They were here, camped outside the walls. As Elias’s party had ridden past, few of the troupe’s members had shown themselves, though not because it rained with any more enthusiasm. Either they rested or rehearsed the evening’s performance.

It had taken all that was in Elias not to begin searching the covered wagons and gaily-colored tents. However, it had surely required more of Honore to remain in the saddle. Had she needed to look miserable over the onset of her flux, a more convincing performance she could not give.

Her hands trembled, breath came fast, color was high, and a sheen of perspiration moistened strands of hair on her brow. Thus, more acceptable it was for him to keep hold of her elbow now they stood before the Costains.

“Sir Elias,” a honeyed voice said.

He shifted his gaze from the Lord of Château de Sevier to the daughter handed forward.

Lady Vera was young, flawlessly lovely, and of a kindly disposition. Though she had been more a girl last year, now the fifteen-year-old presented as one firmly on the rungs of womanhood.

All poise and gentle purpose, she curtsied. “I am pleased once more you grace our home. It has been too long.”

It had not, especially beneath the weight of ill feeling her parents had dropped around his shoulders the moment they greeted him in the great hall. But it was long enough Elias had not been turned away when he gave his name to gain entrance.

“So it has, my lady.” He inclined his head and, ere raising it, slid into Elias Cant for the good will that would make it easier for him to discover if Hart was here. “Though not so long I do not recognize the beautifully blooming flower that was the loveliest bud when last we met.”

Her lashes fluttered, and her smile showed fairly even teeth. “I blush, Sir Elias. Is that your intent?”

She was more bold than the ten and four girl she had been, of which neither parent approved, as told by Lord Costain’s grunt and his wife’s gasp.

Elias eased admiration from his eyes. “Forgive me, Lady Vera. I ought not speak as I find.”

His words made her color deepen and mouth bow wider, while beside him Honore’s stiff went stiffer.

He was flirting, though with motive rather than feeling which had moved him at Clairmarais. If only he could tell Honore it was Elias De Morville who had spoken pretty words to her in the chapel, not Elias Cant angling to give this young lady and her parents their due and see himself restored to their good graces. But perhaps it was best she thought him easily swayed by beauty wherever he happened upon it. Too much she cared for him.

“Indeed, you ought not speak so, Sir Elias,” Lord Costain said. “We would have no more brawling amongst our daughter’s suitors than already we endure.”

There was less chill in his voice than when he welcomed Elias to Sevier, doubtless due to the smug belief the knight before him deeply regretted what he could no longer have that had been offered so humbly that Elias’s refusal had humiliated the man who longed to join his house with that of the De Morvilles.

Elias summoned a smile of apology. “Forgive me, my lord. It has been much too long, and of further regret is the circumstance under which we meet again.”

He looked to Honore who curved an arm around her waist and held her chin high as she weathered the interest of their hosts the same as done those encountered between drawbridge and donjon. “As told the captain of the guard, my cousin who is to reside a time at Château des Trois Doigts is afflicted with abdominal discomfort and in need of rest ere we complete our journey.”

Introductions were made between Honore and the five Costains, which included the younger daughter, Lady Gwen, and the recently knighted son, Sir Damien.

“I did not know Otto had family in England,” Lord Costain said.

“So we do, albeit of distant relation.” Elias did not care to think how he would explain Honore to his sire who would surely be apprised of this English cousin when next the two lords kept company.

Lady Vera stepped near Honore. “Dear lady, I understand your discomfort. Be assured you shall have all the rest and care you require. Though many are our guests come to enjoy performances by a troupe recently crossed from your shores to ours, you shall share a chamber with my sister and me.”

“I thank you.”

The lady dipped her head. “Come, Lady Gwen and I shall see you abovestairs.”

Feeling Honore’s hesitation, knowing her mind was on the troupe, Elias released her arm and motioned forward the lad who shouldered her pack. In English, he said, “Cynuit, deliver Lady Honore’s belongings abovestairs and remain outside her door.” He turned back to Honore, resumed speaking in French. “Do you require anything, Cousin, send him to me.”

