Trust. He might be forgiven for believing he had earned Lettice’s, but Honore’s was not his due. Though he hated her omissions and lies, she knew him too short a time to trust him.

It had taken the ride to the village to cool his ire and accept her wisdom. For years he had aspired to correct his flaws and become worthy of one day lording these lands, but she could not know that. All she had known for certain was had he not sinned with Lettice, there would have been no possibility he fathered her child. Hence, Honore would not have nearly lost her life at the stream, and Lettice would not have been killed over coin. No reason to trust him, and yet he had misdirected anger that threatened to undo him when he learned the date of Hart’s birth that revealed Lettice had been unfaithful long ere he found her with the knight.

Though she had not claimed that was her only betrayal since the day Elias and she vowed they would not repeat the mistake of their one night together and would be with no other, he had persuaded himself of it, having seen the sweet of her soul and been certain only desperation would make her sell her body. That was surely how it began when her refusal to wed Arblette threatened her family’s survival, but as concluded when she sought to send Elias away, likely for his sake more than hers it had become the quicker, easier way.

Broken by her first betrothed’s betrayal and fearful of being broken by her next, she had not trusted Elias to provide though month after month he had given her the greater portion of his coin. Thus, Elias’s anger at himself, Arblette, even Lettice, had spilled onto Honore who but protected the innocents whose trust she had earned. Were she to trust Elias as her foundlings trusted her, it would take time he could not give her without breaking his father’s trust. But he could apologize and keep his word to see her safely returned to the life from which he had taken her.

A sennight—

Non, a fortnight and he would escort her and her charges to Bairnwood. “Where she does not belong,” he said into the cool of day crawling toward night, which he had not expected to ride across. Blessedly, the dispute between the villagers was settled, both parties seemingly content with the concessions. At least in this Otto would be pleased—were he to spare it a passing thought beyond the danger in which Elias had placed their family.

He glanced over his shoulder at the receding village, noted lights being lit against the dark, and as he swept his gaze forward again, caught movement ahead.

Two riders. He did not know them at this distance, but their mounts were swift and sleek. And they came at him from the left.

Brigands? Urging his mount to greater speed, Elias veered to the right and assessed his defenses—sword and dagger, no armor or warhorse.

The demesne having long been at peace, he sensed this was something beyond happenstance, something that had lain in wait. The troupe? Or Henry’s men seeking the one who aided Becket? The former, he prayed but did not believe it, certain none of the troupe possessed such fine horses.

They were gaining on him, but he was well acquainted with the wood he might have to delve to leave them behind. Moments later, he accepted he must enter the trees, but as he neared, another appeared to the right. And there was enough light on that triumphant face to see it was Neville Sorrel who sought to scissor Elias between himself and his men, all of whom had drawn swords.

Elias turned his mount sharply, and as he spurred toward the tree line drew his own sword. He had allowed anger to transform a warrior into prey, but he would not further betray his training by making it easier for the miscreant to take him to ground—and prove Durand Marshal right. Ere the baron had been his friend, he had scorned Elias’s award of a Wulfrith dagger, believing it was out of gratitude Everard jeopardized his family’s reputation. It had caused Elias to train harder and as often at Wulfen as he was in England. But if he fell to Neville, despite being outnumbered three to one, Marshal would be proven right since victory in battle was not all to do with the swing of a sword and thrust of a dagger.

The first line of defense was to be prepared, the next to be vigilant, and neither had he been since departing Château des Trois Doigts. He yet ached from blows sustained at Sevier, was without armor, absent an escort, and mounted on a horse without training in battle.

“Will I never learn?” he growled, then recalled what Everard had said when he set upon Elias two squires soon to earn their spurs.

When possible, first pull the teeth.

That he must do again, this time against three. He had not seen any of these men fight, but Neville must be the teeth, having received knighthood training with Count Philip of Flanders who suffered no men of the sword not truly of the sword. Extinguish this threat and more quickly the others were snuffed out.

