Honore.”

Otto lifted his head from the mattress, as he blinked away sleep wondered if he imagined the voice of one he could not yet accept was lost to him—he who had gone into a deep sleep four days past from which the physician told he was unlikely to awaken.

As much as was possible for eyes growing old, Otto brought his son to focus. A glimmer between narrowed lids evidencing he had heard right, he leaned near. “Son!”

“Honore,” Elias repeated.

Otto had been glad to see the woman who caused so much misery depart, but in this moment he wished her here to give his son what might be the only thing that could prove the physician wrong.

Elias swallowed loudly. “Where?”

“Here,” Otto lied, knowing that had a channel crossing been possible she was now on English soil. “With the children.” That last was not false, he salved his conscience. “When she returns to the donjon, I will bring her to you.”

His son’s lids lowered so suddenly, it was as if they were weighted.

Otto rose from his chair and lowered to the mattress edge. “Son?”

Elias drew a shaky breath, grimaced on an exhale that ended on her name. “Honore.”

“If you wish to see her again, stay here with me.”

Barely, Elias raised his lids. “Unsuitable,” he slurred. “Oui, but I…cannot leave it as I did.”

“You will see her soon.”

“Your…word.”

Another lie, but anything to keep him from slipping away. “My word you have.” Otto reached to the cup from which he and others who kept watch dribbled wine onto Elias’s tongue. “To regain your strength and be present when she arrives, you must drink and eat.”

“After…sleep.”

“Non.” Otto raised his son’s head, set the cup against his lips, and eased a stream into his mouth. It slid out the side. “Drink!” Otto grated, then with pleading said, “If not for me, Honore. She cannot come until you are well enough to receive her.”

Though fatigue and pain shone brightest from Elias’s eyes, Otto glimpsed suspicion there.

“The physician’s orders, Son.”

Elias parted his lips to receive the wine. It was slow going, but he swallowed half before drawing his head back.

Otto set the cup on the table and eased him onto his pillow.

“Honore.”

“I will send word.” Otto stood, and as he strode to the door glanced over his shoulder for no other reason than to see his son awake and allow that sight to replenish the vessel of hope.

He opened the door, nearly ordered the passing chambermaid to summon the physician who had gone to the outer bailey to tend the smithy’s apprentice. Determined to keep up the pretense Honore was near, Otto strode the corridor and caught the woman’s arm as she started down the steps.

Surprise jostling the linens she conveyed to the laundress, Otto scooped them from her and dropped them on the floor.

“Milord?”

“With all haste, send for the physician,” Otto said low. “Tell him my son has awakened.”

She bobbed her head, hiked up her skirt, and descended the steps.

When Otto returned to the chamber and saw Elias’s lids had lowered, he feared his heart would snap. It was no measured stride that carried him to the bed, no composed face upon which his son opened his eyes, no mere easing of the shoulders as relief emptied Otto’s lungs.

“Neville?” Elias rasped.

Otto reached to the cup. “Drink first.”

As Elias complied, Otto pondered whether falsity would better aid in his son’s recovery. Reveal Neville had escaped capture and likely made his way to the King of England? Or tell the miscreant had been captured and slain? Whereas one tale could give Elias another reason to live beyond Honore so he might avenge himself on his attacker, the other could give him ease, allowing mind and body the rest needed to heal.

Otto nearly went the way of revenge, but that was more the way of sire than son. It could further wound Elias whose pursuit of the boy had endangered the De Morvilles, especially as it could be weeks—even months—ere he rose from bed.

Elias strained his head back, compressed his lips.

Otto set aside the cup. “Rest easy, all three of your attackers are dead. Our family is safe.”

He was certain he had chosen well when his son’s tension eased. “Forgive me for the ill…upon our house.”

“It is done.” Otto touched his forehead to his son’s, an affection that surprised him. He straightened, knew from Elias’s frown the gesture also surprised him.

Otto cleared his throat. “Now all that remains is for you to heal and resume your place as my heir.”

“Your heir,” Elias murmured.

That had been the wrong thing to say, a reminder of his duty to his family though that woman’s name had first come off his lips.

“I have sent for the physician. As soon as he confirms you are fit to receive visitors, you can speak with Honore.”

“I would speak with her first. I must…make it right.”

“So you shall.” Otto listened for the physician who must be apprised of the need to keep the hope of Honore alive. When Elias was strong enough, he would be told she was gone. And accept it as being for the best.

Elias closed his eyes.

“Son?” Twice more Otto called his name, but no response, nor when the physician appeared and subjected Elias to all manner of examination.

The man straightened. “I believe you, my lord, but though infection has not set in…” He shook his head. “Be thankful the Lord granted you this time with him.”