She inclined her head.

Elias knew he should not watch her progress across the hall behind the two young ladies lest it show too much interest, but she carried herself so beautifully she gave none cause to think her other than a lady.

“Distant cousin, eh?” Lord Costain muttered as she went from sight. “The way you look at her, Sir Elias, there had best be many degrees of separation between the lady and you.”

Elias returned his gaze to the man. “You mistake my interest. I am but concerned for Lady Honore’s well-being.”

Costain chuckled. “For your sake let us hope so. I am well enough acquainted with your sire to know whereas he desired a union between his heir and my Vera, he would not approve of your Lady Honore.”

Elias bristled in anticipation of what was to come.

“Not only is there the problem of her age, surely ten years beyond my daughter’s”—

Seventeen, Elias silently corrected.

—“but that…” The man grimaced. “Dear Lord, did someone take a knife to her lip?” He shook his head. “Do you not stay clear of that one, Otto may rethink his need to make another heir.”

Forgetting he required this man’s forbearance, Elias set himself over him. “Your daughter is a lady above reproach, Lord Costain. Or nearly so.”

“What say you?” the man’s wife clipped.

Holding her husband’s gaze, Elias continued, “Unfortunately, she had no choice in her sire, a man of such character he thinks naught of insulting the relation of one with whom he claims friendship.”

Anger flared in Costain’s eyes but quickly dimmed. “You are right. Lady Honore is an innocent and ought not pay for the offense you dealt my family.”

Elias breathed deep. “I apologize again. No injury was intended, and as I am sure you would wish your daughter cherished, I am certain eventually you will be glad I declined to take her to wife.”

“I am glad. A pity your father yet hopes for a match.”

A hand landed on Elias’s shoulder, at the end of which was Sir Damien. “If you and my sire are finished posturing, join me for a drink.”

Posturing, Elias mused. It was a good label to affix to their encounter, giving them both a way out. He looked between husband and wife. “I am welcome at your table?”

Stiffly, Lord Costain said, “You are Otto’s son.”

And only for that was he welcome.

Whilst filling his belly with sliced beef, wine pudding, and warm bread, Elias reacquainted himself with the good-natured knight who could have been his brother-in-law. He made no mention of missing him at Saint-Omer and his knowledge the troupe Sir Damien had brought to Sevier had last performed at that castle where the king’s envoys had passed a night. Thus, the young knight confirmed all. And added little to Elias’s knowledge.

Hopefully, Theo’s wanderings amongst the camp would bear proof Théâtre des Abominations was here.

Much talk of the archbishop, most erroneous, and none of it adding to what Elias knew of Thomas’s flight from England nor his whereabouts. And in that moment, he did not care. What Theo had to tell was of greater import.

“It is the one, my lord.”

Elias started to praise God their search neared its end, but did it? There was no guarantee Hart remained with the troupe—had he ever been amongst them. No guarantee that in the six months since his abduction he had not lost his life by natural or unnatural means.

Moved from praise to pleading, silently he entreated the Lord to deliver the boy back into Honore’s arms.

“How can you be certain, Theo?”

“I heard talk—rather, argument—and the name Fin.”

All of Elias that had not set to thundering over the light in his squire’s eyes when he entered the great hall thundered. He breathed deep to calm a heart in agreement with legs that urged him to run to the camp, rasped, “Tell.”

“The look of the woman who rode upon Sevier drew my regard, her urgency made me suspect. Her hair was an unnatural color of red and body better fit for a young woman than one of wizened face, and her garments—could they be called that—every color I have and have not seen and like a hundred veils from shoulders to calves.”

It seemed more than Elias needed to know, but if he had to search her out, he would not mistake another for her. “What of her urgency?”

“I did not know a woman could so quickly dismount without breaking her neck. Hardly had I time to slip behind the tent before she was out of the saddle and through the flap. I positioned myself out of sight of the other tents and did not have to strain to hear her complaints against this Fin, accusing him of undoing all her good with his threat to beat one she called The Map.”

