Four ’round her skirts, four very fine.” Elias made quick strides of the distance separating him from his wife and children seated on a blanket at the river’s edge. “Kiss the lady, taste her wine.” He winked, briefly set his mouth on the smiling one turned up to his. “Boy and girl, two of each. Kiss their brows”—he did so, scooped up the youngest—“and now beseech.”

“Papa!” crowed he who had recently taken his first steps, every tiny tooth visible beyond most remarkable lips.

Elias grinned. “Otto!”

The one named after the man who had passed five months after holding his fourth grandchild, squealed and stuck sticky fingers in his father’s mouth.

Elias nibbled them, pulled them out, and frowned over tips stained as pink as the boy’s lips. “Raspberries?”

“Strawberries,” Honore said and rose from amidst their other three—Elias named after his sire, Abigail named after the departed abbess, and Sebille named after her aunt. “We picked them, set aside half for Cook, and gorged on the rest.” Honore patted her midriff. No bulge, neither of a meal too heavy nor another babe.

Of that last, Elias was not disappointed. Four children in rapid succession his beloved had gifted him, her body seemingly eager to make up for lost time. Blessedly, all but Otto the younger had been relatively easy births. As healthy as the others but considerably larger, he had so damaged Honore’s womb Elias had come close to losing her. After great care and much prayer alongside Otto the elder who had long ceased to name her his daughter-in-law, preferring to call her his daughter, Honore had healed. And Elias had returned to their bed where they made love without risk of losing wife and mother to further birthings.

“Now then, back to my beseeching.” Elias clasped hands with Honore, looked to their children. “I must needs speak with your mother,” he said, then called to those downstream, “Cynuit! Hart!”

The young men whose training at arms had added bulk to bodies aged seventeen and fourteen, thrust the ends of their fishing poles into moist ground and came running.

Elias was proud of them. Cynuit was as fierce of sword as he was compassionate. Hart, who had remained at Bairnwood until the age of ten to aid Sebille and Jeannette in continuing Honore’s work with foundlings, was increasingly competent with weapons—especially the bow—and less self-conscious about the mark on his face. Fine young men.

Honore leaned near, asked low, “Is something amiss? We expected you two hours past.”

“Naught amiss, fair wife. Only tidings aplenty.”

After giving their children into the care of the young men, Elias led Honore along the river. “The first of the tidings is from my stepmother.” She who, following the death of her husband, would not be dissuaded from moving with his sisters to Château Faire to give Elias and Honore more space for their family. “She would like to visit a sennight hence and wished to confirm we shall be present. I sent word that as it is weeks ere we depart for England, she is most welcome.”

“It has been months! I will be glad to see her and the girls.”

“As shall I, though I sense she has purpose beyond a family visit—that of securing a betrothal for my eldest sister.”

“Sir Damien of the Costains?”

As his wife knew, the sire of the widowed knight had suggested a match. “Still I think the fifteen-year difference in their ages too great. But if my sister and stepmother are both receptive, I will consider it. Regardless, I will not be rushed in deciding something as important as one’s happiness.”

Keeping pace with him, Honore leaned up and kissed his jaw. “Have I told you lately how happy I am?”

He halted, glanced behind to ensure they were distant enough from those engaged in a game of chase, then pulled her into his arms. “You have.” He kissed her. “Have I told you?”

“Every day.”

“Ah, thy love doth slay!”

She laughed, lowered to the bank, and patted the grass. “Tell me the rest.”

He settled beside her. “It seems we must add another destination to our travels.” Those which included the wedding of Baron Wulfrith’s daughter, which it was expected the entire family would attend—including its newest members—and a visit to Bairnwood where Honore would be reunited with her sister, Abbess Sebille, and her brother, Lothaire, who had become a friend to Elias nearly as dear as Everard and Durand.

“Then we will be longer in England than planned?” she asked.

“Not England. We are to begin our journey a few days early to join Duke Henry at Argentan ere we cross the channel.”

She frowned. “For what?”

He angled his body toward hers and touched her chest. “Thomas.”

She caught her breath, drew from her bodice the prayer beads onto which she had long ago threaded the archbishop’s ring. “I thought all resolved.”

“It is. Our meeting with Henry is more a request than a demand.” He lifted the ring, rotated it so each gem caught light. “If you are agreeable, England’s king would like this returned to him.”

Honore’s heart ached as it did each time she thought on what had transpired last December. Not even a full month returned to England following years of exile, Thomas had been murdered in the cathedral at Canterbury. Vehemently, Henry denied ordering his death. He claimed the four knights who struck down the archbishop—including one Hugh De Morville, not related to Elias—had acted of their own accord after their sovereign raged over Thomas’s continued divisiveness.

Hoping Henry had not given the order, Honore asked, “Does he say why he wishes Thomas’s ring?”

“In memory of their younger days when they were as brothers.” He raised his eyebrows. “It is for you to decide.”

She considered that which was of little value to a king who had dozens—perhaps hundreds—ten times as fine. Were this ring truly esteemed, surely its value was measured more by sentiment than the materials out of which it was fashioned. And that was further supported that only now Henry wished it returned.

She peered across the land that could have been lost to the De Morvilles. Though Henry was no stranger to ruthlessness, he had pardoned Elias and not opposed his marriage to the one responsible for leading his vassal astray. And when Otto the elder informed his liege he wished to raise a modest abbey dedicated to the care of foundlings so Honore could continue her work on the continent, Henry had provided a portion of the funds. That abbey having been completed two years past, already it had blessed dozens of children and their parents. Henry was a muddle of a man, but amid the bad was good.

Honore nodded. “It is his.”

“Regardless of whether I am foolish in believing his request sincere,” her husband said, “I think it for the best.”

She lowered the ring. “What other tidings?”

“Also from Henry. He wishes a gift for Eleanor.”

“You are to provide one?”

“I am—Song of Honore.”

That performed for the queen when Elias and she were summoned to Eleanor’s court in Poitiers whilst Honore was five months pregnant with Otto the younger. The queen and her daughter, Marie, had asked the troubadour knight for a song of love. And been charmed by the one he performed.

“Then we must also journey to Poitiers, Husband?”

“Blessedly not. Henry but wishes by my own hand I put to parchment your song. He will deliver it.”

As had been promised Honore, she had her own copy. Elias had inked the words, each verse on a separate piece of vellum, commissioned a monk to illuminate the pages with colorful borders and illustrations, and bound all between leather covers. It was the first of seven songs composed for her—one for each year they loved—and though soon her books would number eight, ever Song of Honore would be her favorite. There had begun their tale, one that now included four children.

Though she wished to believe the gift of Elias’s prose to Eleanor would be given and received as a token of love, as Henry and his wife had grown so distant they lived entirely separate and his infidelities had become less discreet, Honore feared not.

“What is it?” Elias asked.

“I am hoping Henry’s gift to Eleanor will move them to reconciliation. But I wonder if it is too late.”

He sighed. “It does seem if the rift is not yet as wide as that which tore between Henry and Thomas, it may soon be.”

“And then?”

“Who can say, but methinks Henry would do well to keep close sons who are increasingly worthy of their father’s reputation. Thus, he might have warning well in advance of the threat they could prove with the force of their mother behind them.”

“Does that happen, Henry and Eleanor’s tale—the one of their hearts—will surely be at an end.”

Elias tipped up his wife’s face. “As never shall ours be.”

She laid a hand on his jaw, stared long into his eyes as he stared into hers, then teased, “Dare I trust the knave?”

“You dare, for ever you shall be the best part of my tale, Honore whom I love.”