Elias had been prepared to stand alone before King Henry, but when he came seeking an audience at Marlborough Castle, Sir Durand and Lady Beata appeared. He had felt a fool for not seeing their advance, but their warm greeting put him at ease—as much as was possible for one whose actions could bring a swifter end to the De Morville name than lack of a male heir.

“You have no say in this.” Durand leaned toward Elias. “I know not how much I can sway Henry, but I will stand your side.”

Elias shook his head. “This is my mess. I would not have you bear the cost of defending me.”

Beata also sat forward. Dark braid catching between her shoulder and her husband’s, she said, “It is what friends do, Elias. Certes, were there time to summon Everard Wulfrith, he would also be here.”

As Otto had wished, but Elias had refused to send an appeal to Everard, not only because the man was soon to be a father again—and as told by Beata had been so blessed a sennight past—but because Elias was determined to do this himself. And yet, as if the Lord agreed with Otto that support be given by friends, the day of Elias’s arrival at court coincided with the departure of Durand and Beata who had been summoned by Queen Eleanor that she might look upon the two she had matched—they who would ever be grateful for her meddling.

“What of your children?” Elias said, knowing the two were eager to return to their infant twins, a healthy boy and girl.

“One more day will do no harm,” Beata said.

“We know you can do this on your own,” her husband prompted. “We but wish to ease the passage if possible—and a rough one it may prove, as fitful as Henry is over Becket.”

Pride nearly caused Elias to more forcefully protest their aid, but the hope of keeping Honore from her sovereign’s wrath made him accede. “I thank you, my friends. I shall be glad to have you at my side, though I ask you speak naught unless Henry has me dragged before the executioner.”

They agreed, though he did not quite believe them, then Durand eyed the slants of sunlight streaking the great hall. “We are to meet Queen Eleanor in the garden to receive her blessing for our safe travels. I am sure she will be pleased to see you again, might even be compelled to speak with her husband on your behalf.”

Too much to hope for, Elias thought. But her reaction, she who likely knew of Honore’s missive that Otto had sent ahead and whatever tale Sir Neville had carried, could better prepare Elias for his meeting with Henry.

Elias stood and grimaced at the ache in his side that reminded him he was not fully healed. He followed the hand-holding couple outside beneath a cloudless sky that made these last days of autumn seem nearer their middle. Quite the blessing, travel from Château des Trois Doigts having been chill and weepy, and more so during the channel crossing. Now if the Lord would extend that blessing, calming the storm that could rise in England’s king…

“There are her ladies.” Beata nodded at women chatting before an arbor. “Eleanor will be near.”

The ladies greeted Durand and Beata, puzzled over Elias, then said the queen waited on them.

The three stepped past, and there on a bench sat Eleanor, face turned up to the sun.

“Your Majesty,” Durand called.

Without looking around, she said, “Come, come.”

“We bring our friend, Your Majesty, one we are certain you will welcome.”

“Oh?” Still she did not look their way.

“Sir Elias De Morville,” Elias announced himself.

She turned her head, and her eyes widened. “Otto’s pup!”

As she had called him when, following his knighting by Everard, she informed him of his brother’s death that would make him heir if he reconciled with his sire.

The three halted before her, bowed.

“Why, this is most fortuitous, Sir Elias.”

“Your Majesty?”

“That we should deliver unto our husband the vassal with whom he heartily wishes to speak.”

Elias tensed further.

“Such courage to deliver yourself to England—all things Becket considered. We cannot speak for our husband, but it inclines us to believe what that little nun wrote.”

“Nun? You speak of Honore of Bairnwood?”

“That is her name. She is not of the sisterhood?”

“She is not, Your Majesty, though she is responsible for the abbey’s work with foundlings.”

“Only a servant, then. Well, that casts this business in a different light.” She clasped her hands at her waist, studied his face. “Do you love her?”

He took a step back, felt Beata’s hand on his arm.

“Ah, Sir Elias, it may prove more difficult to return you to our husband’s good graces than thought.” She flicked a hand at a nearby bench and, when they were seated, continued, “We ought to make quick work of this lest, for once, Henry does not keep us waiting.”

“He is to meet you here?” Elias asked.

“He is. Now give answer, Sir Elias.”

Though he preferred to feign ignorance, he said, “I love her.”

Amidst Beata’s gasp of surprise, the queen said, “Since we are guessing she is common, what do you intend? Make her your mistress?”

Elias held her gaze. “My wife, if she will have me.”

She made a face. “We could arrange a far more suitable match, one that would increase holdings you will not have when your father disavows you for wedding so far beneath his wishes.”

Struggling against revealing how greatly she offended, he said, “When I returned to my family, I vowed to do my duty, Your Majesty—to wed a woman of whom my sire approves. Do I wed Honore, that vow I will not break.”

“What say you?”

“My father has granted I may wed where I will, no matter the woman’s class or how many years she has.”

“It is not possible you speak of Otto De Morville.”

“I do.”

“Then he either grows exceedingly soft in old age, else loses his wits.”

