Sweeping her gaze over the wood, Honore saw Jeannette on the hill, then the one whose shadow across the mist glided up her own figure to cover her head.

Though less than twenty feet distant, she could make little sense of the one who appeared to radiate moonlight the same as Jeannette. What she knew was here came a warrior. And from his accent, he who spoke the language of England’s commoners—though surely not with as much fluency as she who easily moved between French and English—was born of France.

Fifteen feet.

Grateful his shadow masked the fear in her eyes nearly as well as the cloth hid her trembling mouth, she pulled the stick from beneath her belt.

Ten feet.

She thrust her weapon forward, in English warned, “Come no nearer!”

He halted, causing the short mantle pushed back off his chest to slide forward over one shoulder. Still, the sword and dagger hung from his waist were visible, further testament to his ability to make a quick end of her.

Honore shifted her gaze past his shoulder, saw Jeannette had yet to run. But then, nothing ill had happened. At least, not that the young woman could know with certainty.

Wishing she had better prepared her for what constituted afoul, Honore demanded, “What do you want?”

When he finally answered, he punctuated each word as if it needed no other to be understood. “My son.”

Honore nearly looked to the babes behind, but she dared not move her gaze from this man. Besides, she would wager the quiet bundles were merely lures. Doubtless, Finwyn had learned of the installment of a foundling door in the abbey’s outer wall and thought to gain every coin possible ere being rendered obsolete.

What she did not understand was this warrior. Surely he was not meant to kill her. Unless…

Might this be Finwyn’s attempt to preserve his business, proving her a fool for believing she had no cause to fear for her life? If so, it would be for naught. Abbess Abigail would see the plan through. However, Honore’s death would serve another purpose were Finwyn less worthy of his grandsire’s name than believed—revenge. And yet in light of this warrior’s words, that made little sense.

“I know naught of your son, Sir Knight,” she afforded him a title he might not be owed since he could be a mercenary of the lower ranks. “I fear Finwyn has misled you for his own profit.”

“Finwyn?”

“Finwyn Arblette.”

“Ah. Certes, I do not like the man, but thus far all has come to pass as told.”

Perhaps he was as fluent in English as she. “All?” she asked.

“Are you not here to buy unwanted babes?”

She could not see his eyes move to the pouch she had deposited, but she sensed it there. Wishing Jeannette would run, she said, “I am here for an exchange—the coin Finwyn requires for the children whose parents dispose of them.”

“How kind of you. Tell, how do you dispose of them?”

Though she longed to vehemently protest the insinuation, she said, “Not as Finwyn would have you believe.”

“Then you will have no difficulty delivering the child unto me.”

That all depended on the boy’s identity. “’Tis possible. Tell me how your son became lost to a warrior when those for whom I give coin are most often of the common class.”

For some reason, his hesitation lessened her fear. She had no experience with men of the sword, but they had a reputation for being forceful, brutally decisive, and short on shame. And in this man’s silence she sensed none of those things. She felt emotion, sorrow, regret.

“Only recently did I become aware of his existence,” he said. “And I am not certain he is mine.”

“Then like many a man, you made a promise to a maiden to persuade her to lie with you and the next morn left her with child. I suppose I am to think it honorable now you wish to take responsibility. Or is it something else? Mayhap you seek to dispose of the boy to ensure your sin remains hidden?”

“If he is mine, I wish to claim him.”

“How do you think to prove he is yours? You believe he will have your eyes? Your nose? Not that it is impossible, but it may be too soon to tell. Nay, Sir Knight, it is best for all you tell yourself you tried and pay a priest to put finish to your troubled conscience.” She raised her chin, causing the gorget to strain against her mouth. “Now step aside so I may gain what sleep remains to me.”

He tilted his head, and she felt the intense gaze of one seeking to see beyond her eyes. No chance of that, cloaked as she was in his shadow.

But then he moved, and moonlight poured over her.