Elias went to the darkening wood, heard Neville curse as he followed, set a course amongst the densest trees and foliage that would soonest take them from sight of his pursuer’s men. God willing, their search to make sense of the direction from which sword song sounded would delay them in aiding their lord, providing Elias time to best Neville before the knave became two and three.

The beat of hooves behind sounding more distant, Elias glanced around. Neville had dropped back, surely not due to his destrier being unable to keep pace. Because he sensed a trap in a wood better known to prey than predator? Because his men were no longer in sight?

Regardless, Elias’s mount was faltering, its strength and stamina unable to match a warhorse’s. If its rider did not act now, soon he would face three.

Elias reined around, giving rise to a cloud of dust, loam, and decaying leaves from which he emerged with a jab of spurs, a bellow of challenge, and a setting of sword.

Amid the coming of night and the wood’s long low shadows, he glimpsed Neville’s wide-eyed surprise and the shift toward uncertainty.

Lest he turn back to gather his men to his side, Elias shouted, “Run, craven coxcomb! Back to your wet nurse! Back!”

The knight bared his teeth, and as his destrier responded to a vicious jab of spurs, drew back his sword.

Steel struck steel, blade slid down blade, and as Elias’s met chain mail, Neville’s opened the shoulder of his opponent’s mantle and tunic and sliced flesh.

Only scored, Elias assured himself, though with his pulse thrumming and the need for survival numbing him, it could prove worse.

He brought his horse around, and with his blood coloring Neville’s blade, the two charged again.

Elias moved as if to deliver a backward stroke, and at the last moment ducked, arced his blade down, up, and slammed it against the inside of his opponent’s sword. The blow nearly knocked Neville out of the saddle, and Elias’s next swing delivered to the man’s back dropped the miscreant over his horse’s neck.

No blood gained, none expected, the mail once more protecting its wearer. But when Elias came around, he saw the knight leaned heavily to the side as he struggled to control his destrier.

Knowing his men would soon appear, Elias rode after him to ensure he pulled all the teeth. As he came alongside the hunched knight and raised his sword to bring its hilt down on the man’s helmeted head, Neville jerked aside and tried to swing his sword. With little effort, Elias delivered the blow and Neville tumbled to the ground.

Victory, but would it be enough to return Elias to Château des Trois Doigts now the men-at-arms had appeared? Only if they paused to aid their lord where he landed between two great oaks.

Instead, they came straight for Elias, one on either side.

Certain they would keep pace with each other, providing no opportunity to be eliminated one at a time, and it would be of great detriment to leave his back vulnerable to them, Elias brought his horse around and charged to the left of the men. But as he readied his sword to meet that of the one veering toward him, a crack resounded around the wood, his mount lurched, and Elias launched himself out of the saddle lest he be pinned beneath his horse. Moments later, the animal thrashed ten feet away, its leg broken.

“Merciful Lord,” Elias appealed as he tightened his grip on his sword and turned to rise before Neville’s men were upon him.

He made it to sitting before a wave of darkness rose from the backs of his eyes. He had landed hard.

“A pity our lord—God rest his soul—believed you worth more alive than dead,” said the smaller of the men who looked down on Elias from atop his horse. “But methinks he was right in that King Henry will pay better to watch you swing for aiding the good archbishop.”

Fighting back the black that would see him stripped of arms and bound over the back of a horse, Elias gained his feet and looked between the men. “Though I do not believe the two of you capable of killing me, the only way you will deliver me across the channel is as a corpse.” Setting his teeth against the ache and wet of his shoulder, Elias pulled the Wulfrith dagger from its scabbard. “Come. One at a time if you are not afeared of an injured knight, together if you are as craven as your lord.”

Anger lit their faces, but the bigger one laughed. “Better a live craven man than a fool dead one.” He considered the Wulfrith dagger. “Though Raoul prefers you alive, being a greedy knave, dead is good with me.”

