A sharp heel to his kneecap almost made him lose his hold. “Curse you, lady.” Hand tight on her mouth, he loosed her arm and grabbed for his knife. He raised it to her line of vision, and she froze. “I’m warning you,” he said, his voice low, “you set about de Morville in the cathedral, but don’t think you can try me in the same way. One move, one shout, and I’ll cut you.” He released her to turn to face him. “Take your clothes off.”
Theodosia shook her head as she kept her terrified gaze on his blade. “I have vowed my chastity to God. By taking it from me, you commit mortal sin.”
“Your chastity?” He snorted. “No wonder you fought me so hard. I’m not interested in your chastity, just your clothes. Take them off.”
Still she trembled. “Then you despoil my modesty, another grave sin.”
“Off.” He gestured with his knife. “And hurry up.”
She loosed the leather belt that held her rosary and slipped it from her waist. “At least let me have my rosary. Please.”
“I said to hurry.” Palmer shook his head as he took the belt from her. The softest of good leather, the dark, shiny beads that hung from it made of jet. Holy folk never changed. Disgusted, he threw the belt onto the clumps of yellowed grass, grinding it underfoot onto the frozen churned mud.
Her black wool dress hung loose about her waist. With a stifled sob, she crossed her arms and began to pull it off over her veiled head, for all the world the same way he pulled off his own surcoat. But where he wore chain mail, she wore a cream wool shift that fitted tight to high, firm breasts and a narrow waist.
His groin tightened. Mouth dry, he took the dress from her. Its heavy weight and fine quality put down his urge. “Take off that black skirt too.”
“It’s my undersk — ”
“Take it.” With his blade steady, he cut down hard through the thick black wool he held, strip by strip, to the sound of her sobs. He watched her disrobe further as he flung the cloth on the ground.
She wore another underskirt — cream, this one. That could stay. He snatched the black undergarment from her. “Leave those pale clothes on.” He shredded the skirt as he spoke.
Theodosia watched him, hands to her face, tears streaming from her eyes.
One last thing remained. “Your veil, Sister.”
“You cannot. It is my life.”
He itched to slap her for her whining. “Forcurse it, it’s cloth.” He dropped the last of her torn skirt to his feet and stepped over to her. “On your knees.” He grasped her shoulder with his free hand and forced her to the frozen ground.
“You take my life.”
“It’s only a head cover, not your skull.” Palmer slashed down with his blade, and she caught back a scream. His expert cut went through the close-fitting white wimple that fitted round her face and covered her hair. One hard pull cast it off with her veil. A white linen band secured her hair cap beneath. He made a quick slash and it fell away too. “See? Not a scratch.”
But she gave him no thanks for his skill, scrabbling across the black earth for her torn clothing and raking it into her arms. A long, low keening broke from her as she clutched it to her chest. “These were my modesty, my wedding dress for Christ.” She rocked in open grief. “My humility. My poverty.”
Her prating riled him to his boots. “Poverty, is it?”
The anger in his voice stopped her noise, and she looked up at him in fear.
“You God-botherers, you’re all the same, with your playacting at being poor,” he said. “Your belt, your beads, your precious habit: most folk could work for a lifetime and still not afford them. Weep and wail over a dress if you like. Folk in the real world save their tears for death and disaster. You should be thanking God you’re still in one piece.”
“Have you gone asleep, Palmer?” Fitzurse appeared around the corner of the stable block.
“No, my lord. Just finishing,” said Palmer, blood still quick from his anger.
Fitzurse stopped in front of the huddled Theodosia. He reached down and roughly raked her short, combed-down hair into dark-blonde tangles around her face. He pushed her from him and she stayed crouched, still hanging on to her holy garments.
“Nicely done, Palmer,” said Fitzurse. “She looks common enough now.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
“Now bring her round; the horses are ready.” Fitzurse left them, calling for his own animal.
Palmer looked down at Theodosia. She clung to her clothes, head bent over them, crying and murmuring into them as if they were a dead child. He gave an impatient click and bent to her.
“No,” she cried out as he yanked the bundle from her and threw it behind him.
