E. M. Powell
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2013 E. M. Powell
Originally released as a Kindle Serial, November, 2012.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer
P.O. Box 400818
Las Vegas, NV 89140
ISBN: 9781611091656
For Jon and Angela
Remember the sufferings of Christ, the storms that were weathered: the crown that came from those sufferings. … All saints give testimony to the truth that without real effort, no one ever wins the crown.
Saint Thomas Becket
Table of Contents
EPISODE 1
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
EPISODE 2
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
EPISODE 3
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
EPISODE 4
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
EPISODE 5
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
EPISODE 6
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
HISTORICAL NOTE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
EPISODE 1
CHAPTER 1
The English Channel, December 27, 1170
For all his twenty-three years, Sir Benedict Palmer had heard priests preach that hell was hot. But he knew they were wrong. Hell was towering, smashing water. And he was near in it. He and his four fellow knights fought alongside the crew to bail out their small craft. The flat-bottomed sailing cog pitched under his feet as it crashed into another deep trough.
“Someone grab the sheet!”
He tipped his head back at the thin shout from above. Icy rain and spray slashed his dark hair across his face. He could scarce make out where the young sailor clung halfway up the wooden mast, the rescued rope dangling from one hand. Palmer stretched to his full height as the dark snake of rope thrashed above him. A fresh howl from the gale spun it out over the foaming waves.
“Pass it again!” said Palmer. The loose heavy canvas sail hammered, battered, drowned out his call to the boy. He swallowed deep as he went to call again. Though he’d emptied his stomach five minutes after he’d stepped aboard, his guts still churned up choking bile. “Pass it.” Bitter spittle cracked his voice.
The sailor swung the rope back again. Palmer’s fingers stung as he got a hold with his right hand.
“Look out, look out!”
Palmer looked over his left shoulder at the lad’s shrill scream. A giant storm wave surged toward the ship, grew above him to the height of the mast. The cog began to climb the steep gray sides of the mountain of water, the bow rising higher and higher. Men shouted, yelled, cursed as Palmer too tried to keep his footing. The wooden hull squealed and protested as the ship tilted up on its stern. Palmer crashed onto his back on the deck, rope still in one hand. The wave broke above him and tons of white foaming water roared down, washing the boy from the mast before striking Palmer in a freezing, pounding wall. Sightless, suffocating, he slid across the listing planks, sheet still in his grip.
His palm ripped and burned as the ship heeled harder beneath him. Water poured from the decks, sweeping him with it. His shoulder slammed into the wooden deck rail, and he jolted to a stop. With his numbed free hand, he grabbed for it. Palmer hauled himself out of the emptying torrent and into the salt-filled gale. He coughed and spat as he clambered onto his knees and let go the rail to grasp the rope with both hands. Then the world dipped beneath him as the cog swept down the other side of the wave, righted again now that he had control of the sheet. The ship hit the trough in another shuddering blow, but kept upright, drawing its balance from the set sail. He bit down hard against the pain and held the sheet firm. If he loosed it, they’d all be lost. As he tightened his grip, the wind howled harder and the rope tore deeper into his injured flesh. “Succor!”
“Are you a maid at a maypole, Palmer?” A soaked Sir Reginald Fitzurse scrambled to his side and grabbed onto the rope too, breath jagged, fine features drawn in a deep scowl.
“Sorry, my lord. My hand’s bad.”
Fitzurse hauled hard alongside him, palms safe in his leather gauntlets. “This thing pulls like the devil.” The scowl disappeared. “You’ve the strength of three, man.”
Relieved at his leader’s praise, Palmer still held tight, the sodden cord staining with his seeping blood. “That sailor lad. We need to start a search.”
“In these seas?” Fitzurse’s unmoved blue eyes could have been wax.
“But couldn’t we — ” Another wave sluiced over the deck and rocked the ship hard. Pain sparked through Palmer’s hand, and his grip threatened to give.
“Hell’s teeth.” Fitzurse looked toward the rear of the ship. “Le Bret! We need you, sir!”
Richard le Bret’s huge, hulking frame straightened up from his work at the stern. He handed the swinging tiller to two crewmen, who grabbed it between them. “Aye.” He stumbled across the deck and landed next to Fitzurse and Palmer.
“Relieve Sir Palmer,” Fitzurse said to le Bret, “and make that sail secure.”
Le Bret took hold of the sheet in his massive fists.
Fitzurse nodded to Palmer. “Get yourself below, fix up your hand.”
“It won’t hold me back, my lord.” Palmer let go with his good hand, but his injured one stayed stuck to the soaked thick hemp. Bracing himself, he yanked it free without a blink, aware of Fitzurse’s sharp-eyed appraisal.
