All but four.

Silly though it was, Honore felt the absence of beads over which she would never again slide her fingers. It seemed ungrateful to mourn the loss of so few when she should have been fortunate to recover only enough to assemble a bracelet. Instead, Hart and Cynuit had searched out enough to restring her necklace.

For the first hour of the ride, the prayer beads had soothed Alice as she pulled them over her webbed fingers and tapped them against her tiny teeth. Now she slept tucked between the saddle’s pommel and Honore’s abdomen. Though on occasion she became restless, coughing and rubbing her nose, she traveled well. Elias was to thank for that, having resisted his father’s impatience over the sedate pace.

Once more, Otto De Morville grumbled they should have made use of the covered wagon that would have allowed them to move more quickly, but Elias offered no further comment. At Sevier he had defended his decision to burn it in sight of the children, not only to symbolize the end of their bondage, but so it could never again be used for such foul means. And there had been the advantage of setting it afire during the troupe’s departure—dire warning.

Honore peered past Theo whose arm was around the wide-eyed, thumb-sucking Jamie to Hart who straddled the back of Cynuit’s saddle. As if awaiting her gaze, the boy smiled. It was not as genuine as she knew him capable of, but she had to believe that just as he was stronger for his ordeal, eventually he would recover sufficiently to reclaim a portion of his childhood.

She returned his smile and looked to Elias who rode ahead alongside his sire. With his back to her, she could not see the pale Rayne perched before him shrouded in cloak and hood at the insistence of Hart who said even blunted sunlight hurt her eyes and quickly burned her skin.

That these children are now safe and will be more so at Bairnwood is much for which to be grateful, Honore told herself. So much my heart ought to be full.

It was not, though it would have been had love of Elias not stretched it to so great a size that when they parted there would be a vast, empty space alongside love for her foundlings.

You are greedy, she chastised. Be content with the love you have—more than many can hope for.

Honore did not realize Elias had slowed until she neared and saw his father remained a length ahead.

He looked around. “Over the next rise you will have your first glimpse of my home, Château des Trois Doigts.”

She drew alongside, guessed from the curl of Rayne’s small body against his that she slept. “Three Fingers Castle,” she said in English. “For what is it named that?”

He adjusted the little girl to ensure her seat, raised his left arm straight out in front of him, reins gripped in that hand, and swept his right hand to his jaw with three fingers splayed. He curled them inward, and with a low whistle released an imaginary string.

“The three-fingered draw of an archer,” Honore said.

He smiled, once more settled an arm around Rayne. “As named by my great grandfather who built it on land awarded him by Duke William of Normandy one hundred years past.”

“England’s conqueror.”

He inclined his head. “Hervé was misbegotten the same as William, of noble and common blood.”

Above which few can rise, she reflected, especially women.

“It is said the two were as good friends as was possible with one such as William. But that is not what earned Hervé these lands. At the Battle of Hastings, William put to good use my ancestor’s skill at archery and ability to command others of the bow. It raised Hervé to knighthood, gained him a worthy—albeit unwilling—bride, and made—”

“Unwilling?”

“That is another tale. Let me finish this one, hmm?” At her nod, he said, “And made of him a great landholder.”

“Fascinating.”

“And much to aspire to.” He nudged his dagger’s hilt with his elbow. “When like the prodigal son I returned to France, my father believed this a good start.”

“Only a good start?” She glanced at the man ahead, wondered if he was privy to their conversation.

Elias shrugged. “He is exacting.” He leaned toward her. “Ever he has demanded more of his sons than was demanded of him.”

Otto De Morville’s head came around. “Because my sire was hardly worthy of our name. I may not have had benefit of Wulfen training—and God knows how you gained it—but I make right what he made wrong.”

“This I know,” Elias said. “I but seek to explain our relationship.”

“To one it does not concern.” Otto moved his glower to her.

“In that you err, Father. I have a great care for Honore of Bairnwood, and much respect for all she has endured to aid me.”

His father turned his head to peer over his other shoulder—at Hart, Honore guessed. When he looked back around, he asked, “Is he yours?”

After a slight hesitation, Elias said, “Certes, he is worthy of the name you highly esteem—as a man may prove worthier than I.”

“Impossible,” his sire bit, and Honore thought herself as surprised as he who surely had not meant to speak those words—and Elias whose head jerked.

The older man made a sound of disgust, pricked his destrier’s sides, and spurred ahead.

“He loves you,” Honore said as they watched Otto grow distant.

“He needs me,” Elias countered. “And resents me for it. That is all.”

“I think that is only what he wishes you to believe because he does not understand how he can care so much for his troubadour son.”

“You are fanciful, Honore. You see love where there is not.”

Were that true, she silently mused, I would think you have more than a great care for me.

“Where it is obvious,” she said and eased her horse back from his.

Château des Trois Doigts was impressive insomuch as could be a wooden castle slowly transitioning to stone, Elias reflected as he tried to see his home through Honore’s eyes. Doubtless, when the fortress was first erected it had been worthy of Duke William’s prize archer. It was yet worthy, so well built it had easily repelled those who sought to enter it uninvited over the last century, but it could be another decade before it rivaled other castles more quickly turned to stone.

I shall see it done in five years, Elias silently vowed, not the ten Otto insisted upon.

