The answer is the same, Sir Elias. She will not see you.”

The same, though this time delivered by the abbess three hours after the first refusal, surely the sooner to see Elias depart, which he had said he would not do until he spoke with Honore.

As it would soon be dark, he considered the parchment in his pouch he wished to place in Honore’s hand, that which had made all his days abed tolerable.

“Godspeed your journey, Sir Elias.”

“Abbess!” He stepped nearer the portcullis between them, heard her sigh as she came back around.

“Much gratitude is due you for aiding in rescuing Hart and the little ones,” she said, “but it does not extend to forcing Honore to open a door she wishes to remain closed.”

“If I could speak with her but a few minutes—”

“You will not, Sir Elias.”

He opened his pouch. “Then will you give her something?”

She eyed the rolled and bound parchment he passed through the bars. “What is this?”

“Ink made into letters made into words made into song.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You take the long way around an answer, Sir Elias.”

He smiled. “My sire says the same.”

Her lined face grew more so. “Honore is my charge, has been since she came to us as an infant not expected to live. She is as near a daughter as I have. Thus, I can be forgiven for being protective of a grown woman, can I not?”

He inclined his head.

“Do you give this into my keeping, you do so knowing I will deliver it to her only if I determine its contents are not of detriment.”

Elias nearly withdrew it. What he had written was for Honore alone. But if the abbess’s trespass more quickly delivered the woman he loved…

He inclined his head. “So be it.”

Her age-spotted hand turned around it. “If she does not come to you ere dark is upon day, ride on and leave her to her work here, Sir Elias.”

That he would not agree to. Blessedly, she did not ask it of him. When she went from sight, he strode to where Theo stood with the horses.

“You think she will come out, my lord?”

“If not, I shall find a way in.”

Dark upon day. No Honore.

Had the abbess determined his words were of detriment? Or had Honore dismissed them?

A few more minutes, Elias assured himself. She will come.

And there, movement on the other side of the portcullis—a robed figure, as were nearly all those glimpsed beyond the bars. He strode forward and nearly cursed as the great inner doors were closed against night.

Very well, he would ride on—to the nearest inn. On the morrow, he would return.

As he started toward Theo, he heard a metallic scrape and looked to where a small iron door was set chest-high in the wall. Though the light of a candle held by the one who beckoned revealed it was not Honore who opened the door, he altered his course.

Shortly, a sweep of his gaze over what lay inside confirmed this was the foundling door he had overheard Honore tell Hart was being installed so the services of one such as Arblette were no longer required.

Directly below the opening before which stood a woman who looked to be two score aged was an elevated cradle, fastened to its rim a bell to alert those of the abbey a child had been left in their care, and opposite a wall of bars in which an iron door was set. A jail cell of sorts, doubtless kept locked to ensure the foundling door was not used by any of ill intent. Though few men could get their shoulders through the opening, some of slight build could manage it, as well as many a woman and child.

Elias returned his regard to the woman. “I am hoping you have word of Honore.”

“I am Sister Sebille. You are the same Sir Elias who is Lady Beata’s friend?”

Elias frowned. Unable to recall if there had been occasion to mention Beata to Honore, he said, “I am.”

“Then you know my brother.”

“Do I?”

“Baron Soames.”

It was good it was several years since Beata’s father, hoping to force her to wed Baron Soames, had tainted Elias’s drink to foil his watch over the lady. It had left Elias heaving and humiliated. Blessedly, Durand had overtaken the wedding party, and it was he who gained a worthy, fitting wife. Elias knew Beata’s father was to blame for turning Elias’s insides out, but Soames had been party to that deception. Though the baron had made restitution and gained Abel Wulfrith’s grudging respect while training at Wulfen, Elias himself had no cause to think well of the man.

“I believe your brother has as little liking for me as I have for him, Sister Sebille.”

She scowled. “Then you do not know Lothaire.”

Elias was tempted to respond that it suited him, but it was wrong to offend one who surely loved her brother. “You are right. But tell, Sister Sebille, what has he to do with Honore?”

“As the abbess surely told, Honore declines to grant you an audience.”

He nodded. “Did the abbess give her the parchment I entrusted to her?”

“She did. Though I was sent away ere Honore read it, that she did not come to you surely means she disregards your words.”

Did she speak true? Or was this the abbess’s means of ridding herself of him? “I do not know that I believe you.”

“No lie, Sir Elias, as evidenced by my proposal you leave Bairnwood—”

“Not until I have spoken with Honore.”

“To that I aspire, Sir Elias, but methinks there a better way.”

“Which is?”

“It will come as no surprise to the abbess should my brother visit me. He can get you inside these walls and in front of Honore.”

That Lothaire Soames would be granted access to Bairnwood was no reach since his sister dwelt here, but how to get to Honore?