Bent low to keep his balance, Palmer went to step to the hatch that led below decks. His boot met something soft on the rough wooden planks, and he picked it up. It was the boy’s red wool cap, swept from his head as the wave washed him to his death. The poor wretch had joked to Palmer as they set sail, Me mam made it special, thinks it’ll keep me from catching a chill.
“Good cap.” Le Bret hooked it from his grasp and stuffed it in his own pocket.
Palmer squared up to le Bret, injured hand or no. “But not yours.” He staggered as the cog pitched again. “The lad’s mother should have it.”
Le Bret lowered his face to Palmer’s. A fleshy scar bloated one cheek and thickened the side of his mouth. “Then try and take it.”
Palmer forced his cut right hand into a fist, ready to land a blow.
“Palmer.” Fitzurse rapped out his name. “Stop carrying on like an idiot. Fix yourself. Now.”
Dismissed like a slack-breeched page. Palmer forced a curt nod at Fitzurse’s response. “Yes, my lord.” He made his unsteady way across the deck to the ladder below.
“Don’t fall, Palmer.” Le Bret smirked with the undamaged side of his mouth and busied himself with the sail.
Palmer itched to rub that smile out. Knighted a year early for his battle skill
s, he knew he could easily take le Bret. But he ignored the big lug as he lowered himself to the first rungs, careful to use his good hand. He had no estate, no lands to inherit. He made his living as a fighter, traveling to wherever he’d be paid, selling his hard-won skills for the best price. This mission to Canterbury could make him one of the greatest knights, one of King Henry’s most faithful servants. And with that would come great rewards, huge riches. All rested on how he performed. He would not, could not, risk any of that.
He had to succeed.
♦ ♦ ♦
“I confess that my mind wandered during this morning’s Mass.” Kneeling on her wooden faldstool, Sister Theodosia Bertrand kept her mouth close to the small, barred cell window that opened out onto the back wall of Canterbury Cathedral. Secure across it, the embroidered white linen curtain kept her screened from her confessor, Brother Edward Grim.
“When the holy sacrament was being said by Archbishop Becket himself?” came the monk’s low-voiced reply. “I cannot believe your openness to distraction, Sister. You are nineteen, preparing to take your final vows, yet you are tricked by the devil like a peasant girl daydreaming at her loom.”
Her cheeks warmed at his sharp words. “I am so ashamed of my lack of control, Brother. It should not happen, I know that.”
“Have you more to trouble my spirit with your besieged vocation, or have you cleared your conscience?”
“Not yet, Brother. There is more.”
“Go on.”
Her enclosure meant she had not had sight of a man, nor indeed woman or child, for over two years. But she could picture Brother Edward’s tall imposing presence, his immaculately tonsured black hair. The stern disapproval in his green eyes. She squeezed her clasped hands tight as she sought the right words.
“Brother Edward, I…I had a wicked dream last night. I dreamt I was dancing. At a feast day, the kind of dancing I saw when the lay sisters would take me out visiting the sick, when Mama was at prayer.”
“Mama?”
She crossed herself at the slip. “I mean Sister Amélie.”
“You do. But we do not speak of her or that time.”
“No. Forgive me, Brother.”
“Tell me of this sinful dream of dancing.”
“I was part of a group, with other girls. We had dresses of bright reds and yellows and straw bonnets, decked with flowers. We danced before an audience who clapped and sang.”
A sniff from Brother Edward. “Such brazen displays are most impious.”
“I know, my dear brother. I used to think so too when I saw it. I could hardly believe women could disport themselves so. But there is more.”
“More.”
“In my dream, a man joined the group and danced with me. H-he put his arms around my waist, linked my hands, spun me round. Put his cheek to mine. I made no attempt to stop him.” She paused, summoning her courage to reveal the depths of her repulsive imaginings. “Not even when he went to kiss me. But before he could, I woke. Woke in a frightful state at such a terrible lapse.”
“Oh, Sister.” Brother Edward exhaled a long breath. “It is no mere lapse. You know you have been visited by Satan himself, don’t you?”
“It was a man, not — ”
“Satan is as cunning as he is cowardly, and takes many forms. He waited until you lay in bed and sleep overcame you, waited until you were defenseless and vulnerable. When you were dead to the world, Sister, you were dead to God.”
“But I am alive to God. I am private in here with Him, I am away from all temptation.”
“Indeed you are away from the world. Behind locked doors and surrounded by thick stone walls. So how do you think Satan got his chance to uncurl the vile tentacles of lechery within you?”
She clasped her hands tighter. “I let him.” She dropped her head to the sound of another long breath from Brother Edward, this time of satisfaction.
