He had lost a son he had not known he had—providing the child was his. After all, there was a reason he had not married the mother. More, a reason she had not wished to wed him. And it appeared that reason had not changed.

“Dead,” she repeated, then lowered her voice. “’Twas the devil took him.”

Elias had reached for his purse to put coins in her palm, money he prayed would not be spent on drink, but he stilled over those last words sent past teeth no longer pretty.

He considered her thin, pale face lit by a torch outside the alehouse from which she had stumbled minutes earlier, drew a deep breath. “The devil, you say?”

Fear leapt from her jittering eyes.

“Why the devil, Lettice?”

She moistened colorless lips, glanced around as if to ensure no others listened. “Marked by evil, he was. I had no choice. Ye must know I did not.”

One question answered only to breed more. “How marked, and for what had you no choice?”

She opened her mouth, left it ajar as if reconsidering. Then she raised trembling fingers to the corner of an eye and swept them down her cheek to her jaw. “All red and purple was he, as if kissed by…ye know. Him.”

Elias dug his short nails into calloused palms. A mark of birth, possessed by many—though rarely so large or visible—did not a devil’s child make. But as ever, superstition ran rampant.

“That would alarm, indeed,” he said with control lest he frighten her away. “What did you do?”

“I couldna keep him, Elias.” She shuddered. “Though lovely one side of him, that other side…that mark…”

Lord, he prayed, no matter were it my son or another’s, let her not have set the babe out in the wood. Let her not be so cruel.

“What would have been said of me?” she bemoaned.

Would it have been much worse than what was said of her when she took coin for the use of her body? he wondered with resentment he should no longer feel for a woman he had ceased loving years ago—or mostly.

He unclenched his jaw. “How did the babe die?”

Lettice flinched, drew a shoulder up to her ear. “I did not wish to know. It…was taken care of.”

It.

Pain. Anger. Disgust. All set their brand upon Elias. It seemed naught remained of the woman he had loved. In looks, speech, spirit, and heart, she was unrecognizable. And just as he had been unable to save her then, he could not save her now. Worse, he could not save the babe who might have been his.

Though he longed to walk away, remembrance of what he had once felt for this woman bade him open his purse. “Promise me,” he said as her gaze shot to the leather pouch, “you will take what I give to better your circumstances, not—”

“How much?” she gasped.

He hesitated, then cinched the strings, and as she whimpered like a child shown a sweet and denied it, removed the purse from his belt. “Much,” he said. “If you spend wisely, ‘twill last through this season into the next.”

He reached it to her, and she snatched it to her chest, pivoted, and ran.

He was tempted to follow, but for what? Just as her life was hers to live, the coin was hers to spend.

“Lord,” he groaned, “let it not become a stone upon which to stumble. Let it bless her.”

Once darkness stole her from sight, he lowered his head and felt the sting of tears of which he would not be ashamed even had the one who knighted him told he ought to be. But Sir Everard Wulfrith of that family known England to France as the mightiest trainers of knights said only those unworthy of defending king and country were bereft of tears for the hurts and sorrows of their fellow man.

“Lettice,” he breathed.

“Milord?”

He jerked, cursed himself. Tears were naught to be ashamed of, but succumbing to them in this place at this time of night—leaving himself open to thievery and gutting—was far from worthy. And now the one who had stolen upon him knew better than to quietly approach a warrior.

Back against the alehouse’s wall, a Wulfrith dagger at his throat, the man who had gone as still as the dead gaped at the man above him.

Elias assessed him. He was attractive and fairly well groomed, near his own age, shorter by a hand, more bone than muscle, and of the common class as evidenced by a tunic fashioned of homespun cloth—albeit of good quality and showing little wear.

“What do you want?” Elias growled.

“But to earn a few coins.” The man splayed his arms and opened his fingers to show empty hands. “No harm intended, milord. None done.”

Elias thrust his face near. He smelled drink, though not of the sour sort. “I have given the last of my coin.”

A loud clearing of the throat. “Surely a lord so fine as you can get more.”

He could. His squire awaited him at the inn which lay opposite the direction Lettice had fled, in Francis’s possession several purses fatter than the one with which Elias had parted. “Why would I wish to do that?”

“The harlot’s babe. I can tell more about him than she.”

What else was there to know? Elias wondered, then asked it.

The man moistened his lips. “There is much to be told that none but straight-fingered Arblette can reveal, milord.”

Straight-fingered, Elias silently scorned. Could a self-proclaimed honest man truly be that?

“Buy me a tankard of ale, milord?”

Elias considered the face below his, released the man. “One, and if you think to play me for a fool, I shall spill every drop from your belly.”

* * *

“How know you of the babe? And what?”

Straight-fingered Arblette raised one of those fingers, and Elias thought it ironic there was a bend to it, then the man looked to the pretty girl who approached the table chosen for its relative privacy in the back corner of the inn Elias had insisted on over the stinking, dilapidated alehouse.