Otto dropped into the chair and hung his head. “I cannot lose him,” he groaned and admitted to himself what he could admit to no other. It was more the loss of his boy that distressed him than the loss of his last male heir.

“My lord, you need your rest. I will sit with him.”

Otto longed to reject the physician’s offer, but since lifting Elias’s near lifeless body from the saddle he had slept in one and two hour snatches. He pushed upright. “I thank you, but ere I give him into your care, I must speak with you. Come into the corridor.”

When the physician returned to his patient minutes later, Otto lingered outside the chamber to pour prayer unto God.

A hand touched his arm, and he snapped his head up, gentling his expression when he saw it was the young woman whose body Elias accused him of ruining. And so he had, though she made no such charge.

He touched her cheek. “Wife.”

Her smile was slight. “Come to bed. I will hold you.”

He ought to be offended by words that reduced him to the helplessness of a child, but her eyes were kind, and he longed to be held as he had not been since the passing of the mother of his sons.

He nodded and followed her to the solar.

She held him, and as sleep drew him to its bosom, she said, “They love, Otto. Does Elias live, let him choose the one with whom he spends his life.”

Silly woman.

“The same as once you were blessed,” she reminded him that though his own father had opposed his son’s marriage to a widow aged twenty and five, narrow of hips, and frail, he had relented.

But in this Otto could not. Though Honore appeared to be of good childbearing build, she was even less a young woman, likely half common, and misbegotten. It was asking too much.

As he moved toward sleep, he returned to begging the Lord for what He might deem asking too much.

It was good to be home, and yet all of her was not here. A large piece had been left outside these walls. One she could never retrieve. One that would die with Elias.

Cease, she told herself. You are not here to bemoan what can never be but to pray for what can be.

Thrusting aside selfish Honore, she returned to prayer for Elias’s healing. Though certainly not alone in beseeching the Lord to raise him from depths that sought to push dirt over him, perhaps her voice alongside those of his sire and others would add enough volume for God to spare a moment to ensure Elias’s recovery.

Forehead pressed to the chill floor so long the stone tiles were warm by the time the bells called the sisters to service, Honore pushed back onto her heels. She lingered as she ought not with those outside soon to be inside, then raised her gaze to the altar with its carved figure of Jesus on the cross.

“Heal him,” she whispered and reached to the gorget. Fingers encountering bare throat, she nearly smiled. Each time she departed the dormitory, one nun or another asked after the covering’s absence, but none had shone disapproval on her when she told she would no longer wear it. And the one who had reminded her to conceal her lower face the day Finwyn summoned Honore to the wood had said she was glad.

Still, Honore had no desire to displease Lady Yolande who would threaten to pull her donations if she saw Honore did not keep her imperfection concealed. Thus, as continued to be habit, Honore exited the chapel by way of its side entrance.

Her timing was poor. As she stepped onto the path that led to the dormitory, the lady of three score appeared. This day she had decided to attend a service she often eschewed. There would have been time for Honore to turn her back to the one walking amidst nuns, but it so reeked of shame she continued forward and did not avert her gaze when the lady’s pounced on her.

Honore smiled as Elias had advised, but though the expression made the scar less noticeable, it seemed to offend more.

Lady Yolande altered her course and stepped in front of Honore. “For what do you go about uncovered?” She peered down her long, thin nose as some sisters continued past while others halted.

“The same as you, my lady.” She glanced at the lightly clouded sky. “Though it is hardly warm this early in the day, the breeze is not much more than a plaything.”

“As well you know, it has naught to do with warmth.”

Honore clasped her hands at her waist. “I do know it. Thus, no longer do I wear the gorget.”

“If you think to move amongst those who generously provide for your undesirables, you shall wear it.”

There the threat, but Honore determined that if God did think her beautiful as the abbess had long assured her, surely He would provide.

“I will not, my lady. Good day to you.” As she stepped around the woman, she looked to the nuns who had paused and recognized them as those who had been novices on the day Cynuit had last come to the abbey. Among their youthful ranks was the older one from whose girdle hung prayer beads similar to Honore’s.

“Hedge-born devil’s spawn,” Lady Yolande snarled and Honore felt a constriction around her throat almost as tight as when Finwyn nearly drowned her. Then she was yanked back by the neck of her short mantle and released. Her feet fell out from under her, rear end landed hard, back met the ground.

As she blinked at the sky, the lady stepped alongside. “No one disrespects me, especially your kind who know only how to take what you have not earned and, rather than show gratitude, demand more. Always more.”

Honore had no time to form a response opposite that toward which outrage sprang her to sitting. And she was grateful. Far better a noblewoman set herself at another than she who would have enough to answer for when she stood before the abbess.