Elias had only the warning of a look passed between the two before they attacked. With his sword he parried the blade of the big man, with his dagger slashed the back of the hand with which Raoul gripped his hilt. He ducked the big man’s next swing, thrust with the dagger and stabbed a thick thigh from which chain mail had fallen back.

As the man roared, Elias pivoted and knocked aside Raoul’s sword that would have made a fine beginning of separating head from neck. Another thrust of the dagger at a soft belly bent Raoul forward, and Elias had only a glimpse of crimson spilling onto the horse’s coat before he returned to the big man.

As he slammed aside the blade aimed at his chest with such force he relieved his attacker of his weapon, he felt a burn across his upper back. Raoul had no wish to die alone. Lest the man’s next blow prove mortal, Elias arced his blade around. When his blade came off the other’s, he swung again and unseated Raoul. But before Elias could return his attention to the big man, that one’s great weight landed on his back. As it carried him to the ground, he felt a sharp pain in his side as if he had torn a muscle.

He landed face down but, blessedly, remained in possession of sword and dagger, the former stretched above his head, the latter pinned beneath his chest.

Elias swept his sword arm back, blindly reaching his blade toward the one atop him, shouted when the man gripped his wrist and slammed it to the ground where he held it as he rose and straddled his prey. Then he began driving a fist into Elias’s ribs.

Grunting with each blow, Elias strained to free his sword arm and raise his chest enough to free the Wulfrith dagger. The fist struck him in the jaw, and once more he fought the currents seeking to drag him into unconsciousness.

Be worthy, Elias De Morville! he called to the warrior standing on the other side of the troubadour who, twice beaten, twice humiliated, twice unable to defend himself let alone others, had vowed never again to be without recourse.

He did not realize his hold on his sword hilt had loosened until he felt the man’s fingers prying at them.

Kicking his way back to the surface, Elias emerged from dark water into the wood’s deepening shadows, tightened his sword hand, strained the muscles of arms, shoulders, and back, and shoved upward.

The big man fell to the side and took Elias with him. The night sky coming into view, once more Elias felt pain beneath his ribs, but there was no time to dwell on it. Though his sword remained useless whilst his opponent gripped his hand, the Wulfrith dagger was freed.

He swept it across his chest, down, and inward. It slid between his opponent’s ribs, causing the man to release his hold. As Elias rolled off, a bloodied blade came toward him. He stopped it with a slam of his forearm, dropped to the ground, and rolled several times more to distance himself.

He longed to remain there to recover his breath, strength, and presence of mind over which the dark once more moved, but he dare not rest until the danger was past.

Once more feeling the pain of something torn, he pushed upright, gripped his side, and looked from Raoul who stared at the heavens to the man’s comrade whose eyes rolled as blood ran from his mouth.

Moving his regard to the Wulfrith dagger’s jeweled hilt embedded in the man’s side, Elias returned his sword to its scabbard and tried to stride forward but could manage only small, faltering steps. He bent and, when he pulled his dagger free, became aware of warm moisture on the palm pressed to his side.

It was covered in blood. Reminded of the crimson-coated blade he had knocked aside, he searched out the dagger loosely held by the big man. When the miscreant had launched himself onto Elias’s back he had stuck it in his opponent, retrieving it only after Elias dealt him a similar injury.

“Dear Lord,” Elias rasped. “I cannot die here.”

Then stanch the blood and get yourself astride, the warrior commanded.

Elias backed against a tree and slashed strips from the lower portion of his tunic. One piece he folded into a thick square and pressed to the gash, the other two he wound tightly around his waist.

After dispatching his horse to end its suffering, with great effort he mounted the big man’s horse and secured himself to the saddle.

His first thought was to ride to the nearby village, but two things set him toward the castle. As the village healer dealt mostly in herbs, the physician had to be summoned when one of her charges suffered dire injury. Thus, Elias could more quickly deliver himself into the man’s care. Then there was the missing person of Neville Sorrel who was not where he had fallen. The sooner Otto was alerted to the man’s incursion on his lands, the greater the chance he could be captured.

