E. M. Powell

by The Fifth Knight

  The loud rattle of his steel blade on the wooden choir stalls made Theodosia start, bite back a scream. The sound of confessional doors being slammed open joined the din. A glow of light from the left showed Palmer was on his way back up the nave.

  “Check the altars, Palmer. De Morville and de Tracy can deal with the rest.”

  The altars. Like the one she hid beneath. She risked a glance at Edward. A trickle of sweat at his temple showed he shared her terror. A sword thrust through the front of the carved altar would pierce their faces, rupture their eyes.

  As the crashing from the other two continued, Palmer came into her sight across the nave at the altar of Saint Joseph. Candle aloft, he looked behind columns, beneath altar cloths, using his sword to prod and pry.

  “We haven’t got all night, gentlemen,” said Fitzurse. But his gaze was on Becket.

  “I’m almost done, my lord.” Palmer turned and approached the altar of Our Lady.

  They were surely lost. She clamped her jaws more tightly on her fingers to keep her silence.

  He stopped in front of the altar and seemed to look right into Theodosia’s eyes. She lowered her hands as she moved to give herself up, before the steel, the pain. Edward’s warning grip stopped her.

  The knight’s gaze traveled away from her and over the altar. Even holding the light, he could not have seen her through the tiny holes. Despite Fitzurse’s order to use his sword, he continued his perusal of the tableau before him, dark eyes searching for anything out of place, a subtler approach that could yet find them out.

  To her horror, he stepped over the altar rail and approached the statue above them. His tanned skin showed rugged from a life outdoors. Thick, dark hair escaped the hood of his chain mail, and his angled cheekbones were shadowed from lack of shaving. Broad, mud-stained hands, one with a dirty bandage, circled the handle of his sword and the candle. His long, chain-mailed legs were now inches from her and Brother Edward’s faces. It was as if Satan stood over her again, but this was no dream. The stone statue above them rang out as he tested it with his sword. Then, dear God, no. He raised a boot and gave the altar front an almighty kick. She shot back, knocking her head against Edward’s jawbone. The altar front held firm, gave nothing to suggest it could be opened.

  An age passed. The knight must surely be able to hear them breathing.

  Finally, he stepped away and out over the rail. “Nothing, my lord Fitzurse.” He walked back up the aisle to the transept.

  Complete silence fell as Palmer replaced the candle in the transept holder.

  “We have nowt either.” De Tracy too returned to Fitzurse, along with de Morville, who shook his head.

  Even from this distance, Theodosia saw the frustration burn in Fitzurse’s ice-blue eyes.

  “You have no more business here, Fitzurse,” said Becket. “Now go, and take your shameful crew with you.”

  Theodosia’s lungs filled with relief. They were saved.

  “I have plenty business here.” Fitzurse turned his axe and struck Becket across the face with the handle.

  The Archbishop stumbled back with a suppressed cry, hand to his injured cheek.

  Edward recoiled in horror beside her as she stifled her own reaction.

  Fitzurse nodded to le Bret and de Tracy. They stepped in and grabbed Becket by either arm. Dragging him to one of the transept pillars, they pulled him tight against it, with his hands flat and wrists pinned.

  Fitzurse handed his axe to de Morville and drew his sword. “I know you of old, Becket, and I know you are lying. I can’t find the anchoress, I can’t find her mother. But you will tell me.”

  Mama too? Theodosia went rigid.

  Fitzurse brought his face close to Becket. “You will tell me because de Morville and I will remove your fingers, digit by digit. And if you persist in not telling me, I will carry on: your tongue, your eyes, your genitals.”

  Theodosia’s sight shadowed, and she shook her head to keep from collapse. She could not hide while her beloved, blessed Thomas was hacked to pieces for her. She had to act. She went to push the panel open, but Edward’s hand tightened on her shoulder. “Hold, Sister.”

  Becket met Fitzurse’s gaze with no fear. “Do what you will. My body is of no consequence. God wants only my soul.”

  Fitzurse laid the edge of his sword across the joint of Becket’s right thumb, the better to position his blow. “By the time I have finished with you, you will doubt if there is a God.” He raised his sword.