“There ye be!” She set down two of four tankards—so hard ale slopped and dripped between the planks onto Elias’s boots. “I be back for me coin.”

As she turned toward a table occupied by a half dozen men, several of whom were overly interested in Elias and his companion, Arblette slapped her rear.

She gasped, teasingly protested, “Naughty!” and swayed away.

Lifting his tankard, Arblette returned his regard to Elias. “Not as naughty as she wishes me to be.” His grin would have been all teeth were he not missing several. “But I aim to marry better, so unless she defies her brute of a father, she must needs be content with pats and pinches.”

Then given the chance, he would ruin the lass without ruffling his conscience. Disliking him more, Elias searched out the owner of the inn in which he and his squire had taken a room for the night. The man was of good size top to bottom, his fat bettered by a greater amount of muscle which bunched as he stared at the one who was too familiar with his daughter.

Arblette was not the only patron to trespass, a recipient of ale at the nearby table hooking an arm around the young woman’s waist as she set a tankard before him.

Again she protested, though without teasing, then swatted free. And yet it was at Arblette her father continued to stare.

“You have your ale,” Elias said. “Now tell how you know of Lettice’s babe.”

He took a long draught, belched. “I know ‘cause my grandsire disposed of that devil-licked thing.”

Though rarely moved to violence outside of defending himself and others, Elias curled his fingers into a fist atop the table. “Disposed?”

“Ah, now!” Arblette splayed a hand as if to ward off an attack. “Not that way, milord, though ’twas as my grandsire was paid to do.”

Then the child was not dead? Or had he been snuffed out in a supposedly more humane manner than exposure to the elements and beasts of the wood?

“What way?”

“The way of a good Christian.” The man took another drink, winked. “Albeit one in need of funds.”

As Elias further tensed in preparation to lunge across the table, the serving girl reappeared. “Give over, milord.”

He drew breath between his teeth, opened the purse his squire had delivered him upon his return to the inn, and dropped a coin in her palm that more than covered the ale. “Go.”

She gave a squeak of delight and trotted away.

“That there coin buys me three more fills!” Arblette called.

She laughed and flicked a hand as if to rid herself of a fly.

He sighed, lost his smile. “Tell milord, how much would you pay for a look inside my head?”

Elias shifted his cramped jaw, dug two more coins from his purse, and pushed them across the table.

Arblette grunted. “Since it seems we are talkin’ about yer son, surely more is warranted.”

Elias raised his eyebrows. “If what you know proves useful.”

The man blew breath up his face, causing his straight black hair to fly upward and settle aslant on his brow. “Certes, you are good for it?”

“As told, if what you tell bears fruit.”

Arblette leaned across the table, rasped, “Seven, mayhap eight years gone, the mother of your harlot—er, Lettice,” he corrected as Elias’s face warmed, “sent for my grandsire. ’Twas to him all around these parts turned when they could not stomach ridding themselves of undesirables.”

Senses warning he and the other man had become of greater interest, Elias glanced around. Though the voices of those unconcerned with what transpired at this table ensured privacy, he lowered his own voice. “Undesirables?”

“Unwanted babes, whether of the lesser sex when ’tis a son a man needs, sickly, deformed, misbegotten, or devil-marked like your boy.”

“Continue.”

“My grandsire was paid for the disposal of Lettice’s newborn son.” Hastily, he added, “Though as told, not the usual form of disposal.”

“What form?”

“Whilst setting out a babe some years before, my grandsire was approached by one who offered to pay him for all those destined to breathe their last in the wood.” He raised a hand to keep Elias from speaking. “He agreed, as ever it was with heavy heart he did what needed doing and he was certain whatever their fate it was better than death by abandonment. A decent man he was. Now what she does with the babes…”

A woman then, but for what purpose did she buy undesirables?

“I pray…” Arblette’s voice caught, and he gripped his hands atop the table as if to address heaven here and now. “I pray the Lord forgives my grandsire and me for whatever parts we played in that woman’s ungodly schemes.”

The chill seeping into Elias became ice. He was not superstitious—rather, not foolishly so—but he knew there was evil in the world eager to manifest itself through weak men and women, whether they acted on behalf of the devil or in their own interest.

Arblette looked up from his white-knuckled hands. “Though in the beginning my grandsire thought her intentions good, that she provided for the babes as best she could, he began to suspect she was sent by the devil to claim his brood and those undesirables whose only sin was of being born of poverty and shame.”

He believed she gave the babes to the devil? How? Surely not through sacrifice.

Now it was Elias who addressed heaven. Lord, he silently prayed, not that. Heart pounding, he said, “What roused his suspicion?”

“Ever she denied him her name. Ever she kept her face hidden. Ever she appeared within hours of him marking the tree beneath which he was to leave the babe.”