It was the oldest of those new to the order who shoved Lady Yolande so hard the woman barely kept her feet beneath her. “Ungodly!” cried the nun, hands at her sides folding into fists. “You are the nails that staked our Lord to the cross—the piercing points, cruel shafts, hard heads, ugly rust beneath blessed blood. You ought to be as ashamed as I am horrified one so unholy makes her home among the holy.”

Open-mouthed, Lady Yolande stared.

“Sister Sebille!”

Realizing her own jaw had lowered, Honore raised it as she turned her head toward the one whose aged voice brimmed with authority.

Skirts snapping, veil flapping, the abbess strode forward with the speed of a much younger woman. As she passed the group of nuns from which Sister Sebille had separated herself, her eyes shifted to the one who had foregone the gorget—she who jumped up and deferentially nodded.

Honore would bear the blame for this, but better her than the new sister who could not know the strength of the enemy she made of Lady Yolande.

“Abbess Abigail,” Honore appealed, “this is my doing.”

“This I know.” The woman halted. “You could not bend a little, Honore?”

Biting back the response that a little was not what the lady demanded, Honore said, “Forgive me, I could not. I am done wearing the gorget as it is not meant to be worn.” Honore looked to the one who had become her champion, was surprised the lady appeared far from contrite. Indeed, she looked as if she assembled more insults behind her lips—until her gaze moved to Honore. Then her face softened.

As Honore gave a smile of gratitude, she was struck by the woman’s name the abbess had called out and realized here was the one Wilma and Jeannette told had aided with the foundlings in Honore’s absence, she who had not shown herself since Honore’s return with Hart and three more foundlings.

“Sister Sebille but defended me,” Honore addressed the abbess.

“She laid hands on me,” Lady Yolande shrilled. “And the vile things she said—that I am ungodly…unholy.” She snatched the waist of her gown, jerked it as if it had been put askew. “You are remiss in training up women of God, Abbess. Be assured the bishop will hear of this.”

Honore stepped toward the lady. “She is not to blame.”

“Honore!” Abbess Abigail rebuked. “Take yourself to my apartment. And you as well, Sister Sebille. There is much wrong to set aright.”

“Indeed there is,” Lady Yolande spat.

“Go, Honore and Sebille!” Those words resounded with such portent, Honore was further alarmed. Penance was not new to her, though it was years since her transgressions warranted more than greater time spent in prayer. But of utmost concern was what might befall Sister Sebille from whom more restraint was expected.

Stiff in her step, the nun crossed to Honore. “Let us walk together.”

Neither spoke until they entered the abbess’s apartment, then the nun said, “She is a mean soul, has she a soul at all. Ungodly. Unholy. Truth!”

Honore turned at the center of the room. “I cannot disagree, and I am grateful for your kindness in defending me, but it would have been better had you not. Now you will do penance and Lady Yolande will make misery of you.”

The woman halted before Honore. “My only regret is displeasing the abbess, but even if I must spend a sennight on my knees it will be worth it.”

“You are courageous, Sister Sebille.”

Something shifted in the woman’s eyes. “I learned courage at the knee of one whose love became a blight when she discovered I was not who her husband gave me to be. But that courage I mostly concealed, as I have determined I will not do at Bairnwood.”

Deciding the tale behind the woman’s riddled words mattered not, Honore said, “I have wished to seek you out since I returned two days past.”

“For?”

“Your work with the foundlings. Wilma and Jeannette tell you were of great aid and the little ones are fond of you.”

The woman looked down, but not before Honore saw tears in her eyes. “Years ago, I hoped to have children of my own. As with so many things, that hope died by another’s hand.” She looked up. “And by mine because I hid my courage. In that we are the same, both of us of thirty and two ere we came out from behind our coverings.”

Honore took a step back, surprised not only this woman knew her age, but their years numbered the same. Sister Sebille’s life must have been hard. “How do you know my age, Sister?”

The woman lifted the prayer beads attached to her girdle, stepped forward and touched those around Honore’s neck. “I do not need the abbess to confirm that once these two strands were one—that in truth I am Honore of no surname, you are Sebille Soames. I am misbegotten, you are legitimate.”

Certain the woman was mad, Honore made her next step of retreat more deliberate.

Sister Sebille held up a hand. “I have thought through this meeting a hundred times, but it could have been done better. Forgive me.”

Calm, Honore counseled. Her mind may not be right, but she is of no danger. Only a woman who has attached herself to you. Because of the one whose love became a blight? It mattered not. Sister Sebille had been good to the children and surely meant no harm. Still, Abbess Abigail would have to be informed.

Honore forced a smile. “You surprise, is all.”

“And frighten. I do not mean to, and I assure you I am sane. When the abbess comes, we shall confront her together, and then you need not fear me at all. She will confirm what you are to me and I am to you.”

“Confirm?”

“I am your half sister.”