  “Stop it! Leave him be!” Theodosia broke from Edward and flung open the carved door of their hiding place.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Palmer raised his weapon at the sudden female cries. He looked around to see a slightly built young nun scramble over the altar rail of the Lady Chapel, the tall monk called Edward behind her. Where in devildom had they sprung from?

  The monk called out too. “Stop, sirs, I beseech you.”

  “Theodosia, no!” shouted Becket.

  “Hold him, damn you.”

  Palmer turned back at Fitzurse’s order to see Becket break de Tracy’s grip, but de Morville moved in whip-fast with Fitzurse.

  Palmer swiveled as the girl reached the bottom of the steps.

  “Don’t hurt him, for the love of God,” she said.

  “Stop there.” He raised his sword and she halted, one foot on the steps, gray eyes wide on his blade as shouts and oaths came from the struggling group behind him.

  “It’s her,” came Fitzurse’s call. “Take her, Palmer.”

  “You will not.”

  Palmer glanced to his left.

  “But I will.” Brother Edward lunged for him from farther along the wide steps.

  Palmer swung his sword and the monk jerked away, overbalancing onto one hip and hand. The nun sprinted up the steps and ducked past Palmer as he went to grab her. Forcurse her.

  She flung herself at de Morville, who still tried to pin Becket down. She pulled at the knight’s bony forearm with both hands. “Let him go. You must, you must.”

  “Off, whore.” De Morville kneed her in the stomach, but she kept her hold.

  Palmer was on her in three strides. “Enough.” He flung his forearm across her throat and lifted his sword against her neck. She shrieked and let go of de Morville.

  “Please, have mercy on us.” She choked her words out and raised both arms in a plea as he flexed his grip tight round her neck.

  Becket stopped writhing in the knights’ hold and glared at Palmer. “Leave her be, you churl. I command you.”

  “I’m afraid Palmer’s not yours to command,” said Fitzurse.

  Palmer had to will himself not to respond to Becket. But he relaxed his grip enough to let the nun breathe as he pulled her well back from the group. He kept his sword raised.

  Fitzurse stepped away from Becket, with a quick glance to make sure the others held him firm against the pillar once more. He observed Palmer’s captive with a thin smile. “I do believe we’ve found one.” He reached out and slapped Becket hard across the face, making him gasp in pain. “Where is the other one?”

  “There is no other, Fitzurse.”

  Fitzurse raised his sword over Becket’s hand once more. “Dear me. Back to where we started.”

  “Stop it, I beg you,” said the nun.

  Palmer clamped the girl hard to him again, in case she made another attempt at Becket’s captors.

  She tugged at his forearm as she fought for breath. “You must believe him. As God is my witness, there is only me here, I swear to you.”

  With a wary eye on Palmer’s sword, Brother Edward hovered at the edge of the circle, face drawn in torment. “It’s true what Sister Theodosia says. I beg you also, sir knight. Leave his lordship be. There is no one else to be found. No one.”

  “Then our work here is almost done.” Fitzurse stepped away from Becket, sword by his hip once more. “Palmer?”

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “Take the girl outside and put her in the cart.”
>
  “No.” The nun backheeled Palmer’s legs, clawed at his arm as he started to haul her across the transept.

  “Unhand me!” Becket struggled like a man possessed against the three who held him, pulling de Tracy and de Morville near off their feet and making le Bret grunt with effort. He dragged his head from the pillar and looked directly at Palmer. “Let her go, sir. Don’t let Reginald Fitzurse make you a pander.”

  Fitzurse’s nostrils pinched in fury at the insult. “Wait, Palmer. I’d like her to see something.” Fitzurse moved back to Becket as Palmer halted. “Leave him.” He nodded to his other three knights. Surprise writ on their faces, they loosed their hold on Becket. The Archbishop stepped away from the pillar to face Fitzurse.

  “Oh, thank you, sweet Jesus.” With her murmured prayer, the nun sagged against Palmer in relief.

  Fitzurse pointed a finger at Becket and jabbed him hard in the chest. “Kneel before me.”

  The nun gasped, echoed by the watching Edward.

  Becket regarded him with rage. “Do not dare to touch me, you who owes me faith and obedience. Leave this place, you and your fellow fools.”