“Regardless, he will accept Honore of Bairnwood as the mother of his grandchildren.”

Eleanor held up a hand. “How many years has she?”

“Thirty and two, Your Majesty.”

She gave a curt laugh. “Does your father know this?”

“He knows she is four years beyond me, and though he prefers I marry a girl the same as he, on this he yields.”

She quieted, and he guessed she was thinking of the greater gap between Henry and herself, Eleanor having been born more than ten years before her husband. “Well, as long as you begin making babes straightaway, you should be able to assure Otto’s name passes to another generation.”

“As soon as I have made my peace with your lord husband, I will bring Honore to Château des Trois Doigts.”

“Elias,” Durand said low and tilted his head to the right. He had sooner sensed they no longer numbered four.

A glance at Eleanor revealed her momentary confusion over Durand’s warning. Then she smiled and said, “We are pleased by your loyalty to the Duke of Normandy, Sir Elias. But of course it is for our lord husband to determine how true your allegiance.” She leaned forward. “Neville Sorrel may think to play him for a fool in the hope of stealing De Morville lands, but as we know well, the greatest of England’s kings is no puppet.” She sat back, once more turned her face to the sun. “He should be here soon.”

And so he was, though not immediately. Doubtless, he would have none think him disposed toward eavesdropping. Better he was believed omniscient.

“Marshal,” the king said as he strode from amongst the trees at their backs, “you and your lady wife leave us this day?”

All three rose, turned, bowed to the man whose hair shone more red in sunlight.

The faltering of Henry’s bow-legged stride almost believable, he motioned them to straighten. “Elias De Morville,” he growled, “we thought we would have to command you to court to account for your traitorous actions.”

“Methinks, Lord Husband,” his queen said, “you will be gladdened by what the friend of Everard Wulfrith has to tell.”

Elias saw irritation flicker across Henry’s tanned, freckled face, felt his own rise. He ought to be grateful for Eleanor’s reminder that Elias was backed by a member of the family on whom the king relied to strengthen England’s defenses, but this was between Elias and Henry.

“Your Majesty,” Elias said when the king halted between the benches, “I have come to account for the events that found me in the company of your archbishop.”

“No longer our archbishop,” Henry crossed his arms over a chest that strained the seams of a tunic so unremarkable one might question if the one who wore it was, indeed, a king. “Our queen, Lord Marshal, Lady Beata,” he acknowledged each, “methinks this knight capable of speaking in his own defense. Leave us.”

Ere they departed, Beata once more squeezed Elias’s arm. Providing he was not clapped in irons, her husband and she would be waiting for him at the end of his audience with Henry.

The king strode to the place his wife had occupied, lowered, jerked his chin at the other bench. Once Elias reseated himself, Henry said, “We are in receipt of the missive written by Honore of Bairnwood and sent by your sire. Is it true what she wrote?”

“As I was severely injured in an encounter with Sir Neville and his men, I know only what my sire told of the missive. What I know for certain is that the woman is of good character, so much I am sure she accepts more responsibility for—”

“Good character? She admits to deceiving you. Did she?”

Elias inclined his head. “To save a boy who—”

“Théâtre des Abominations,” Henry interrupted again. “The same we ejected from England and you put end to, we understand.”

“Without regret, Your Majesty. Truly, it was an abomination.”

“Neville reports he saw you and others in the company of that…” A sharp breath pinched Henry’s nostrils. “He saw you in the company of Becket on the road to Clairmarais.”

“That is so.”

“Even then you did not know it was Becket you aided?”

“I did know, Your Majesty, it being revealed during the channel crossing.”

“Then you have no excuse for your betrayal.”

“What was done was done, Your Majesty.”

“You could have delivered Becket to us.”

“I could have, but my greatest concern, selfish though it may seem, was overtaking those who might further harm the children of whom they made objects. Too, you will not like this, but if any might understand, it is you who is said to have loved Becket as a brother. I cannot know all that has gone between you, but I think him a good man, and rather than walk the easier path of taking advantage of your friendship, he chooses a path toward which he believes God points him. And you.”

“Us?” Henry’s ruddy cheeks reddened further.

Knowing the waters here were too deep to be negotiated carelessly, Elias said, “I do not think you would have made him Archbishop of Canterbury did you not believe him able to discern the voice of God, Your Majesty.”

“He is divisive, adept at making one believe him sincere and loyal. Never did he have a care for us—only what we could do for him. And see what we did, raising him high above his station? He fooled me!”

Elias caught Henry’s shift from referring to himself en masse to standing alone in being fooled. “I pray not, Your Majesty, that it is merely a misunderstanding between godly men who will soon reconcile.”

“Never!” The word was ejected with such force saliva fell just short of Elias, then the king said again, “He fooled me.”

“I do not believe that, Your Majesty.”

“You do not wish to believe it. But if he can fool a king, how hard for him to fool you?”

The waters were not as deep as thought, Elias mused. This was the place he had hoped to lead Henry, and here they were. The only sense that could be made of how quickly they reached it was that England’s passionate, temperamental king was emotionally stung by the loss of his friend and ally.

