Durand Marshal was merciful, aware not only was Elias unequal to the task of quarterstaffs due to injuries not yet fully healed, but his mind was elsewhere—namely on Lothaire Soames who had departed the enclosure with Abel Wulfrith where the two had practiced at swords. Now the warriors observed the contest between Elias and Durand. If what had come to a quick end could be called that.

Having arrived at Wulfen with Durand last eve, shortly after all bedded down, there had been no opportunity to speak with Soames. Nor this morn when, awakening late as usual since sustaining injuries that nearly killed him, Elias descended to the empty hall.

He had satisfied his hunger in the kitchen then gone in search of the one Sister Sebille believed could gain him admittance to Bairnwood. Finding Soames battling with Abel in the midst of young men determined to prove worthy of a Wulfrith dagger, Elias had approached Durand who made good use of his visit by training squires. Though reluctant to practice with Elias, he had yielded.

As evidenced by how often Durand did not deliver a blow easily landed, he did not believe Elias well enough healed. Still, it had felt good to beat against another’s weapon and feel blood pound through his veins.

Now having lost his quarterstaff, the butt of Durand’s against his chest, Elias splayed his arms.

“Well met, Durand!” Abel called. “As for you, Sir Elias, we shall have to get a good quantity of drink in you to learn what so distracts.”

On the night past, Elias had not revealed to the Lord of Wulfen he had come to ask a boon of Soames. Still, Abel surely knew it was more than distraction that rendered the troubadour knight a far from worthy opponent.

Durand tossed aside his quarterstaff, and he and Elias strode to the two men.

“You read me near as well as your brother, Everard,” Elias said. “But drink is not required to loosen my tongue.” He looked to Soames. “What distracts is the reason I asked Durand to accompany me to Wulfen.”

“Ah, I thought something afoot,” Abel said. “But if it can wait a while longer, first I would have the two of you bear witness to the award of a Wulfrith dagger.” He nodded at Soames.

Then the man was worthy. “It can wait,” Elias said.

“You agree to bear witness?”

“I would be honored,” Durand said without hesitation.

“Elias?” Abel raised his eyebrows.

“I trust your judgment.”

“As well you should.” The Lord of Wulfen turned away. “Once we are shed of this filth and stink, we shall meet in the solar.”

Two hours later, following the ceremonial award of the dagger, Elias informed Soames he was at Wulfen to speak with him. The man’s surprise—and suspicion—palpable, he had suggested they converse outside, but Elias assured him there was no need, that Durand knew and Abel ought to.

Thus, seated around the great table where they would take supper later, Elias told the tale of the boy who was not his son, the flight of Thomas Becket, and the woman he hoped to make his wife.

Soames agreed to his sister’s plan—with the proviso it wait. He was a month gone from his expectant wife. Due to return to her on the morrow, he would not disappoint her. Thus, three days hence he would meet Elias and give aid in breaching Honore’s walls.

The tale of Théâtre des Abominations, renamed Théâtre d’Innocents, found a rapt audience in the young men gathered before the hearth. And provided Durand further insight into what had befallen his friend.

Elias had sensed his deepening disquiet throughout the performance that, despite the absence of Becket, required little embellishment to put a lean in bodies and gapes upon many a mouth. Thus, as those training toward knighthood prepared to bed down, Elias was not surprised when his friend dropped into the chair across from him.

“You have something to say.” It was no question Elias put to him.

Durand stretched his legs out before him. “I am sure I need not remind you once I questioned your worthiness, believing Everard’s award of a Wulfrith dagger done more out of gratitude than merit.”

“You need not.”

“No longer do I question it, Elias. Indeed, I have not since ere Beata and I wed. But from the disparaging of the hero of your tale—albeit cloaked in jest—and that you did not own to him being Wulfen-trained, still you question it.”

Elias leaned back. “There was very little exaggeration to my tale. Though in the end I prevailed, it was surely by God’s grace. Were I truly worthy of the dagger this day awarded to Baron Soames, I would have better prepared and protected myself—more, those in my charge.”

Durand gave a short laugh. “You think being Wulfen-trained makes one incapable of error? Invincible?” He raised an eyebrow. “Certes, I am far from that, and I trained here from childhood. Even those who bear the name Wulfrith sometimes fail themselves and others.”

That Elias knew, and yet—

“Of the scars you see upon Garr, Everard, and Abel,” his friend continued, “several were life-threatening. Then there are those unseen.”

Of which Elias was not unaware, many the Wulfrith tale shared with him.

“Surely more than any other place, Wulfen brings out the best in one who aspires to defend family, home, and country. Thus, do you look without prejudice to the man in your tale, you will see there the heart of a troubadour that has made ample room for the warrior to defend all entrusted to him. Not flawlessly, but exceedingly well.” Durand sat forward. “Better said, worthy.”

Persuasive. Because Elias wished him to be? Because he longed for assurance he would not disappoint his family and people? Because one unworthy had no right to seek Honore’s hand in marriage?

Durand dropped back in his chair, grumbled, “Perhaps not in all ways worthy.”

The frustration rumpling his face made Elias laugh. And it felt good. “Tell, how am I unworthy?”

“In the grave disservice you do Everard by questioning his judgment as once I did. Now, just as I do not question Abel’s judgment in awarding Soames a dagger, you ought not question he who raised you above many a knight. God’s grace, I agree, but grace given a warrior.”

Though part of Elias resisted casting backward, as best he could he looked without prejudice upon the man in his tale—there the troubadour with whom he believed himself most familiar, there the warrior ever he questioned. Beginning with learning he might have fathered a child, the latter was most often present throughout a journey in which his knightly skills had been tested as never before. Errors aplenty, but those he had defended lived, and against odds he yet breathed.

Everard’s training given a troubadour knight. God’s grace given a warrior…

Elias breathed deeply, nodded. “I believe you have set me aright, Durand. Do I have occasion to tell again the tale of Théâtre d’Innocents, I will not disparage my hero.” He smiled. “Well, perhaps a little poking and plucking. There is fun to be had with his failings. And forget not the lessons.”

“Certes, you will have occasion, Elias.” Durand stood, and as he turned toward the stairs, put across his shoulder, “As you should, my friend.”