She did not know how it was possible to be sure-footed amongst mist-ladened roots, but of a sudden he was before her, his shadow once more covering her as he grasped her forearm to render the stick impotent—had it ever been of use against such a man.

Fearing for Jeannette, Honore strained to the side and saw the young woman ran forward as if to give aid with a sword that would prove another stick.

“Run, Jean!” she cried, surprised by clarity that caused her to speak the male form of the young woman’s name. Immediately, a figure emerged from behind a tree to the right and, sword drawn, lunged after Jeannette.

“Run!” Honore screamed.

The young woman swerved and reached her legs opposite.

“I thought him here to protect you,” the warrior said as he looked across his shoulder. “Not as he appears, hmm?”

Honore did not struggle against his hold, certain it would drain her of strength better saved should she be presented with an opportunity to escape. “You have me,” she panted. “Pray, let him go.”

He did not respond, and a moment later his companion disappeared over the rise.

“Jean is but a boy,” she protested. “He cannot defend himself—”

“That was no boy.”

Then he guessed her protector a woman? More likely, he thought Jeannette the man she was made to appear. “Regardless, Jean is no warrior.”

He shrugged. “Providing he does not seek to harm my squire, he is in no danger. Theo will bring him back, and whatever you will not tell, I will learn from your man.”

She swallowed loudly. “You wish to know of your son.”

He turned her with him into moonlight, and she was surprised he was almost boyishly handsome, the hair brushing his shoulders thick with wave and framing a face fit with dark eyebrows, long-lashed eyes, a well-shaped nose, and a mouth whose compression could not hide how full-lipped it was. Doubtless, his years fell short of her thirty and two.

“You are young,” he said, and she caught her breath at the realization he studied her as intently. Though she spent no time in front of a mirror, lacking access to that which only noblewomen could afford, on occasion she caught her reflection in water or on the silver platter with which Abbess Abigail and she were served light fare when they met to discuss the foundlings. She did appear younger than her years and might even be lovely—providing one viewed only that visible above the gorget. Blessedly, this man made no attempt to divest her of the covering.

“Not the crone I expected,” he murmured, and she was struck by the resonance of a voice deprived of accusation. Though deep, it was almost gentle and held a note of wonder, causing warmth to sweep her neck and face.

Honore’s reaction was uncomfortably foreign, though it had not always been. In her younger years she had felt something akin to this in the presence of a handsome young monk who accompanied his bishop to Bairnwood once and twice a year. Time and again she had repented for imagining how it would feel to stand near him, clasp his hand, tuck her head beneath his chin, feel his arms around her. She had even wondered at his mouth upon hers. And ever that imagining returned her to reality—a reality all the more painful when he had discovered the reason the gorget was worn beneath her nose.

The warrior before her raised his eyebrows.

Realizing she stared, she recalled his words and said, “Nor are you the miscreant I expected, though I suppose you will do as well as Finwyn.”

His lids narrowed, though not so much she could not see where his eyes moved when they left hers. Her masked lower face roused his curiosity. Though modesty bade widows and nuns avail themselves of the wimple and greater modesty the gorget, the latter was worn either across the chin or beneath it. Were the weather chill, the gorget might be drawn over mouth and nose for warmth, but it was too temperate this eve.

When the warrior spoke again, once more accusation sounded from him. “Where is the boy?”

Were he amongst those Finwyn and his grandsire had delivered to her, there were three places he could be, one readily accessible, one barely accessible, and one impossibly accessible—the abbey, the home of adoptive parents, and the grave. She prayed it was not the latter, though it could be for the best if this man meant the boy ill.

Honore raised her chin. “Regardless of what Finwyn told—”

“He says you are a witch.”

A chill rushed through her and slammed against her spine with such force she nearly bent to it. His words surprised as they ought not. And frightened as they certainly ought. It was not mere cruelty to be named one who consorted with the devil. It was deadly.

She moistened her lips. “Do you think me a witch?”