“Yes, Sister. Let him in with a weak mind, a weak body. A weak soul. Your confirmation as a bride of Christ is still a long way off.”
Theodosia dipped her head to fight down mortified tears, her veil brushing against her cheeks. Its gray cloth might never be replaced by black. “I am so sorry, Brother,” she whispered.
“It’s not I you have to repent to.” His tone softened. “Sister Theodosia, you still have much to do in your quest to achieve holiness. Yes, you have put aside many luxuries. But sleep is also a luxury. To stay awake, to watch and pray, is a weapon against evil that you must master. Is there anything else you need to confess?”
“No, I have cleared my conscience.”
“Good. As you have freed your mind from guilt, so you have armed yourself afresh against the onslaught of sin. For your penance, a full rosary after Vigils.”
She flinched and lowered her forehead to her hands. A further hour of prayer after the midnight office, when her cell would be as cold and still as the grave and her whole body would cry out for rest.
As if reading her thoughts, Brother Edward said, “Hardship, Sister: that is what will bring you to God.” He sniffed again. “And it will be fewer hours for you to be at Lucifer’s pleasure. Now make your act of contrition.”
She began the oft-repeated Latin prayers, and Brother Edward murmured her absolution in a quiet harmony.
“Et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.” The monk finished his blessing and his silhouette rose before the screen. “Good night, Sister. God be with you.” The swish of his robes and his fading footsteps confirmed his departure.
Readying herself for the next recitation of the Divine Office, Theodosia opened her Book of Hours and Psalter on the sloped reading shelf. The words crystallized into instant meaning, but she could draw no comfort from her reading. She still did not have the nobility, the purity, the containment she needed to make her final vows. She stood up from her faldstool, heartsick at her continued weakness.
She tucked her chilled hands into the covering outer sleeves of her black woolen habit and paced the floor of her tiny stone cell. The cell that kept her from the world, that should keep her soul safe. Three short paces brought her to the far wall and her wooden pallet bed. She stared at it with a wave of loathing. For all its hardness under her bones, for all its prickly straw-filled pillow, for all its rough sackcloth cover, when she lay in it and closed her eyes, she might as well be a whore on a silken couch, calling to Lucifer in her wanton dreams. He would stand right here, on this spot, looking down at her as she slept. He was tall — she knew that from her illuminated manuscripts. Tall, with the muscle and hair of an animal across his near-naked body. A face of sharp, pointed features and a ravenous mouth, and feet and hands that twisted into yellow-nailed claws, and the stench of decay as he breathed on her cheek…
“Oh, Saint Christina, help me.” She called aloud for the intercession of her beloved virginal saint. The vision of Satan faded in the chilly air, with only the racing of her pulse to remind her of his presence.
Theodosia turned from the bed to resume her pacing, knees weak. Two long steps to the left wall, where her supper awaited on a simple table: the usual coarse maslin loaf and jug of cold spring water. She kept a frugal diet to suppress her physical desires, but even so, her innards growled at the sight. She turned from it with disgusted resolve. She would not eat tonight, not risk inflaming her lust.
With her remorse a dead weight in her heart, she finally focused her gaze on the large wooden crucifix nailed on the wall opposite. Hanging from it, painted in colors so lifelike He looked alive, was her Savior. Despite her failings, His outstretched arms looked ready to embrace her, His bowed head lowered for her kiss. He had forgiven her, though she did not deserve it. Tears pooled in her eyes, blurred her sight. The words of Aelred of Rievaulx, whose great teachings she studied, echoed through her soul: Touch Him with as much love as you would feel for a man. She loosed her hands from her sleeves and stepped over to the carving as her tears spilled over. She reached her hands out and caressed the stretched sinews of her tortured God with trembling fin
gers. How could she, as His waiting bride, have added to His suffering through her pathetic sinfulness?
Her hands showed pale against her Lord’s bleeding wounds, lilies of purity against His royal roses. But that was a wrongful pride — she should not admire them so. She palmed her eyes dry and turned from her Lord.
Squatting to the ground, she started her daily task of scraping the earth from her cell floor. She rubbed harder and harder at the cold stone until her skin rent. With furious satisfaction, she examined her filthy, damaged palms. Not lilies now. But the ritual was her proof, her reminder, of her true vocation as an anchoress: she would die, be buried, and rot in here. That was her sacred calling.
♦ ♦ ♦
The narrow slats of the ladder that led below decks were slick with rain and seawater. Palmer climbed down with care, as the ship’s bounce and roll could have him off at any minute. The wooden hull juddered in the deep thud of every wave, the planks groaning and squeaking like a creature lived in them.
E. M. Powell Page 1