“When I am summoned by my brother’s arrival, I will ensure Honore accompanies me. Providing you are discreet, keeping your head down, perhaps playing the part of Lothaire’s squire, you ought to escape the abbess’s notice. And once Honore is introduced to my brother, we will leave the two of you to converse in private.”

Suspicion crawled all over Elias. “Why would a woman I know not whose brother dislikes me, do me this kindness?”

As she stared at him, he heard a soft click reminiscent of Honore. He glanced at the arm the woman crooked against her waist, saw she rubbed at beads secured to her girdle.

“I care for Honore,” she said. “If possible, I would see her blessed with the love of a good man as was denied me. You do love her, do you not?”

“I do, as told in the parchment.”

“Then a more direct course is required, and I believe my brother will provide it.”

“What makes you think he will give aid?”

“You wrong Lothaire in believing him more worthy of dislike than friendship, Sir Elias.”

He could not imagine progressing to friendship with the man, but he would not offend.

“Too, when you tell him of our meeting and my insistence he bring you to Bairnwood, that should suffice. He loves me nearly as much as I love him.”

Still Elias doubted it would be easy to gain his help.

“Take these.” She bent her head, a moment later extended a strand of beads. “Give them to him as proof you and I have spoken.”

By the light of dusk, Elias examined them. “’Round her neck Honore wears the same,” he said. “Do all within your walls?”

“They do not.”

“Then?”

As if she heard something, she peered over her shoulder, then started to close the iron door. “The sooner you seek my brother, the sooner you will see Honore.” That last barely made it between door and frame, then he faced iron.

He looked to the sky, altered his plan. It would be after middle night he reached Heath Castle where he had passed last eve after meeting Durand and Beata’s babes, but all the nearer he would be to Wulfen Castle. There Durand had told Soames trained with Abel, Soames having paused en route to gift blankets his wife made for the twins.

Elias nodded. This time on the morrow he would be at Wulfen where he had left Elias Cant to reclaim Elias De Morville. God—and Lothaire Soames—willing, when next he was at Bairnwood he would bring out the woman he wished to make his wife.

“What did it say?”

Honore turned from the hearth where the abbess had left her an hour past, looked to the woman in the doorway who was more to her than a sister in Christ. And somewhere beyond Bairnwood was their brother as revealed weeks past. Though Sebille wished to send for him so he could be told he had another sister, Honore had beseeched her to wait.

With all she had gained—Hart, his little ones, and the first babe to enter Bairnwood by way of the foundling door—she was not ready to face further gain, not whilst she yet deeply felt the loss of one she had not truly lost since he had never been hers.

Blessedly, Elias was not lost to all, being alive and well enough to travel to England. To see him one last time she had nearly gone out to him. But to do so would have risked her resolve to keep her word to his father.

“I understand if you do not wish to tell me,” Sebille said.

Even if Honore wanted to reveal what Elias had written, she could not, the words lost to her when she set the two bound parchments atop lazy flames here in the outermost room of the abbess’s apartments.

For the best, the abbess had said, unless you have decided your place is not here continuing the work you began in giving children hope they had not before you.

Honore had felt manipulated, all of her straining to know the words written by the man who risked much in crossing the channel should the king learn of the aid given Thomas.

Returning her regard to Sebille, she asked, “Is he gone?”

“He is.”

For the best, she reaffirmed. Elias might have forgiven her and want what she wanted, but twice she had given his father her word. Though noble and legitimate, at thirty and two and having betrayed the King of England, she was wrong for Elias, his family, people, and lands. Her place was where she could better the lives of those otherwise abandoned to the wood.

“You saw him depart?” Honore asked.

“I did.”

She breathed deep. “I hope that is the end of it.”

“Truly, you would not have him return?”

“My place is here as ever it has been.”

“But were he to offer marriage—”

“I would refuse, Sebille. It would serve neither of us. He has his duty to his family, and I have mine to Bairnwood.”

The woman’s brow lined. “You do not trust Wilma and Jeannette—and now me—to care for the children?”

And Hart, Honore mused. Though the restlessness that had reaped discord between him and her before his abduction had hardly abated following his ordeal, he better controlled it and took pride in helping with the foundlings. As of yet, he made relatively few complaints, did not shirk his responsibilities, and had not stolen away from the abbey.

“I do trust you,” Honore said, “but even the abbess agrees my work must continue, and now the foundling door is working, more help is needed, especially since Lady Yolande departed with her coin.”

“But—”

“All is as it should be.” Honore drew the veil up off her shoulders and over her hair. “Now I must put the children to bed.” As she crossed the room, she felt Sebille’s gaze and guessed she sought evidence Honore possessed the rolled parchment. She would find none.