“I do not believe you possess ungodly powers, but that has little bearing on whether you believe yourself so equipped and commit foul deeds in the hope of strengthening those powers.”

“You do me ill to suggest such!”

“Then for what do you buy babes?”

“To save them. Their parents hire Finwyn—as they did his grandsire before him—to set them out in the wood. For a dozen years I have given coin to deliver those innocents from cruel deaths.”

“You, who look to be fortunate to clothe and feed yourself, have a brood of children?”

Honore resisted the temptation to peer down herself. Though simply dressed, her gown and cloak were in good repair. But she supposed one who could afford to leave pouches of coin for abandoned babes ought to possess the resources of a noble. And she did—or had, there being little remaining of the wealth that had accompanied her to the abbey as an infant.

“Appearances can deceive,” she said, “especially when the one in possession of a good fortune pleases the Lord by committing it to His good work rather than indulging her vanity.”

“Twelve years,” he said as if she had not spoken. “How many babes is that?”

She glanced at the motionless bundles. “Were this not trickery, those two would have grown the number to sixty and six, including the few I was able to save ere striking a bargain with Finwyn’s grandsire.”

He snorted. “Unbeknownst to those of the village of Forkney, you reside nearby with that many children?”

“I do not.”

“Then where are they? Where can I find the boy?”

He would not like this. “As some are sickly and tragically ill-formed when I receive them, many have passed.” Ignoring his harshly-drawn breath, she continued, “Of the thirty-seven who survived infancy, they have been placed in good homes or yet reside with me.”

“Where?”

She hesitated, but as he was one warrior and the abbey’s walls were secure, there seemed little risk in telling all—and perhaps it would prove Finwyn was the one not to be trusted. “I am of Bairnwood Abbey.”

His eyebrows scissored. “You claim to be a nun?”

“Nay, a lay servant who answers to the Lord and her abbess.”

“Your name?”

“Honore.”

“Only Honore?”

She inclined her head. “Of no surname.”

He moved so swiftly she had no time to tighten her grip on the stick, but he released her after tossing her weapon aside.

Honore stepped back and her lower calf struck a humped root. Determined to gain more ground to better assure her escape, she said, “I would know your name.”

“Sir Elias de Morville come from France to learn the fate of the boy born to Lettice of Forkney. You know her?”

Denial sprang to her lips, but she hesitated. The name was familiar, but distantly so. “I do not. The agreement is the parents remain nameless, not only to ensure their privacy but protect the one who breaks with them to give their babes into my care. Too, as Bairnwood is fairly isolated, I leave its walls only when summoned.”

Not true, she reminded herself of those first years she had ventured forth on her own, but before she could correct the lie, he said, “Summoned by way of the rope.”

She glanced at that which had never before adorned the tree. “You think that is how I know when a babe is to be abandoned? That I haunt the wood nightly? Is that how Finwyn convinced you I am a witch?”

“He told the rope alerts you to leave coin for a babe.”

More and more Honore feared what unfolded. “He lied.”

“If not the rope, what?”

“Who,” she corrected. “Finwyn sends a boy to the abbey, and that same night I bring coin and pray it is not too late for the babe.”

“Was it too late for Lettice’s son?”

“As told, I know not whence the babes come. But if you tell how old he would be, mayhap I can reveal his fate.”

“Seven years.”

She startled, having expected the one he sought to be much younger. Were he seven, that would be the year she paid Finwyn’s grandsire for three male infants spaced several months apart. And among them was one she could no longer account for.

“What else can you tell me about him?” She winced at the desperation in her voice. Hoping his delayed response was not born of suspicion, she held her breath.

“On the day past, I spoke to Lettice. She said the babe was given to the wood for the stain on his face she feared to be a mark of the devil.”

Honore was grateful she was prepared for his answer. Had she not been, her knees might have buckled.

“After her departure,” the knight continued, “Finwyn Arblette revealed he had overheard our conversation. He said his grandsire did not leave Lettice’s babe in the wood but sold him to you.”