He pulled her to her feet and jerked his head toward the yard. “Get moving,” he said. “Our horse is waiting.”
Shoulders down, she went past him, stumbling like she took steps in sleep. With her bowed head, tangled hair, and thin wool clothing, she could be any luckless peasant.
Palmer cared not. What happened to her was no concern of his. His task was to get her to Knaresborough Castle, keep her secure there. And do whatever else Fitzurse asked of him.
***
“We’ll pause here for respite.” Fitzurse’s call came from the front of the group of mounted knights.
“Aye, my lord.” Sir Palmer’s response came loud in Theodosia’s ear, and she flinched.
Seated before him on this wide-backed horse, his sinful hold secure on her, she shared every breath he took, every word he spoke.
Fitzurse had called their halt in the midst of thick, deserted woods. Dead leaves surrounded the bases of bare-branched trees, and not even a bird broke the quiet.
Sir Palmer loosed his unwelcome grip on her waist. He dismounted, as did the other knights, landing with a rustle in the thick leaf cover underfoot.
“That stream’s a sight for sore eyes,” De Tracy’s voice bellowed out, as loud as ever. He made his way over to a quiet brook, icy clear in its mossy bed.
“Horses need it.” The huge le Bret led his animal over to join him.
Sir Palmer held his horse steady and jerked his head for Theodosia to climb off. She dropped awkwardly to the ground, where she struggled to balance on deadened legs.
The knight didn’t acknowledge her difficulty, merely waited for her to straighten.
“We all need it,” came Fitzurse’s clear tone as he and de Morville lined up at the water’s edge too.
Theodosia walked beside Palmer as he led his animal to the brook’s edge.
He nodded at the water. “You need to drink something.”
Theodosia bent low and scooped up a palmful of moss-tasting water. She watched the line of the knights’ reflected faces in the water’s surface while they drank their fill and bantered with each other. Her insides coiled afresh. It was as if they were sin made flesh, as if evil itself had taken bodily forms.
The massive le Bret was like the bear of dead sloth, slow and menacing, with a sword as sharp as claws. The red-bearded one, de Tracy, with his bellow of a voice, always blaspheming, for all the world the lion of arrogance. De Morville, whose castle she was being taken to, his spare frame and flaking, horrid skin a reminder of what death would bring. But his eyes were bright like those of the fox of covetousness, always peering, poking, weighing up what everyone else had. Fitzurse, of the blue, blue eyes. Eyes as dead as a snake’s, and a coldness about him that oozed the poison of evil.
She straightened up and folded her arms across her chest to keep from trembling.
Palmer glanced over at her. “Take some more. You’ll need it.”
She shook her head.
“Please yourself.” He helped himself to more.
And Benedict Palmer, the last one of this horrific menagerie. He would be the unicorn of anger, with his heated temper, his quickness of mood, his angry dismissal of her and her sacred calling.
Her calling. She had hidden herself from the world to keep her soul safe. As her beloved Thomas had said to
her, “You do not carry a brittle container in an unruly mob. You have to keep a precious vial safe.” But she hadn’t kept her soul safe. Her own uncontrolled emotions had swept in, had her run from her safe hiding place to his side. To what end? For him to be hacked to pieces and for her to deliver herself into the hands of those who killed him. She’d taken that vial and shattered it with her own hands, and all through her sinful disobedience.
“Remount, men,” called Fitzurse. “If we press on, we’ll be there before nightfall.”
Theodosia stood by Sir Palmer’s horse, bracing herself for his hand at her leg to boost her up. Here it came again. She grasped for the saddle pommel and pulled herself up. With a swift movement, he was behind her once again, arm tight about her waist.
She offered up yet another confession. Being touched by him, over and over, as she had over these last interminable days brought her sin after repeated sin. Her purity, her holy noble vows, were in shreds from him, as surely as her precious clothes had been from his cruel knife.
“Forward,” said Fitzurse. He led off and the line of mounted horses fell in behind him, one after another. Palmer’s place was in the middle, with two before and two after, as if she were being guarded from harm instead of being delivered to it.