Theo let that last unfold its meaning, and as Elias once more struggled for control, continued, “She said the boy set himself at Fin and the fool snatched up Poseidon’s Child and denied the babe breath. His threat ended The Map’s rebellion but affected the boy such she feared he would be unfit for display this eve.”

So dark were the imaginings flooding Elias, he was grateful Honore was not present. But as it was nearly three hours since they parted, he did not think she would wait on him much longer.

“From which direction did the woman come?”

“South by west, my lord.”

Then the sideshow did not keep close company with the rest of the troupe, having continued beyond Sevier—likely kept out of sight lest it meet with disapproval as it had in Henry’s England. Wise, since King Louis’s piety could make France even less tolerant of the mistreatment of children.

Now the question was how distant the sideshow was from Sevier. It could not be far since few would risk allowing strangers to lead them away from the safety of town and castle walls. To earn enough coin to make the sideshow profitable, it would have to be offered in close proximity to the troupe’s performance. Thus, under cover of night, Théâtre des Abominations would surely appear outside Sevier’s walls.

“What else did you learn?”

“The man with whom the woman conversed cursed Fin, said unless the miscreant once more found a means of stocking their sideshow, they must be done with him.”

Stocking. Elias’s teeth ached.

“He told her to return and behave as if naught were amiss lest Fin absconded with what their coin had bought,” Theo continued. “She said she would try not to slit his throat and departed.”

“Riding in the same direction whence she came?”

“Oui, my lord.”

Elias thought on how best to ensure Hart did not slip through their fingers, which could happen if Arblette did as the unseen man within the tent feared, then considered his squire who was as near a knight as one could come ere receiving the accolade.

“Pray, ask it of me, my lord,” Theo surprised. “I shall prove worthy of the spurs you shall soon fasten to my boots.”

Elias longed to remind him of how dangerous—and murderous—Arblette was, but it could sound an insult to one ready for the ceremony that proclaimed to all he was a warrior.

“My lord?”

Elias gripped his shoulder. “Scout out Arblette. When you find him, do not let him out of your sight.”

Though Theo’s smile was boyish, his eyes shone with the resolve of a man. “I will not, my lord. Anything else?”

“As soon as we return to Château des Trois Doigts, you are to meet with the smithy and make known the style of spurs that shall adorn your boots.”

Theo squeezed a bit more from his smile. “Oui, my lord,” he said then dropped the curve from his mouth so any curiosity roused by their meeting would not be furthered, and strode opposite.

Elias moved his gaze around the gathering in the hall that had grown from a dozen nobles when first he had entered to three dozen, all of whom Sir Damien had invited from neighboring lands to enjoy this night’s performance.

Elias did not expect his father to attend, Otto’s dislike of such entertainment more closely resembling hatred since having learned it was that which seduced his son into forsaking his family. Still, Elias had casually asked of Costain’s son if he would be reunited with his father sooner than expected. Damien had said Otto had not responded.

Response enough, Elias assured himself. When this business with the troupe was done and Honore’s return to England secured, it would be soon enough to tell his sire where he had been these weeks and how he had come by a son.

As supper would be served within the hour, after which the troupe would delight their audience, Elias decided to ease Honore’s anxiety over what was to come and explain his flirtation with Lady Vera. Though he had told himself it was better he did not so she could more easily reclaim the feelings gifted him, he could not bear her to believe he had spoken false in the chapel…that he had as little regard for her as had the young monk…that her smile was not a beautiful thing.

He strode from the alcove toward the stairs and halted when Cynuit bounded off them.

“Milord, I told her best not, but she comes.”

And so she did, pinching up her skirts as she descended the steps.

Glad his back was turned to the milling guests who would not spare Honore their curiosity and, in some cases, disdain, he smiled when her eyes found him.

Though worry lined her brow, she had not spent all these hours draped across a bed or pacing herself into disarray beyond that of their ride. She had put herself in order.

Her garments were straight, brushed clean, and well-laced. Her hair was combed into a golden cape that draped her from crown to shoulders to hips and held in place by a circlet fashioned of tresses braided back off her temples. The simplicity was so becoming he did not doubt when Lord Costain caught sight of her he would reassess her age and think it further removed from the thirty and two he thought twenty and five.