Hence, the ruse. Doubtless, Finwyn had been paid to deliver the one who had last seen the babe alive. Mere coincidence he overheard this knight and Lettice? Or did he yet earn coin as his grandsire had rued—arranging the intimate favors of women? Might this Lettice be among those whose sin he promoted?

“Have you this boy?” the knight pressed. “Does he yet live?”

Why could it not be the boy adopted by a childless husband and wife in the village of Dunwidden? she silently bemoaned. Or the babe laid in consecrated ground after a four-month struggle to survive?

“You are too silent,” the knight said.

She considered telling him his son was the one who had passed, but said, “I know the one you seek.”

“Where is he?”

Glad she was not short, wishing she were taller, she said, “He ran away six months past.”

A shifting of chain mail, then he had her left arm again, and moonlight revealed anger about his eyes and mouth. “I am to believe you?”

“’Tis the truth.” As she tried to free herself, she caught a flash of red on his hip and saw it was a jeweled dagger a moment before he dragged her close.

“Why would he run? Did you mistreat him?”

“Of course not! I am very fond of him.”

“Fond, and yet he did not want to be with you.”

It was wrong, but Honore wished she had told him his son had died. “He did not like his discipline for inappropriate behavior. We argued, and the following morn he could not be found inside the abbey nor outside, though many went in search of him.”

As he considered what she revealed, she cast back to the argument with Hart. Eschewing chores that included helping with the youngest foundlings, the boy had stolen out of the abbey, endangering himself and the friend who accompanied him.

“Methinks you lie,” said the warrior. “Did you sell him?”

“Sell?”

“Sacrifice him?”

“Neither! Never would I harm my charges. It is the Lord in heaven I worship, not the evil one.”

“You have three options,” he said. “Give me the boy—”

“I do not have him.”

“Take me to the one to whom you sold him.”

“I did not sell him.”

“Or deny me, and I will hand you up to be tried for a witch.”

Fear and outrage were terrible playmates, Honore thought as the two careened toward each other. When they collided, leaving in the wake of scattered reason the primitive need to survive, she thrust her free hand between them and closed it around his dagger’s hilt. Having no experience with weapons, she was grateful he wrenched backward as she dragged the dagger from its scabbard. Otherwise, her attempt to put the blade between them might have opened his throat.

He captured her wrist, and she had only a moment to note his ominous expression and a whistle across the wood before he fell on her.

“Almighty!” he erupted as he carried her down toward roots that could snap a back or neck. But of a sudden he released her. Had he not, she would have struck the roots, and all the harder beneath his weight. Instead, she had just enough time to twist around and thrust her arms out before her.

Her hands landed on moss-covered ground, but her hip struck a root. Though it hurt, it surprised the pain was not ten-fold worse considering how loud the crack of bone on wood.

Was this shock? If so, De Morville would have no difficulty subduing her, especially as she was no longer in possession of his dagger.

She thrust onto her side. Further astonished the movement did not more greatly pain, she searched beyond the drape of her veil for the blade amid misted roots. And before her was the reason she merely ached.

The knight lay face down on roots that formed the near rim of the cradle. The crack had not been her hip but his head striking a root. But what sense to be made of the shaft protruding at an angle from his upper back? How had that come to be? And was he dead?

Dear Lord, she silently despaired, what evil is about?

The rustle and squelch of fallen leaves brought her chin up, and she followed the sound to one who approached from far to the left of where De Morville’s squire had earlier concealed himself.

He carried a bow, and as he advanced, hooked it over his head and an arm and let it fall across his torso like the sling Honore had brought to carry the foundlings.

Recalling the whistle heard before the knight fell on her, she understood. De Morville had not attacked her. The force of Finwyn’s arrow burying itself in the knight had driven him against her. And in saving herself, the man who sought his son was the one victimized by the roots—were he not already dead by way of the arrow.

“Heavenly Father,” she whispered, “preserve him.”