He knew that Anna had no capacity to lie. The truth was always clear in her eyes. Nay, this old woman must have it wrong. Perhaps she mingled two old tales together.
She might have been surveying him, by the way she seemed to look him over, but it was her hand on his forearm that told her the most, he would wager. “Chain mail,” she murmured. “And you are tall and young. A knight.” She seemed to peer at his face. “Are you the lost son returned?”
“You tell the same tale as Anna,” he said by way of reply and she appeared to swallow a smile.
“We do not have many knights visit our abode,” she said, and he was relieved she did not pursue her question. “You must have good reason to be here.”
“My party merely passed through the forest,” Bartholomew said, choosing to share only part of the truth with this stranger. “As you heard, we lingered because we were robbed.”
The old woman cackled. “By Anna and Percy,” she guessed.
Bartholomew nodded before he recalled himself. “The very same. Then Percy was captured by the baron’s men, along with what he had stolen from us, and both had to be retrieved.”
“I hear the boy,” she said. “But you must not have your own goods?”
“How so?”
“You would have ridden on, if that were the case. Anna would not have brought you here if she had not felt some obligation to you.” She leaned closer. “What else have you lost?”
“One of my comrades was captured. He carried our goods.”
“So both are in Sir Royce’s clutch.” She nodded understanding.
“You are perceptive.”
She smiled again. “One does not need eyes to see the truth, sir.”
“Clearly that is true. Though I cannot imagine how you knew me to be surprised.”
“Ah! You speak with authority and walk with a confident step. I believe you thus to be a man of good sense.” She ran a fingertip over the back of his hand and Bartholomew would not have been surprised if she guessed more about him from that light touch. “A practical man, who solves matters with his own hands. There is a callus here, from wielding a broadsword. Your spurs are not for appearances, sir.”
“Nay, they are not.”
“And such an accent. Not quite French. Not quite Norman. Where have you been, sir? Where was this monastery?”
“Outremer.”
The woman sat back with apparent wonder and great satisfaction. “That does explain much. There is something exotic about you, sir.”
“Exotic?” Bartholomew smiled.
“Uncommon, then. The kind of man we seldom see.” She lowered her voice. “The kind of man we await, whether you admit as much or nay.” Before Bartholomew could encourage her to change the line of her speculation, she did, raising her voice. “A man of good sense, it is clear, and what man of good sense would not be surprised to find all of a village living as outcasts in the forest?”
“It is hard to believe that nigh every resident of a village should be a criminal, even in the most foul of places.”
“’Tis indeed,” the woman agreed with a sage nod. “What baron of sense would have no use for his villagers? Who tills the fields and shods the horses? Who harvests the grain and salts the fish?” She shook her head. “His life must be worse without us, but he is too much a fool to see the truth.”
“He thinks us all dead, Esme,” Anna said, coming to stand before the old woman.
“Only because he listens to lies. It is a foolish man and a poor judge of character who relies upon the counsel of one such as Gaultier, Captain of the Guard.”
Anna stiffened at the mention of that man’s name, as if to lend credence to Bartholomew’s suspicions. Was she evading his gaze?
The old woman chuckled. “But then, Sir Royce has always shown undue respect for whichever man leads his forces. We each have our follies. Perhaps that is his.”
Bartholomew thought it was his trust of his wife that was misplaced, but decided not to share his thoughts.
Anna propped her hands on her hips as she surveyed him, a challenge bright in her eyes. “I go with Father Ignatius to the old burn. Do you wish to come?”