  Fitzurse’s punch was a blur, and Becket was on his knees to a scream from the girl. “I don’t owe faith or obedience to you,” said Fitzurse. “Only to the monarch.” He pulled his sword up and swung.

  Palmer flung his other arm across the girl’s face as he saw the blow’s arc.

  Becket ducked, but Fitzurse’s blade caught him at his crown and crunched through the bone. A shard of Becket’s skull flew off and splintered on the stone floor to a roar from the knights.

  “Help us! The Archbishop is being murdered!” Edward rushed forward as Fitzurse gave the sprawled Becket another blow to his head that glanced off and caught the monk on one arm, sending him yelling against a pillar.

  The girl in Palmer’s hold screamed and screamed as if she voiced a banshee. He kept his hold rigid; she couldn’t see such sights.

  “He’s up, Lord Fitzurse,” said le Bret, as the mortally wounded Becket attempted to rise, watery blood soaking his face and neck.

  “In the name of Jesus and in defense of the church, I am willing to die,” gasped Becket. “But leave the girl alone.”

  “Willing or not, you’re dead.” Fitzurse’s breath too came fast and deep. “Finish him, le Bret.”

  Le Bret took his sword grip in both hands. Blade pointed down, he lifted his weapon high, then brought it down on Becket’s skull. His savage thrust went clear through to the floor beneath, smashing the Archbishop’s skull in two and shattering his sword.

  Palmer’s captive’s screams turned to wild sobs, and she scratched helplessly at his hands to try and loose his hold.

  Edward cowered by the pillar, face pallid, fist to his mouth.

  “Devil take it.” Le Bret cast the ruined handle aside.

  “Don’t know your own strength.” De Morville grinned and raised his sword to a cowering Edward.

  A chorus of shouts built from outside.

  “Leave him. The other monks must have summoned help,” said Fitzurse. “We need to make our escape.” He looked over at Palmer. “But first, let Sister Theodosia see what happens to those who cross me.”

  Palmer reluctantly lowered his arm from in front of the anchoress’s eyes, steeling himself for a fresh struggle. But she stopped her cries, went completely still. He felt her give a huge gulp and knew she fought her vomit.

  Fitzurse watched her face intently. Then, still watching, he placed a boot on Becket’s mangled head, crushing out the whiteness of the brains to mix with the growing puddle of the Archbishop’s dark-red blood.

  Still she didn’t make a sound.

  With a shrug, Fitzurse gestured to the others. “Away, knights. Becket will not get up again.” He looked at Palmer. “Bring the girl.” He set off toward the transept steps as the others acted on his command.

  She remained fixed on the sight of Becket on the altar but started to pull against Palmer once more as he hauled her to the steps. A long, low moan escaped her. “No. No. No.” Her gaze was locked on the floor as she began to cry, her body racked with silent sobs.

  He followed her line of sight and saw Fitzurse’s boot had left a trail of bloody footprints down the nave. “Do as you’re bid,” said Palmer. “And be thankful it’s not your blood spilt.”

  He hurried her down the darkened nave, her struggles feeble against his tight grip.

  “Murderers!” The venomous cry came from the transept. Palmer looked back to see the injured Brother Edward Grim kneeling beside the dead Archbishop in the flickering candlelight.

  The monk leveled an accusatory finger as le Bret wrenched open the front door of the cathedral and led the way out into the cold, black night.

  Edward’s voice followed them. “I bear witness to this savagery and to your abduction of the Church’s holy anchoress. Mark my words, your sins will find you out.”

  The slain Archbishop, the sobbing girl he held prisoner, the monk’s shouted warning. This mission was not a noble one, Palmer didn’t need his battle sense to tell him that. But, noble or not, he would see it through to its end. His payment was on completion, and complete it he would.

  CHAPTER 4

  Palmer sat in the back of the cart, the thin roof and sides of stained tarpaulin swaying in its steady progress through the night. Dim light shone from the guide lamp hung over the driver’s seat. Le Bret sat up there, hunched forward in his job of keeping them on the icy roadway. The wooden wheels crunched and scraped on the frost-hardened mud road below.