“How was the tree marked?”

“As instructed, a rope tied around its trunk.”

Elias jutted his chin. “What else?”

“Were she not walking hand in hand with the devil, she would have to dwell near to daily pass that portion of the wood to see if the rope was present, and only once a month at most—more usual every other month—was the tree marked. And yet ever she appeared when summoned, and for all the babes given into her care over the years, there is no evidence of her or them in these parts.”

“You are saying no others have seen her?”

“Only my grandsire and I.”

Elias narrowed his eyes. “Once he suspected her intentions, why did he continue selling her babes?”

Arblette raised his palms in a gesture of apology. “Not being of a superstitious bent, I dissuaded him from such thinking. And when I began to believe as he did, I reminded myself—and him—the undesirables were destined for unconsecrated ground. Thus, already their souls were lost.” Moisture gathered in his eyes. “It was selfish, but her coin put more food in our bellies, clothed us better, and made the lean winters more bearable.”

Elias wondered how much he spoke in truth and how much was false. And hoped the latter was heavily weighted, that this was but an act to gain more coin. Not only did the life of the boy who might be his son depend on it, but the lives of other innocents.

“I would speak with your grandsire.”

Arblette blinked. “Did I not say?”

“What?”

“A slow sickness laid him abed two years past, and last year I put him in the ground, God have mercy on his soul.” He touched a hand to his heart. “Hence, the business is mine.”

“You call it a business?” Elias struggled to contain anger so sharp he hardly knew himself—he who preferred to laugh, tease, riddle, and arrange words pleasing to heart and soul.

Arblette grunted. “What else to call it, milord? A business it was, and a fair good one with coins from the wretched mothers one side and more coins from the unseen woman on the other side.”

“Was,” Elias snapped up the word. “’Tis no longer your business?”

Arblette winced. “Still I perform a much-needed service, but no longer do I take coin from the one who paid me better than the mothers.”

“Why? Have you now proof of those babes’ fate? Not mere suspicion?”

Arblette rubbed his temple as if pained. “The last time I delivered a babe to…” He trailed off. “Well, let us call her what she is—a witch. The last time I prayed for the Lord’s protection and followed her, and what I saw…”

“What?”

“I did not stay for it all. I could not, it grieved and frightened me so. But ’twas a most unholy ritual. She danced around a fire in the wood, chanted, and held the babe aloft as if in offering. I vowed then to never again summon her no matter how great my need for coin. And I have not these three months, though my purse can hardly be felt upon my belt.”

Elias continued to watch him closely for evidence he lied, well aware one of his own shortcomings was gullibility resulting from the need to believe the best of others, even when they were at their worst. It was the poet in him…the teller of tales…the composer of songs. But as for the actor, that side was of little use in determining if this man he hardly knew wore a face not his own.

“You think all the babes dead?” he asked.

“I do not. Though ’tis likely a great many have been consigned to the dirt, methinks some rove amongst us in search of good Christians to enlist in service to the devil.”

Vile superstition, but therein the possibility the babe, who would now be a boy, lived. A boy surely in need of a father.

Arblette leaned farther across the table. “Then there is the rumor of recent.” He moistened his lips. “Most unusual twins were born in our village a year past. Joined they were—here.” He tapped his chest. “Though sickly, I gave them into the care of the witch thinking they would be comforted as life left them. However, not long ago I heard talk such babes are being exploited by a troop of performers who charge to look upon the spectacle, and for it have been ordered by King Henry himself to leave England.”

“You believe the woman sold the babes?” Elias said through met teeth.

Arblette sighed. “I know not what to believe, but it makes one question if the babe I gave—”

“Sold!”

The man lowered his chin, nodded. “And now I wonder if ’tis a business for her as well and what other babes suffer that fate. If your son…” He fell silent, providing too much time in which to imagine Lettice’s babe exploited for his marked face.

Elias wished the man would look up so his emotions might be better read, but Arblette was slow to raise his chin, and when he did he immediately went behind his tankard and drained its contents.

“I must needs know more about the woman,” Elias said.

Arblette lowered his vessel, tapped the table. “As told, my business is not as lucrative as once it was.”

Holding back a curse, Elias removed two more coins and pushed them to the man who swept them into his palm.

“I know not her face.”

“As already told.”

“I know not her name.”

Elias glowered.

“I know not whence she hails.”

“But you know how to summon her to dispose of babes,” Elias growled.

“True, but do you recall, I vowed to never again do so no matter how much she offers.”

“She offers. What of my coin?”

Arblette raised his eyebrows, motioned to the serving girl. “All this talk makes me dry.”

Grudgingly, Elias waited as the knave’s vessel was refilled. This time Arblette pinched the girl, eliciting a squeal, and once more Elias commanded her to leave.