On the horse immediately in front, de Morville looked around. “We’ll soon be at my castle, Palmer.” He gave Palmer a hideous wink. “I’ll have to find you another maid to hold to your crotch.”
“That would be pleasure,” came the quick reply. “This one’s only work. But I thank you.”
Theodosia’s face burned at their base talk.
De Morville grinned. “She’s near the same color as you now. It’s not just her blushes, neither. A few days on horseback and the air has her fine skin as rough as a peasant’s.”
Palmer leaned over her shoulder to look at her face.
She stared resolutely ahead.
“Nah, de Morville. It’s only travel dirt. She’s still indoors-pale.” He settled back.
“Well, she’ll be paler. I have a cell ready for her, and it’s properly underground, not like at Canterbury. Sister, you’ll never see another soul. Or light. Or anything at all. Ever.” He smiled, his gapped teeth green-tinged and revolting.
Her insides turned over.
“See how I look after her, Palmer, and yet she gives me no thanks?”
“I’m sure that will come in time, de Morville,” came the deep-voiced reply behind her. “As lord of Knaresborough, you’re due it.”
“Time is something she’ll have plenty of.” De Morville faced forward again with a coarse laugh.
Theodosia clutched at the saddle pommel for support as de Morville’s words sank into her soul. Take me, dear Lord. Take me. Before this horror comes to pass.
No. She had started to pray for her own death. She clutched still harder at the saddle pommel to contain her anguish, her disbelief.
Satan was surely close by.
CHAPTER 5
“It wobbles like a whore’s titty. That it may taste as good!”
Seated with the other knights in Knaresborough Castle’s great hall, Palmer joined in the roar of laughter at de Tracy’s loud jest.
Dressed in red-and-yellow livery, the sewer and his two grooms carried the quivering blancmange before them on a wide platter. They took careful steps as they made their way from the screened-off kitchen door toward the top table on the raised stone platform.
“Are your whore’s teats usually striped, de Tracy?” Palmer raised his full goblet to the red-bearded knight sat to his right, to more roars and hoots.
The servers climbed the steps to the raised stone platform. At the center of the long table, de Morville sat in his place as lord of Knaresborough, Fitzurse to his right. The servers placed the huge domed pudding before de Morville, and he nodded, then raised his hands and applauded. At his signal, a group of four minstrels struck up in the gallery set high in the wall at the opposite end of the hall.
Along with de Tracy and le Bret up the table beyond Fitzurse, Palmer joined in with the applause. The pudding, with its layers of white, pink, and yellow topped off with a nub of rich pale green, made his mouth water, full as he was.
Though the feast had been for the five knights only, Palmer had never eaten so well in his life. Broiled venison, each thick steak coated in rich gravy and sweetened with cinnamon. Wine-stewed mutton, the tender meat and its yellowed fat melted into the savory sauce. Roasted chicken stuffed with eggs, lard, and spices, its skin crispy and glistening fresh from the spit. Fluffy white bread, the first he’d tasted, easy to chew as a cloud compared with the tough rye bread he was used to. Spiced hot fruits cooked in honey. He stifled a hiccup.
The sewer used a curved spoon to divide the pudding up with swift, neat movements while his assistants laid fresh trenchers and spoons before each of the knights.
Palmer caught the slight tremor in the hand of the younger server and smiled inside. He’d hated this duty as a squire, waiting on lords and knights, carving fine meat with all noble eyes on him, while getting only the scraps and leavings to eat. Worse had been the ladies, many old enough to be his mam, who’d run their glance over him as he bent to serve them. He’d had more than one whisper about his strong fingers and his well-filled breeches.
He took a scoop of pudding and put it on his trencher. The serving lad refilled his goblet as he did so. Palmer helped himself to another mouthful of wine, then tried some of the pudding. Sweet, smooth, creamy, with flavors he didn’t even recognize.
“An excellent end to an excellent meal,” said Fitzurse, helping himself. He raised his eyebrows as he tasted it. “You have the finest of saffron in there, de Morville.”
The finest of saffron. Palmer noted it to himself. He would have to have this in his own dishes when he had his own great hall. He scooped another mouthful and peered at the brightly colored contents of his spoon to see what it looked like.