“I still cannot believe he fooled me, Your Majesty, but if so, I pray for your forgiveness.”

Henry groaned, smacked the heel of his palm against his brow. “Thomas!” he rasped and stilled. When he lifted his head, his eyes were more veined. “Neville told De Lucy recognized the ring worn around the neck of Honore of Bairnwood as being the same we gave Thomas years ago. Why would he give it to her unless never did he value our friendship?”

“A wedding ring made it appear she traveled with her husband that she not suffer the reputation of a woman without proper escort. It being the smallest of rings any of us wore, the archbishop sacrificed it.”

“But it was seen upon her at Saint-Omer after you parted from Thomas. You say she forgot to return it?”

He was not saying that, but not wishing to lie, Elias shrugged.

Henry nodded. “Surely he is missing it now.”

Then he was not truly certain Becket had fooled him?

“We should never have made him archbishop. Still he would be our chancellor, still he would be as a brother to us.” Henry shook his head, after a long moment, said, “Do you truly believe reconciliation possible?”

Elias wanted to, but so far over the edge was their friendship pushed that, regardless of who was in the right, each man had given the other cause to distrust.

“I do not know, Your Majesty, but I pray for reconciliation.”

Henry dropped his head back. Like his wife, he sank into the sun’s warmth. After a time, he said, “What do we do with you, Sir Elias whose sire I esteem?”

“Forgive the fool, I pray.” Intentionally, Elias equated himself with the fool Henry believed Becket made of the King of England.

Henry lowered his chin, raised his eyebrows. “What of Sir Neville?”

“I would be pleased to meet him at swords, Your Majesty.”

A bark of laughter sounded. “Of that we are certain. We understand he nearly sundered your life.”

“Not he, Your Majesty. One of two men he set upon me, both of whom forfeited their lives to me.”

Henry moved his gaze down Elias. “You are fully recovered?”

Then he might allow the two to cross blades? Though the physician advised Elias do no more than engage in sword practice for the next several weeks and with less force than usual, Elias would welcome the challenge. “Well enough, Your Majesty.”

“Perhaps,” Henry mused, then said, “Neville did seek to do us a service by delivering one who might reveal Becket’s whereabouts.”

“In that I am of no benefit, Your Majesty. Becket and I parted at Clairmarais so I might continue my search for the boy. I know not where he can be found.”

The king’s mouth tightened. “Too late now. The ever pious King Louis has granted him asylum and financial aid and written to the pope on his behalf. Thus, less and less it seems the Church will order Becket to return to England to answer to his king.”

“Still you could seek reconciliation.”

He grunted. “You ought know Sir Neville wishes your father’s lands—your inheritance.”

“That does not surprise, but I ask you to reconsider. If punishment is due, I am resolved to it, even if the price is my life. Pray, do not punish my sire who has never given you cause to question his loyalty.”

Henry considered him, swept up a hand. “Rise, Sir Elias.”

As he did so, the king’s eyes moved to the Wulfrith dagger. “You are fortunate our ire has cooled these weeks since Neville came bearing news of your betrayal, fortunate you came of your own will and humbled yourself, fortunate we hold Honore of Bairnwood more responsible for Becket’s escape.”

“Your Majesty, she but sought to more quickly—”

“This we know, and we are grateful to both of you for putting an end to a great offense to God. You need not worry we shall retaliate against her or Bairnwood.”

“I thank you, Your Majesty.”

“As we were saying, you are most fortunate, Sir Elias.” Henry stood. “Though now we have less regard for friendship than ever we did, you seem wise in your choice of friends.”

Everard and Durand. Though Elias wished he did not require their influence, he was grateful for it with one such as Henry Plantagenet.

“Another thing,” the king said.

“Your Majesty?”

“We do not like nor trust Neville Sorrel.”

Elias waited, certain he would elaborate were he not pressed.

“Where others failed, he seduced the fairest, most loyal of Queen Eleanor’s ladies.”

Was Henry among those who failed? As all knew, he had appetites beyond his wife.

“Now that is a fool,” Henry said.

Fairly certain the question was answered, Elias said, “Indeed, Your Majesty.”

“We shall tell him you are cleared of wrongdoing and order him to return to his family in France with the advice he keep his distance from our most loyal vassal, Otto De Morville. And you, Sir Elias, will be more cautious in future as to your traveling companions so you not further disappoint us and your father.”

“I thank you, Your Majesty.”

“Easily reversed, we assure you. As for the fine horses delivered to Boulogne over which a watch has been kept to discover who aided Thomas, we shall order them released to you.”

Elias had not even hoped there. Containing a smile, he said, “I thank you.”

“One more thing, De Morville.”

“Your Majesty?”

“Get thee wed—and soon. It is time you gave your sire heirs.”

“Be assured, Your Majesty, I shall.”

Henry backhanded the air. “Your leave is granted.”

Elias bowed and went in search of Durand and Beata.