Seemingly unconcerned by the anger leveled at him by the inn’s owner, Arblette said, “What do you propose, milord?”

Elias set before him a purse of a size similar to the one given Lettice, this one holding a quarter of his remaining coin. “Half now, half when you deliver the woman to me.”

Arblette stared at the offering. “May I?”

Elias loosened the strings and spread the leather just enough to reveal the contents against a silken red lining.

Arblette whistled low.

“Agreed?” Elias said.

“I can but summon the witch under pretense I have another babe to dispose of.” He raised his eyebrows. “’Tis for you to capture her ere she disappears in a sudden fog—which she does sometimes. I would not have the wrath of one such as that fall on me, especially as I am no mighty warrior as your blade tells you to be.”

The Wulfrith dagger, prominent on his hip, not only as a matter of pride but to warn any who thought to set upon its bearer.

“When I have her in hand,” Elias said, “you shall gain the second half of your coin—though no clearer a conscience unless you continue to delude yourself in believing the Lord approves of leaving his most lovely creation in the wood to die.”

“Most lovely…” Arblette snorted. “Ye may say that of babes merely unwanted for poverty’s sake, the lack of food taking them a bit later than were they left to the wood, but you cannot say that of those sinful creatures born out of wedlock and abominations come forth with misshapen heads and bodies and marked faces.” He nodded. “I do the Lord a service.”

Who crawls beneath my skin? Elias wondered. Not even when foul trickery caused him to yield Lady Beata Fauvel—now Marshal—to an unwanted marriage had he so longed to harm another. Prayer was what he needed. And assurance the boy he may have fathered was not in need of rescue.

He cinched the purse, shoved it nearer the man. “Summon her.”

Six months. They felt like years.

Honore of no surname lowered her forehead to the floor. Gripping her beads, she prayed, “Almighty, You are all. You see all, hear all, feel all.” She drew a shaky breath. “You can do all. I beseech Thee, wherever Hart is, turn his feet back to us. Deliver him to these walls unharmed and smiling his sweetly lop-sided smile. Bring him home.”

To give the Lord time to consider her request in the hope he might finally act on it, she waited several minutes before setting before Him others in need of grace and healing.

When the bells called the sisters to prayer an hour later, she pressed upright. Soon the chapel would fill with holy women, one of whom Honore was not and would never be. She had work of a different sort—and of equal import, she believed.

She stepped out the side door and paused to allow the sun’s heat burning away the clouds to warm places grown cold whilst she prostrated herself before the altar. It felt wonderful, tempting her to delay her duties, but she had been gone too long and Lady Wilma was generous enough with her time.

Honore bounded down the steps and headed around the rear of the chapel so she might sooner reach the dormitory. And halted a step short of colliding with a squat nun.

“Forgive my recklessness, Sister Sarah.” She bobbed her head deferentially. “I am late to—”

The nun raised a staying hand, and when Honore seamed her mouth, tapped her own lips.

“Dear me!” Belatedly realizing she had spoken louder than usual as she was in the habit of compensating for a muffled voice, Honore drew up the cloth draping her shoulders which respect for the Lord—and the abbess’s assurance He thought her beautiful—bade her lower before addressing Him.

“I was at prayer,” she said as she arranged the covering over her head. “In my haste to relieve Lady Wilma, I neglected to set myself aright.” She drew the trailing end across her lower face and fastened it on the opposite side. “I thank you, Sister.”

It was not cruelty that caused the nun to remind the younger woman of what was best kept concealed. It was kindness, Sister Sarah well-versed in the superstitions of many within Bairnwood Abbey, be they nuns, lay sisters, servants, or residents—especially those of the nobility who resided here because of advanced age, a babe whose birth must be concealed, or to escape an unwanted marriage.

“How fares your good work?” the nun asked.

“Well.” It was true, though it felt otherwise these six months.

Sister Sarah inclined her head. “I pray thee a good day, Honore.” She stepped around the younger woman and continued to the chapel.

Resuming her course to the dormitory, Honore muttered, “You must cease this grieving. It does him no good. It does you none. Hart is gone. Pray for him and leave him to God. The Lord can protect him far better than you.”

Easy to say. Hard to do. The loss of the boy hurt deeply, and worry over him nibbled at her every edge. If she did not gain control of her emotions, soon she would be eaten all the way through.

Honore jumped out of the path of a cluster of nuns also destined for the chapel. As they passed, she landed beneath the regard of a middle-aged woman bringing up the rear, she who was not yet garbed as a bride of Christ. But soon, it was told, the novice’s family having supplied the funds necessary to make an esteemed place for her at Bairnwood.

Honore held the woman’s keen gaze, refusing to be cowed by one who was her equal—or nearly so. Had Honore wished to become a nun, for a dozen years now she would have worn a habit. Instead, she had been granted her request to use the funds paid for her keeping in a way surely as pleasing to the Lord.