It was not mere hope. His father had passed that responsibility to his heir shortly after what seemed Elias’s resurrection from the dead. More progress had been made these two years than in the decade before. The walls and towers of the outer bailey were entirely stone, those of the inner bailey nearing the three-quarter mark. Once the donjon’s second line of defense was complete, section by section the timbers of the lord’s living and working quarters would be replaced.

As Elias swung out of the saddle before the donjon, he silently affirmed, Three years more, the latter two of which I will become a husband and, God willing, father.

Having passed Rayne to one of the servants whom his father had shown great presence of mind to send outside to greet the party, Elias strode to Honore who was halfway out of the saddle. Gripping her waist, he lowered her.

She turned and smiled, another thing for which he was indebted to his sire. None of the women into whose care the little ones were given had shown surprise, curiosity, or dismay over those whose imperfections were obvious. Otto had surely warned them, though probably with an abundance of threat. However, in this instance Elias was grateful.

“Your home is impressive,” Honore said.

He raised an eyebrow. “The donjon is in an unfinished state and some disrepair.”

“It will be stone as well?”

“As quickly as time and funds allow.”

“I would like to see that,” she said unthinkingly, as evidenced by the lowering of her gaze.

As would I, Elias silently agreed.

“Sir Elias!” Hart appeared beside Honore. “May Cynuit and I go inside?”

“You may. I am sure my father has arranged for food and accommodations.”

The boys bounded up the steps, followed by Theo.

“Your sire has been tolerant,” Honore said.

Which she interpreted as love, Elias thought wryly, certain it was only grudging concession. He would not be surprised if Otto pushed Lady Vera on him again as payment for his tolerance. Of course, had there been a chance Costain would reconsider matching his daughter with Elias, after what had transpired on the night past he might no longer. Far better to pick from amongst others seeking her hand.

Elias offered Honore his arm. “Come meet my stepmother and sisters.”

As their arrival was several hours ere supper, the great hall was far from its usual teeming self. No tables had been erected to accommodate the dozens who usually shared meals with their lord and lady. Excepting the little ones who had surely been delivered abovestairs to take their meals there, all were seated at the high table on either side of Otto—Theo, Cynuit, Hart, and the men-at-arms who had accompanied their lord to Sevier.

Seeing his stepmother sat at the hearth holding an embroidery frame in one hand, with the other pushing a needle through tautly-stretched cloth, Elias led Honore to her.

His father’s young wife set aside her frame and stood. “I am glad you are returned, Elias.”

“As am I.” He inclined his head, introduced Honore.

“Well come,” his stepmother said, then to Elias, “Your sisters have lain down for their afternoon rest. When they awaken, they will be pleased to see you.”

“Doubtless, they will wish a tale.”

Her smile had its usual weary edge, but she looked healthy. Time away from Otto was ever of benefit to one who had given her youth to a man old enough to be her grandfather. Certes, her daughters were her greatest happiness, possibly her next greatest was that her body could give no more. Thus, to ensure a convent did not separate her from her girls, Elias must provide the next male heir.

“After so long a ride, you must be pained with hunger and thirst.” She gestured at the high table. “Pray, seat yourselves.”

Honore thanked the lady, and Elias led her across the hall. There being only two chairs available, one alongside Otto, the other between Hart and a man-at-arms, Elias handed her into the latter and joined his father.

“I have word of that rascal, Becket,” Otto said.

Though Elias did not peer down the table at Honore, he knew she had heard and also waited with held breath.

“A merry chase he leads Henry,” his father said, “though never would I name it such in his hearing.”

Elias picked a block of cheese from the platter between them, swallowed it down with ale.

“De Lucy found him,” his sire continued, “confronted him at Saint Bertin’s, and tried to persuade him to submit to Henry’s will.”

“Did he?”

Otto chuckled. “Refused, and quite the break that caused. De Lucy was Becket’s vassal, you know. But no more.”

“You think the archbishop will have to yield to Henry?”

“I think he must, but from what I hear tell of the man, I do not believe he will, especially if King Louis sides with him.”

“What chance that?”

“Though Henry’s men, Foliot and D’Aubigny, were well chosen to seek an audience with Louis, which I am sure will soon be granted if it has not already, the King of France is hardly inclined to accommodate the man who wed his cast-off wife without his permission.”

Elias agreed. The union of Henry Plantagenet with France’s greatest heiress and former queen was a great sore unlikely to heal, especially since Eleanor of Aquitaine had given Henry what she had not given Louis—sons.

“Too, as Louis is exceedingly pious, he is more apt to side with a man of God than one who gives him good cause to name him the devil.”

Though there was much to admire in Henry, Elias had no illusions about how ruthless their liege could be. His temper was legendary, his need to control men dangerous.

For the sake of the De Morvilles, Elias prayed England’s king would never know of his role in Becket’s escape. Unfortunately, that meant Elias could not reclaim the horses he had paid to send across the channel though done under a false name. His fine destrier, after which his father had asked this morn and been told there was no time to arrange for its crossing, would soon have a new master.

The conversation shifted to matters of the demesne, of greatest concern the delay of quarried stone to complete the inner wall. Elias assured his sire he would see to it and a half dozen other matters that interfered with the smooth working of Château des Trois Doigts.

An hour later, his stepmother escorted Honore to Elias’s chamber that had been given her and the children for the duration of their stay.

The shorter the better, he told himself, and yet he conceded he would not mind were the shorter a lifetime.