“Lord, keep me conscious,” Elias prayed as he guided his mount out of the trees, then he ground his teeth against the greater pain to come and spurred forward.

Voices. Shouts. The clatter of hooves.

Honore rose from the chair in which she had dozed and hastened to the shuttered window. She winced over the whine of hinges lest it awaken the children and peered down into the torchlit bailey.

Three riders were before the steps. As she settled her gaze on the one in the middle slumped over his mount’s neck, the other two dismounted and called for the physician. It was a robed Otto who first appeared on the steps, descending two at a time.

“Elias,” Honore gasped. She need not see the face of the man the soldiers struggled to remove from his saddle to know here was the one she loved.

“He bound himself to it,” a soldier called to the other, and light flashed across the blade severing the rope.

Then Elias was pulled from the saddle into his sire’s arms.

“Elias!” Otto shouted as his son’s pale face turned up toward Honore. But his eyes were closed, what remained of his torn tunic stained with blood.

Honore knew she should remain in her chamber as she had agreed, but she could not.

She snatched up the robe Otto’s wife had loaned her, as she shoved her arms into its sleeves swept her eyes over the children on the bed. Grateful their sleep was not disturbed, she slipped from the chamber and belted the robe as she ran bare-footed to the stairs. When she flung herself into the hall, she saw Otto had lain his son on the high table and the physician who had tended Alice bent over him.

“Clean cloths, boiled water,” the man called as he cut through Elias’s tunic and two servants ran to the kitchen.

“Lord De Morville,” Honore gasped as she ascended the dais.

His head came around, and though this eyes met hers, she felt as if he looked through her. “When he did not come back, I sent men to search for him.” His eyes brightened, mouth convulsed. “Too late. Now I shall lose my son. This time forever.”

She looked to Elias. Was he already lost to them? He was pale and bloodied, and though his chest rose and fell, one had to look close to catch the movement.

Stepping to the table’s edge, she closed a hand over his. “Elias?”

His fingers jerked beneath hers.

She looked to the physician, watched him carefully peel away the bandage from a side wound. It was not as unsightly as feared—a straight cut no wider than her thumb.

The man’s eyes met hers. “Let us pray the blade hit nothing vital.”

Lowering her lids, silently she beseeched the Lord to save His beloved Elias.

“Neville.” The strangled breath of that name opened her eyes. The meaning of it straightened her back. The narrow of the eyes before hers made her gasp.

Before she could think what to say, Otto moved her aside and bent near his son. “That is who did this to you?”

“Neville Sorrel,” Elias said low. “He knows the aid I gave Becket…sought to deliver me to Duke Henry. I injured him, killed his men.” He coughed. “He escaped. Must stop him.”

“Know you the direction he went?”

No answer, and when Otto drew back, Honore saw Elias’s lids had lowered.

His father looked around, but no longer did he look through Honore. “You did this to my son.”

“My lord,” the physician said, “best you deal with this Neville now. There is naught you can do here. It is in God’s hands upon mine.”

Otto drew a breath that raised his shoulders, then gripped Honore’s arm. “Return to your chamber,” he said as he drew her off the dais.

With a backward glance at Elias, she moved out of the man’s hold, crossed the hall, and ascended the stairs.

A half hour later, she watched from her window as a dozen knights and men-at-arms departed the castle in search of Neville. Shortly, Otto came to her, confirmed arrangements for her departure with the children on the morn, and once more secured her promise to stay out of Elias’s life—if he yet possessed one.

Providing he was not lost to his family, Honore was content that never again would she set eyes on one who had suffered much in pursuit of a son not his.

When the wagon that would convey her and the children to the coast rumbled over the drawbridge at dawn, all she knew of Elias was he had survived the night and the physician believed he had a greater chance of living than dying. If infection did not set in.