As the novice neared, the woman moved her eyes to the swath of material covering the bottom half of Honore’s face, then lowered her gaze further.

Honore reached up and closed a hand around the short string of prayer beads she usually kept beneath her gown’s bodice. As noted months past, it was similar to the ones hung from the girdle of the novice who was now past her.

Honore slipped the beads beneath the neck of her gown and continued to the farthest dormitory which housed the abbey’s female lay servants.

As soon as she entered the building whose northern end had been converted from a dozen individual cells to one great room a decade past, Lady Wilma moved toward her. “Settle yourselves, children,” she called over her shoulder, “else there shall be no honey milk with your dinner.”

As moans, groans, and mutterings answered her, Honore noted the woman’s anxious eyes. “What is amiss?”

Lady Wilma halted before her. “The raggedly lad was here.”

Honore drew a sharp breath between her teeth. She had hoped she would not see him again, that the abbey’s plans to render the boy’s master useless would be completed ere she was called upon to once more leave the safety of these walls.

“He said his master bids you meet him two hours ere matins,” Lady Wilma continued.

Midnight, then—a perilous hour, especially if the dense fog that had arisen these past nights returned.

“He told you are to bring twice the amount of coin.”

“Twice?” Honore exclaimed.

“For two, he said.”

“Twins?” she asked, thoughts flying to two such babes born in the village of Forkney a year past—rather, the rumor of them.

“I asked the same. The boy said he did not know.”

“Is he still here?”

“Nay, I fed him a good meal and sent him away with a coin.”

How many times had Honore offered the lad a home here? As many times as he had declined. And now he was too old to be granted sanctuary inside these walls.

She bit her lower lip. She did not want to go to the wood, especially after what had happened the last time, but she had no choice.

Lady Wilma touched her shoulder. “Methinks you ought to take big Jeannette with you.”

She wished she could. But she dared not.

* * *

Honore was no slight thing, but increasingly she felt dainty alongside the young woman who accompanied her. Lady Wilma had argued it was time to give Jeannette more knowledge of the world beyond the abbey so she was better informed in deciding her future. Still, Honore had resisted—until the lady suggested Jeannette clothe herself as a man and remain visibly distant during the exchange. The young woman’s accompaniment would make it appear Honore had a protector whilst ensuring Jeannette had space in which to flee if necessary.

Now beneath a three-quarter moon and amidst fog so thick they could hardly see their feet, Honore looked sidelong at her charge and felt a flush of pride for all she had become. When she could not have been more than one, she was set out in the wood, either due to illegitimacy, poverty, a drifting eye that frightened the superstitious, or perhaps all.

No longer the babe in fouled swaddling clothes whom Honore had hastened to Bairnwood fourteen years past, she stood over a half foot taller than her savior’s five and a half feet, was as broad-shouldered as many a man, had a figure surprisingly feminine for one of such proportion, and possessed a fairly pretty face made all the prettier when she smiled. Not that she smiled often, of such a serious nature was she.

Of further surprise to those who judged her by appearance was her intellect. Her size, wandering eye, and tongue of few words lulled many into believing her simple-minded. She was not. And Abbess Abigail knew it, encouraging Jeannette’s studies beyond writing and reading to include numbers and Latin. The abbess did not say it, but she implied a way could be found for the young woman to become a bride of Christ.

As the two negotiated the wood, Honore once more wondered if Jeannette would wish to take holy vows were one of common birth given that rare opportunity.

She hoped not and immediately repented for being selfish and silently explained to the Lord that her work with foundlings would be much furthered were Jeannette to fully come alongside her.

Honore had help from a few lay servants and several kind-hearted convent residents—Lady Wilma for one—but more could be done. And once alterations to the abbey’s outer wall were completed, as they should have been weeks past, more would need to be done. But that was not to ponder at the middling of night in a dark wood and soon to be in close proximity with Finwyn.

Though Honore assured herself the exchange would be over soon, she shuddered.

“Are you afeared, Mine Honore?”

Mine Honore, as Jeannette had called her since first she could speak. It was the same as the others coming up after the young woman called the one whose unseemly birth denied her the title of lady. But far Honore preferred it over the loftiest title. Ever it reminded her she belonged to someone—many someones.

“A little frightened,” she admitted. “The one I meet, hopefully for the last time, is not to be underestimated. Thus, do not forget you are to remain distant enough he will not know you for a woman.”

Jeannette’s white teeth flashed in the dim. “I could become accustomed to such garments.” She plucked at tunic and chausses borrowed from a male servant who dwelt outside the abbey. “I feel all held together.”

“Are they truly so comfortable?”

“Ever so. I have naught flapping about my legs and feet, naught to hinder my stride.”

A very long stride, though Jeannette patiently kept pace with Honore’s shorter reach.