  Opposite Palmer, his prisoner huddled away from him on the rough floor planks, head down over her bent knees. His prisoner? Faith, she was a young nun, a small bird of a girl. She didn’t need guarding. He could be sat up next to le Bret, or better still on horseback like the others. Not cooped up like a dunderpate. But Fitzurse had ordered him in here as they’d made their escape from Canterbury, with a look that let no argument.

  He couldn’t even use his sword; he’d not got the room in the tight space. He’d pulled his dagger from his belt and held that ready instead. It was likely his own fault he was in here — Fitzurse’s punishment for his poor work in the cathedral. The altar of Our Lady, where the nun and that monk had hid, touching distance away from him. And he’d not found them. If it hadn’t been for this girl and her foolhardy attempt to save Becket, they might have remained hidden. Fitzurse’s mission, whatever that might be turning out to be, could have failed, and the money not been paid out. A quiver of anger passed through him. He, Palmer, would have stayed penniless. And it would have been her fault.

  He watched as the nun moved her black rosary beads through her cut and dirty fingers, head bent over her joined hands. Where are the whore and her bitch? Fitzurse had asked Becket. Well, it looked like they had the bitch. But at what cost? The King had ordered Becket’s arrest, wanted the Archbishop to account for his meddling. Not have his head taken off his shoulders. Palmer tapped his dagger blade against his knee. No mind. He wasn’t paid to make sense of things; he was paid to do as he was told.

  A set of hooves sounded loud beside the cart, and the tarpaulin lifted partway to reveal Fitzurse astride his stallion.

  The girl sat bolt upright, face pale in terror.

  “Is Sister Theodosia giving any trouble, Palmer?”

  “None, my lord,” said Palmer.

  “Good.” Fitzurse rapped on the wooden side of the cart. “We have no further need of this. It slows us too much. Even at a hard ride, it’s five days to de Morville’s castle in Knaresborough. De Tracy has ridden ahead to an inn to secure a couple of fresh horses. You’ll ride with Palmer, missy.” He dropped the tarp again.

  Theodosia stared set-faced at Palmer.

  “That’s me.” He pointed at his chest. “Sir Benedict Palmer.”

  Her expression didn’t alter.

  “And don’t think that you can struggle and jump off. It’s a long way down from the back of an animal. You’ll likely break
your neck. You hear me?”

  “Yes.”

  The look she gave him matched the one she had given Fitzurse. Good.

  The cart ground to a halt, the unseen horses blowing long snorts in relief. Le Bret looked back from the driver’s seat as he secured the brake. “Get her out the back, Palmer.”

  Palmer undid the tight-laced opening in the canvas at the rear of their cart. “This way.”

  Her hands trembled as she tidied her rosary onto a loop on her belt.

  Sticking his dagger back in his belt, he climbed out first, his breath cloudy in the frozen air. The hour would be close on the middle of the night but was well lit by the still-large Yule moon. The low-roofed inn lay silent and dark. The only sign of life was a yawning groom in the cobbled yard at the front, holding a couple of saddled horses on a short rein. De Tracy stood checking them over, his ruddy beard and hair lit by the lantern he held.

  As Fitzurse led his stallion to a pile of fresh hay, Palmer turned back to the cart.

  Theodosia climbed out and down with the aid of the wooden step. She scanned the yard without looking at him, and he recognized the set of an animal about to bolt.

  He circled her right wrist with one hand, and she stiffened under his hold.

  “Palmer.”

  He glanced around to see Fitzurse leave his horse to its repast and walk over to them.

  Fitzurse continued. “A task for you while we get our mounts refreshed. News of Becket will travel fast, and I don’t want us hindered on our way.” He pointed at Theodosia. “With her appearance, the girl could draw attention to us. Take her round the back of the stable block and get rid of her veil and habit. Do what else you like — I don’t care.” Fitzurse returned to his horse’s side.

  Her sharp intake of breath gave away her intent to call to the groom for help.

  “No, you don’t.” Palmer yanked her to him and choked off her cry. His bandaged hand stifled her screams as he dragged her to where Fitzurse had ordered.

  The back of the stable block had no windows. A couple of piles of firewood and the inn’s frozen, heaped midden hid them from sight. She kicked harder at his shins through her long skirts, struggled to break from him.