongst England’s greatest defenders.”

Cynuit’s hands convulsed into fists, and Elias guessed he fought the temptation to clap like a child. Then once more his brow rumpled. “But he was of France.”

“King Henry’s side of France. Thus, though not truly King Henry’s man, he was Duke Henry’s.”

“Ah.” The boy scratched his head. “Was he ever better loved?”

“Alas, the tale ends with the selfish young man’s reunion with his father who, having lost his first son, forgave Cant and made him his heir.” And now, Elias determined, further explanation for Honore. “However, were I to fashion of my own imagination what came after, I would say our hero kept his word to his father and did his duty to wed well. Eventually, fondness grew between him and his lady and they had…two sons, two daughters.” Elias stretched his arms out to his sides. “And here we end our tale.” He turned his palms up, bowed.

No applause and none expected since Cynuit did not wish to appear a child and Honore and Theo knew it was no work of fiction.

He straightened. “Now rest. On the morrow, Château de Sevier. I shall take first watch, Theo.” He snatched up a blanket, draped it over his shoulders, and ventured only far enough amid the trees to conceal himself from those he protected and any beyond the firelight who might think to steal upon them. As he patrolled the perimeter, every few minutes trading one cover for the next, time and again he looked to the woman who had lain down. So thoroughly encased in blankets was she that had he not felt her gaze searching the dark through which he moved, he would not know her back was to the fire Theo had banked low to provide only enough warmth to see them through till morn.

Though her curiosity over Elias De Morville who had turned Elias Cant and the origin of Hart ought to be satisfied, that was not the end of it. As neither was it the end for him. Better he had left her at Forkney so never again a woman he could not have cause him to return to that place.

I will not sin with her as I sinned with Lettice, he assured himself. I will not dishonor her nor myself.

Even so, said a small voice, Honore of Bairnwood gives you good cause to want to return to that place.

“Even so,” he growled and settled his senses on the land surrounding their encampment.

It was an hour before the sense honed in the darkened cellar at Wulfen felt what could not be seen, heard, or smelled. Regardless of whether they were followed, there were others out there, near enough they surely knew the wood was not theirs alone.

De Morville. A name only distantly known to him ere this day when he learned of the family behind the face of the knight who made false about the aid given the godforsaken Becket.

But what a wondrous mystery! Neville of the family Sorrel loved each piece that moved him nearer finding favor with that grand duke upon whose brow rested a crown on the other side of the channel. Hopefully, he would be able to give Henry the slippery archbishop, but if De Morville and Becket had parted ways, the vassal who betrayed could be delivered unto him.

Providing Henry was in a vengeful mood—and after listening in on his envoys on the night past he was—England’s king would be indebted.

Lands of my own, Neville mused. Mayhap De Morville’s.

He wanted to laugh, but on so cool and clear a night the sound would carry across the faint scent of smoke to that barely perceptible glow.

He drew back, glanced at the men on either side of him. “Here we pass the night. You take first watch, Desmond…Raoul, second. If there is a third, it is mine.”

Desmond, the burly man-at-arms grumbled as he did when reminded he enjoyed a life of leisure only as long as he held favor with the knight whose mother gave Neville much by way of apology for birthing her beloved last of three sons—among her greatest gifts fostering with Count Philip of Flanders though her husband had wished Neville dedicated to the Church. Unfortunately, the count had not offered a position in his household to the one he had knighted.

His loss, as would be felt when Neville proved worthy in the eyes of one mightier than the count—Philip’s cousin, the King of England.

“I say we set upon them now,” hissed Raoul, also a man-at-arms. Fortunately, what he lacked in intelligence he made up for in sword skill and the throw of a fist.

“Patience,” Neville rasped. “First we see if they will lead us to Becket.”

“I tell you, the archbishop has gone to ground,” Raoul said. “Better we had searched the abbeys between Gravelines and Saint-Omer than—”

“You think those holy men would hand up one of their own?” Neville scorned. “Non, Becket or no, we have De Morville.”

“What proof of his duplicity, my lord? Pray, not merely the proof of gut.”

There was that, but more there was yestermorn. Having persuaded Saint-Omer’s lord to loan a falcon for a few hours of sport, Neville and his companions had departed the castle. It was on the road near Clairmarais he encountered soldiers come from Sandwich who told they were on the trail of seven or eight men who had taken a skiff and stolen away from the port King Henry had placed under watch to prevent the archbishop from seeking refuge in France. The only aid Neville had been able to give was to inform them the king’s envoys had arrived at Saint-Omer.

Now for the dozenth time, Neville cursed himself for not heeding the proof of gut when, a half hour later, he happened on Sir Elias’s party. It had caused him to submit the tallest of the brethren was Thomas Becket, but he had been dissuaded when made to feel a fool for believing a man so humbly clothed could be the extravagant chancellor who had become an archbishop.

Then this day, four of those encountered on the road who were no longer horseless appeared at Saint-Omer. Recognizing them despite clothes far more fitting a party led by De Morville’s heir, Neville had assured his seat at meal alongside De Lucy who had spent much of the evening past with King Henry’s envoys. Previous to Neville confiding his suspicion, the man had been barely tolerant of the attempt to engage him. Afterward, he had shown greater respect. And of benefit to Neville and his quest was the ring around the neck of De Morville’s cousin who was more likely a mistress. De Lucy had known it for the hand upon whom it no longer sat.

That Neville had not shared with Desmond and Raoul. They would do as told no matter their scorn of his proof of gut—and learn to respect it.

Having kept Raoul waiting on an answer, Neville said, “Proof of gut, knave. Now take first watch.”

“But you said second, my lord.”

“And you are disrespectful.” Neville motioned to Desmond to follow, strode to his mount, and removed his pack.

One of them would sleep well this night.