“Do not tell Abbess Abigail,” Honore said. “She will think it unnatural you are clothed as a man.”

“And sinful?” the girl said warily.

Were Honore not so tense, she would laugh. “An abbot might name it sinful, but not our abbess, especially considering your mission.”

“Mission,” Jeannette repeated. “I like that.”

As expected, Honore mused and wondered as sometimes she did why the Lord had not made Jeannette a Jean. Not that she wished it. Had her first foundling been a boy, he would no longer dwell at Bairnwood. As required, males left the community of women upon attainment of their tenth year. Blessedly, thus far all had been placed in good homes well before that age.

Fewer females were as fortunate, but as yet there was no great need. As long as Bairnwood—and Honore—could support their numbers, they were welcome to remain. However, that would not always be so, and all the sooner those numbers would become unsupportable once the man who summoned Honore became dispensable. She would have to work harder—a daunting prospect, but it was not as if she had anything else to live for or fill her heart so full.

Returning to the present, Honore instructed Jeannette that if she must converse henceforth, she ought to whisper.

The two crossed a stream, keeping their shoes and hems dry by traversing the immense rotten tree that had toppled from one bank to the other long before Honore took her first forbidden walk outside the abbey and found Jeannette. It had been two years before she dared approach the one she had seen set out the little one, but her task had become easier thereafter—until the old man took ill and his grandson determined to make more profitable what he called a business.

However, though Finwyn required greater compensation than had his grandsire, Honore had not been summoned as often since the old man’s passing. Until recently, she had thought it was because the grandson was not as trusted to discreetly dispose of unwanted babes, but that rumor about twins born to a newly widowed villager a year past made her think it could be something else. Were it—

“Mine Honore?” Jeannette forgot to whisper.

“Quiet now,” Honore rasped. “We are nearly there.”

They continued to traverse the wood until the ground rose before them, then Honore veered to the right. “Remain here. Once I am over the top, follow and place yourself between those trees so the moon is full at your back.” She pointed to the top of the rise where two ancient oaks stood like royals before their lessers. “You have only to stand there,” she repeated what had been told ere they departed the abbey, then tapped the tapered stick tucked beneath Jeannette’s belt. “Hold this to the side, its point down as if ’tis a sword.”

“I will look a fierce warrior,” the young woman whispered.

And all the more threatening amid moonlit fog, Honore imagined and hoped it would prevent Finwyn from trespassing as he had done the last time when he wrenched the covering from her face.

“No more is required of you,” Honore said. “Now I would have your word that if anything goes afoul, you will run straight to the abbey.”

“Already I gave my word, Mine Honore.”

“I would hear it again.”

The young woman sighed. “If all goes afoul, I shall return to the abbey as quickly as my legs can carry me. My word I give.”

Honore leaned up and kissed Jeannette’s cheek. “God willing, this night we shall each have a babe to sing to sleep.” She stepped back and lowered her chin. “Almighty,” she prayed, “bless us this eve as we seek to do Your good work. Amen.”

“Amen,” Jeannette said.

After ensuring the cloth covering the lower half of her face was secure, Honore lifted her skirts and ascended the rise. Upon reaching the crest, she set her shoulders back and increased her stride.

There was no disguising herself as being other than a woman, but she refused to appear meek. If Finwyn drew too near again, she would do more than slap him. She touched the stick beneath her belt that was half as long but twice as thick as Jeannette’s. In addition to coin, the knave would depart the wood with lumps and bruises. Or so she told herself, Finwyn being the first and last person she had ever struck.

I shall do so again if I must—and harder, she assured herself and set her eyes on the distant tree, a portion of whose aboveground roots served as a cradle. As the fog creeped thicker there, she would have to draw near to confirm the exchange was possible. On occasion it was not, the cradle empty due to the babe’s death.

“Lord, let the wee ones be hale,” she whispered and sent her gaze around the wood in search of movement whilst straining to catch the sound of fitful babes. Were they in the cradle, Finwyn would be watching.

She glanced over her shoulder and saw Jeannette had placed herself as directed. The young woman did look to be a fierce warrior—the moon’s glow at her back outlining her hulking figure and what appeared to be a drawn sword. She would not go unnoticed, and Finwyn would know exactly why Honore had not come alone. Hopefully, once more he would honor their agreement and collect his coin following her departure.

When Honore was near enough to see the humped roots near the tree’s base, she silently thanked the Lord. Amid the fog, two bundles lay side by side. Blessedly, neither babe was fitful, for she hated that they might be frantic and frightened.

Though careful to pick her way amongst the roots that extended a dozen feet from the tree, twice she nearly twisted an ankle, causing the coins to clatter.

When she stood before the bundles, she raised her pouch to show the one watching that she paid the price required to save two innocents, then set it in a patch of moss. God willing, it was the last payment she would make.