Fitzurse cleared his throat. “The yellow layer, Palmer. The taste, man. The scent.”
Now they all roared their laughter at Palmer. Heat rose in his face.
“Fire too hot for you, boy?” De Tracy grinned at him, face shiny with drink.
Palmer showed the knight his middle finger and took another deep draught of wine. He wasn’t bothered at the ribbing. Once he had his fortune, he’d employ flocks of servants, same as de Morville. They’d know all about the best herbs. He drank again. The best wine.
“Speaking of fires,” said Fitzurse, “I must compliment you on a magnificent hearth, de Morville. The stone is very fine.”
Palmer looked at the stone fireplace set into the wall halfway down the great room. A man could stand up in it, save for the huge logs that burned in it and sent out waves of heat that warmed the vast space of the hall. He’d have one of those too.
“Is that your motto?” continued Fitzurse. “’Ipsa quidem pretium virtus sibi.’ — Virtue is indeed its own reward?”
Palmer squinted down the hall, sight blurry from wine. There were letters carved in the mantel, but he couldn’t read them in a thousand years. He’d have to pay a clerk too.
“Not mine.” De Morville belched. “Brought it back from one of my campaigns. Some monastery we burnt down in Castile.”
Fitzurse nodded. “Well collected.”
Palmer drained his beaker again. He wouldn’t want an old one, especially not with writing on it. And definitely not church writing. He thought of that nun, that Theodosia, and how she’d nearly foiled him. Well, she hadn’t. She was off in de Morville’s dungeon now, and good riddance. No, he’d buy a new one, have it done specially. He couldn’t wait.
“Clear this.” De Morville didn’t bother to turn round to address the servers who waited for orders, backs to the wall, arms folded behind them.
The men reacted as one to their lord’s demand and set to clearing the dishes and spoons scattered across the stained white linen tablecloth.
“Refill all these goblets before you go,” said d
e Morville to the sewer, “and leave the jugs of drink.”
The two grooms left for the kitchens with stacked plates and dishes. The sewer topped up every drink as ordered, folded the cloth, and gathered it into his arms.
“Now get out. All of you,” said de Morville. “I’ll call if we need anything.”
“Yes, my lord.” The man gave a low bow, and the minstrels drew their tune to a quick, final piping note. They clattered from the gallery as the sewer hurried away to the kitchens.
“Gentlemen, a toast.” Fitzurse rose from his seat, full pewter goblet in hand. “Raise your glasses to our success in the first stage of our mission.”
“I’ll drink to that.” De Morville hit his vessel against Fitzurse’s.
“I’ll drink to owt,” said de Tracy.
A silent le Bret grasped his drink to join the toast, his goblet like a youngling’s in his huge hand.
Palmer raised his own goblet and joined in, adding to the warm fuzziness of the numberless glassfuls he’d drunk.
Fitzurse sat down again. “You have all played a valiant part in our success so far. I’m sure you’ll be tested more before we’re done.”
A rumble of agreement came from the other knights.
“And when will we be done?” said Palmer.
“When I say so,” said Fitzurse with a thin smile.
“And what does our king say?”
The company went silent, the crackle from the fire the only sound.
“I beg your pardon?” said Fitzurse.
“My apologies, my lord. I meant only, do we know what His Grace has said about Archbishop Becket? We were supposed to arrest him, now he’s dead, and instead we have this nun — ”
“My, my, Sir Palmer is a curious soul.” Fitzurse exchanged glances with de Morville. He looked again at Palmer. “Yes, Becket is dead, devil take him for the traitor he was. The anchoress, who is also involved in treachery, is safely locked away.” His voice hardened. “Now, are you impertinent enough to further question me and my actions, or have you finished?”
In spite of the fire, the hair rose on the back of Palmer’s neck. With Fitzurse’s blue gaze still fixed on him, he heard the unmistakable clink of someone loosen a sword from its sheath. “Sorry, my lord, sorry.” Palmer plastered a wide grin on his face and held his glass aloft. “The Knaresborough wine is far too good. It loosens my tongue and makes it wag like a fool.”
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