Otto De Morville had trespassed. Face florid, mouth tight, he snarled, “All to save a misbegotten boy not of your loins, see what you bring down on our house!”

Elias stared at his father who stood three steps below. Knowing he should not meet anger with anger, certain Otto had but happened on the exchange in thinking to collect his errant son and that he had a right to wrath over the danger to his lands, Elias resumed his descent and continued past his sire.

“Elias!”

“We will discuss it later, Father.”

“We will discuss it now!”

“I have business in the village.”

“Then we shall speak during the ride.”

“I go alone.” Elias continued to the hall and was grateful his father did not follow. He had much to account for regardless of what was overheard, but only after he could think in a straight line. He knew he wronged Honore at least as much as she wronged him, but she had deceived, had not trusted him just as Lettice had not when he assured her he would provide for her family.

Elias’s horse was saddled alongside his father’s. It had not the strength nor reach of the destrier he could not reclaim, but it would suffice until he could secure another mount capable of more than merely transporting its rider—one who could partner with a man-turned-warrior when arms were called for.

Glad for the absence of weight and heat of chain mail, Elias declined accompaniment by the men-at-arms who were to have ridden with father and son—a decision that would once more make him question if he were worthy of a Wulfrith dagger.

The knock was insistent, and it had the authority of Otto De Morville behind it. “I would speak with you, Honore of Bairnwood!”

She lifted her face from the pillow. Had Elias alerted his sire to the danger in which she had placed their family? She swung her feet to the floor and, wiping eyes and nose, crossed the chamber.

She opened the door. “My lord?”

He narrowed his gaze on her face. “I happened on your conversation with my son.”

“Oh, I am sorry.”

“Though I heard enough to know how serious the matter, you are going to tell me everything so I may find a way to plug up the hole you so kindly dug our family. Come, we will do this in the solar.”

Shortly, sitting across the table from him, she told only what he needed to know. And yet from the way he looked at her, she thought he suspected the intimacy shared with his son and how deeply she felt for him.

“That is more than a hole,” Otto rumbled. “That is a ravine even the surest arrow might not span.”

“Forgive me, Lord De Morville. I did not mean to cause your family strife. I but wished to save a boy—”

“Whom you allowed my son to believe was his.”

Though angry, it surprised he was not more so. “As you surely heard, I did think Elias could be Hart’s sire despite Finwyn’s claim.” Hands clasped atop the table, she leaned forward. “Tell me what I can do to make it right.”

“You can leave Château des Trois Doigts with all your children.” He glanced at the window. “It is too late this day, but on the morrow.”

She inclined her head. “Elias was to make arrangements—”

“I will ensure your return to the abbey. And you will do my son one kindness.”

“Anything.”

“Though he is angry now, I know he cares for you and would have a greater care had he not family to consider and promises to keep.”

“He told you this?”

“Non, but I see what he does not believe I see, and that accursed troubadour’s heart could ruin the De Morvilles if what you have wrought does not. As you must know, you are entirely unsuitable—your uncertain parentage and legitimacy, age, and the affliction you could pass to children born of your body. Though now Elias ought to have proof enough you are no fit for the De Morvilles, I would not have an impassable rift between my son and me should he forgive you and eschew his duty.”

“I think there little chance of that.”

“Little is too much where my family is concerned.”

She nodded. “What kindness do you ask of me?”

“You shall remain in your chamber, neither showing yourself nor speaking with him. Come morn, I shall ensure he is away from the castle so you and the children depart without his knowledge.”

Then she could not even wish him a good life. “I agree.”

“And should he seek you after you are gone, you will stay inside your abbey and accept no missive from him.”

“Methinks you overestimate your son’s regard for me and underestimate his loyalty to you.”

“Perhaps, but I will not lose him again. He—” His voice caught and alarm flashed across his face, but though he tried to cover his vulnerability with a stern face, it slipped before he could hide it behind the hand he gripped over his brow.

“You love him,” Honore said. “This I know. I only hope you will tell him what you feel.” She stood. “You have my word I will not see him again and he will not see me.” At the door, she looked around and saw he remained behind his hand. “Elias offered Cynuit a position here. If your son is no longer inclined now he knows the boy is of Finwyn, would you send him to me so I may find him a good home?”

He lowered his hand. “Elias will keep his word. Cynuit may remain.”

“But—”

“If I do not know my son as well as believed, I will send the boy to you.”

“I thank you.” She nearly added she thought it best Cynuit remain ignorant of his relation to his abuser, but she did not think either man would reveal it. Without further word, she closed the door.

Returning to her chamber, she began packing her few belongings and those of the children. Until Hart bounded inside to show her the rock he said Elias confirmed was a dragon’s tooth, doubtless when the boy revealed his birth month, she remained dry-eyed. Then, so he would not see her tears, she sent him for ink and parchment.

But it was no frivolous errand. As much as possible, she would set aright the mess she had made of the De Morvilles.