As she straightened, she noticed a rope tied around the tree’s trunk. Did Finwyn seek to tell her something? Might this be a threat? She considered it a moment longer, then brushed aside the curiosity with the assurance it was not fashioned into a noose. And nearly laughed at allowing her mind to wander in that direction. She did not like the man, but he gave her no cause to fear for her life.

She positioned the sling she wore over her short cloak so it draped one shoulder and rested on the opposite hip, then reached for the first bundle.

“There is naught there for you, woman.”

She stilled. Someone showed himself, and it was not Finwyn. Counseling calm though her heart thought itself a drum, Honore slowly turned.

Sweeping her gaze over the wood, Honore saw Jeannette’s dark figure on the hill, moonlight appearing to radiate from her, then the one whose shadow glided across the fog, swept up over her skirts and bodice, and covered her face.

Though less than twenty feet distant, the only sense she could make of the large figure backed by moonlight the same as Jeannette’s and the ring of chain mail, was that here was a warrior.

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. “Come no nearer!”

Though she doubted he felt threatened, he halted. Even without the sword and dagger hung from his waist, he could make a quick end of her. And all the more easily were he not alone.

Honore shifted her gaze past his shoulder, saw Jeannette had yet to run as instructed. 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 said, “What is it you want?”

When the warrior finally answered, he punctuated each word as if it did not need any other to be understood. “I want my son.”

Honore nearly looked behind at the babes, but she dared not move her gaze from this man. Too, she would wager the quiet bundles were only lures—a trap set by Finwyn. Doubtless, he had learned of the abbey’s plan and thought to gain every last 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? If so, it would be for naught. Abbess Abigail would see the plan through to its good end. However, Honore’s death would serve another purpose were Finwyn even less worthy of his grandsire’s name than already 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 but 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.”

“All?”

“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 wish to dispose of them.”

“How kind of you.” His sarcasm was not subtle. “Tell me, how do you dispose of them?”

Though she longed to rail against the insinuation she was of ill intent, she said as calmly as she could, “I assure you, not as Finwyn would have you believe.”

“Then you will have no difficulty delivering my son to me.”

That all depended on the boy’s identity. “It is possible. Tell me how he became lost to a warrior when those for whom I give coin are 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 in recent days was I made aware of his existence,” he said. “I am not certain he is mine, but if he is…”

“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 you now wish to take responsibility. Or is it something else? Mayhap you seek to harm the boy to ensure your sin remains hidden?”

“I wish to retrieve my son. If he is, indeed, mine.”

“How think you to prove that? 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, methinks it best for all you tell yourself you tried and pay a priest to put finish to your troubled conscience.” She raised her chin. “Now step aside so I may sooner be shed of this farce and 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 to the side, and moonlight poured over her, making her startle.

She did not know how it was possible to move so sure of foot amongst the fog-ladened roots, but of a sudden he was before her, his shadow once more covering her as he grasped her forearm and rendered the stick impotent—had it ever been of benefit 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 soon prove another stick.

“Run, Jean!” Honore cried, surprised by the clarity that caused her to speak the male form of the young woman’s name. Then she saw a figure emerge from behind a tree to the right. Sword drawn, the man lunged toward Jeannette.

“Run!” Honore screamed.

Blessedly, the young woman swerved and reached her legs opposite.

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

Honore did not struggle against his hold. It would only drain her of strength better saved should an opportunity for escape present. “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 was 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. Francis 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 inclined his head, then turned her with him into moonlight.

To her surprise, he was almost boyishly handsome, the wavy hair brushing his shoulders 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 somewhat 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, 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 what was visible above her covering. Thus, she was grateful this man made no attempt to divest her of the material slung across her lower face.

“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 heat to sweep up her chest, neck, and face.

Honore did not understand her reaction—and did not wish to, it being 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 to meet with the abbess 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—her reality. Such could never be.

The warrior before her raised his eyebrows.

Realizing she stared, she recalled the words he had spoken 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, the weather too temperate to warrant the warmth the material provided in addition to its true purpose.

But he stayed his hand, and when he spoke again, once more accusation sounded from him. “Where is my son?”

Were the boy amongst those Finwyn and his grandsire had sold 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 perhaps it was for the best if this man meant the boy ill.

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

“He tells you are a witch.”

A chill rushed into her, slammed against her spine with such force it should have doubled her over. His words surprised though 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. “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 a thing!”

“Then for what do you buy unwanted 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 paid to deliver those innocents from cruel deaths.”

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

Honore resisted the temptation to peer down her figure. Though simply dressed as befitting her station, 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 thirty and two years past.

“Oft appearances are deceiving,” she said, “especially when the one in possession of a good fortune pleases the Lord by spending it to do His good work rather than indulge 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.”

Before she could explain, he demanded, “Then where are they? Where can I find my son?”

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

“Where?”

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

His eyebrows scissored. “A nun?”

