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.