Knowing she was as aware of the interest sweeping the hall as he, Elias said as she neared, “You look rested, Cousin.”

She halted alongside Cynuit, found something to smile about. “I am much recovered.”

He inclined his head, said, “Cynuit, take yourself to the kitchen and tell Cook you are my servant and require feeding.”

The lad’s eyes widened. “Am I truly your servant, milord?”

“If you wish to be.”

“I do.”

“’Tis done. Now go.”

His first steps were at a run, but as if remembering he reflected on his new lord, he slowed and continued to the corridor at a brisk walk.

“You have made him happy,” Honore said. “I thank you.”

He nodded, leaned near. “You tell you are much recovered, but I would guess your state better described as restless.”

She raised eyebrows above blue that asked of him questions better answered abovestairs.

“I was coming to you,” he said.

“I wish I had known that.”

So did he. It was one thing to ascend stairs on his own to what other guests would think his chamber, another to do so in Honore’s company, especially since many of Costain’s guests were acquainted with him and did not yet know he delivered his English cousin to Château des Trois Doigts.

“We will have to talk here,” Honore said.

“Oui, but afterward you ought to return abovestairs.”

Neither agreeing nor disagreeing, she glanced beyond him. “Will you not offer your arm and lead me to the left of the hearth? No one is there.”

As he guided her across the hall, she asked, “Have you learned anything?”

“Theo did well. The troupe outside is the one we seek.”

She stumbled.

Elias steadied her and hoped any watching would believe the tale of her poor health that had surely begun circulating with her appearance, one or more of the Costains having been called upon to explain who she was.

“Then Hart is in one of the tents we passed.”

“Non.” Wishing this could have been told in her chamber, he handed her onto a bench and lowered beside her. “The sideshow continued on, though not far, methinks.”

Her lips pursed over a question, then she said, “Why?”

Moving his gaze from her mouth that he ought not linger over for remembrance of what he should forget, he leaned forward and clasped his hands. “Doubtless they wish to avoid being ejected from France the same as Henry ejected them.” He met her gaze. “Arblette has joined the troupe. He is with the sideshow.”

Her eyes widened and hand rose toward her mouth.

Resisting the temptation to draw more attention by capturing her hand, hoping she would understand what he commanded of her, he said, “You are my cousin, Honore. Not distressed, merely unwell.”

She stayed her hand at the level of her chest, lined her face with discomfort, and settled her arm across her midriff. “Continue, Elias. I shall not forget who you are to me.”

In time he hoped she would. He told her all Theo had learned, excepting Arblette’s threat to beat Hart and steal the babe’s breath. And from a distance she played well the cousin, only Elias able to read the face of Honore of Bairnwood, champion of foundlings.

“I fear for Theo,” she whispered. “If Finwyn recognizes him as your squire—”

“He excels at tracking and concealment. Unless Arblette gives him cause to show himself, he will not.”

“Cause?” her voice rose slightly, distress once more jeopardizing the part she played.

“Cousin Honore, should it prove necessary, Squire Theo—soon to be Sir Theo—will protect the children with his life.”

She summoned a smile, and once more he looked too close on her perfectly imperfect mouth.

“I want my Hart back,” she said softly.

Momentarily mistaking the boy’s name for that which beat in her breast, he forgot the part he played and leaned toward her.

“Cousin!” she gasped low.

He stilled, saw the space between them was barely respectable. But as he began to pull back, he heard and saw what he should have sooner—fine leather boots whose cuffs were brushed by the hem of a pale blue tunic.

“I understand we have acquired an English cousin,” a graveled voice spoke only loud enough to be heard by the two before him.

Elias set his teeth, looked up into eyes the color of his own though smaller amid folds set in a face whose brow, cheeks, and neck were grooved, as clearly revealing the man’s three score years as the silvered hair brushing broad, slightly bent shoulders.

Be Elias Cant, he told himself and stood. With enthusiasm drawn from a deep well, he said, “Father!” and embraced Otto De Morville.