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

More hesitation. “Your name?”

“Honore.”

“Only Honore?”

She inclined her head. “Of no surname.”

He moved so swiftly she barely glimpsed the movement, giving her no time to tighten her grip on the stick. But after he tossed it aside, he released her.

Honore stepped back and her calf struck a humped root. The distance between the warrior and her was slight, but she felt safer. Determined to gain more ground with him since her escape was not yet assured, she said, “Now 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 Honore’s lips, but something made her hesitate. She knew the name, but did she know it beyond that of the elderly lady who had arrived at Bairnwood ten years past intent on spending the remainder of her life in the peaceful confines of the convent?

“Do you?” the knight pressed.

“I do not. The agreement is the parents remain unknown to me, not only to ensure their privacy but the protection of the one who breaks with them to give their babes into my care. Too, Bairnwood is fairly isolated, and I leave its walls only when summoned.”

Not true, she reminded herself of those first years she had ventured farther on her own, but before she could correct the lie, he said, “Summoned?”

She blinked. “Of course. How else would I know when a babe is to be abandoned? You think I haunt the wood nightly?” She frowned. “Is that what Finwyn told to convince you I am a witch?”

“The rope tied around the tree,” the knight said. “He told that alerts you to leave coin for a babe.”

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

“If ’tis not the rope that summons you, what?”

“Who,” she corrected. “Finwyn sends a boy to the abbey, and that night I bring coin and pray ’tis not too late for the babe given unto me to thrive.”

“Was it too late for my son?”

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

“He would be seven and some.”

She startled, for some reason expecting the one he sought was 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 not account for with any certainty.

“What else can you tell me about him?” she asked and heard 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 who revealed the babe is dead. She said he was left to the wood because of a stain upon his face she believed was a mark of the devil.”

Honore was grateful she was somewhat prepared for his answer. Had she not been, she might not have locked her softening knees and remained upright.

“After her departure,” the knight continued, “Finwyn Arblette appeared. Having overheard our conversation, he told 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 rued years ago—selling the intimate favors of women? Might this Lettice be one of those whose sin he promoted?

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

Silently, she bemoaned he spoke of her beloved Hart. Why not the boy adopted by a childless husband and wife in the village of Dunwidden? Or even the babe laid in consecrated ground after a six-month battle to survive?

“You are too silent,” the knight said. “Why?”

She considered telling him his son was the one who had passed, but she could not lie. She unstuck her tongue from her palate. “I know the one you seek.”

“Where is he?”

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

A shifting of chain mail, then his hand was on her left arm, moonlight revealing anger about his eyes and mouth. “I am to believe you?”

“’Tis true.” As she tried to free her arm, she caught a flash of red on his hip and identified it as a jeweled dagger a moment before he dragged her close.

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

“Of course not! I am fond of him.”

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

It was wrong, but Honore wished she had lied. She drew a deep breath. “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 it, the abbess having sent men in search of him.”

“Methinks you lie. Did you sell him?”

“Sell?” she exclaimed.

“Sacrifice him?”

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

He fell silent, and when he spoke again, there was no mistaking the threat in his voice. “You have three options. Give me my son—”

“I do not have him.”

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

“I did not sell him.”

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

Fear and outrage were terrible playmates, Honore acknowledged as the two careened toward each other. A moment later they collided, flooding all reason and leaving her with naught but the need to survive.

She thrust her free hand between them, closed it around his dagger’s hilt, and dragged the blade up out of its scabbard. She had no experience with weapons, and it seemed almost a miracle he wrenched backward. Otherwise, she might have opened his throat.

An instant later, he captured her dagger-wielding wrist, and she had only a moment to note the anger sharpening his face and a whistling across the wood before he fell upon her.

“Almighty!” he erupted as he carried her down toward roots that might snap a back or neck if one landed wrong. If not that he released her, she would have borne the brunt of the fall, but she had just enough time to twist to the side and thrust her arms before her to break her fall.

Blessedly, her hands landed on moss-covered ground, but her hip was not as fortunate. With a loud crack, it struck a root, but though it hurt, she was surprised the pain was not ten-fold greater considering how loud the sound of bone on wood. It might even be broken.

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

She thrust onto her side, and as she searched for silver amid the fogged roots was further astonished the movement did not more greatly pain her. And before her was the reason, though it took a moment to understand.

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

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

The rustle and squelch of fallen leaves on moist earth brought her chin up, and she followed the sound to a figure 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 to the abbey.

Recalling the whistle heard before the knight fell upon her, this she also 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, he was the one victimized by the roots—were he not already dead by way of the arrow.

Dear Reader,

I hope you enjoyed this excerpt of THE RAVELING, the eighth book in the AGE OF FAITH series. Look for the tale of Sir Elias de Morville and Honore of no surname Spring/Summer 2018.

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