E. M. Powell

by The Fifth Knight

  He staggered toward the stairs. It was all his: his castle, his dungeon, his prisoner. He could do what he bloody well liked.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The door that opened out from the deserted corridor squeaked loud on rusty hinges as Sir Palmer pushed it open, revealing a covered porch. Despite the dirty cloth that muffled her face and neck, Theodosia’s flesh pimpled with cold in the frigid night air.

  She looked across the courtyard. Mercifully empty though it was, the high walls surrounding it linked even higher towers of forbidding yellowed stone, enclosing it completely. The main doors stood at the opposite end, the dark, metal-studded wood three times the height of Sir Palmer and shut tight.

  “How can we get out this way?” she asked, voice low.

  Palmer pointed to the gates. “Like I said. Out the front door.” He reached a long arm around her waist and tugged her to him, hip to hip.

  “Do not hold me so.” Her sharp whisper had no effect, and she squirmed. “What you do is sinful.”

  He held her tight. “It might be shameful for a nun,” he said, “but not for a whore.”

  Now she understood his actions, the lecherous caitiff. “You had no plan at all. That you would trick me so for my virtue.” She pulled against him, to no avail. “Then I would rather die.”

  Palmer hauled her round to face him. “Not to be a whore, Sister. Only to act like one. For the next few minutes.” He gripped her arms tight. “And we’ve no more time for questions. You do as I say. Or I’ll leave you here.”

  His glower told her he meant it.

  She gave a stiff nod.

  He pulled her to his side again and descended the steps from the porch. They set off across the icy courtyard, the knight’s boots echoing against the stone flags.

  “Come on, wench.” He said it with full voice.

  He made such a noise, he’d wake the whole castle. Theodosia pulled at his surcoat. “Quiet!” she hissed. “Someone will hear you.”

  Instead, he took a hefty stagger almost to one knee and pulled her down with him. “Bollocks to this ice.”

  As she struggled to keep her foothold, a voice rang out from the shadows by the main gate.

  “Who’s there? Show yourselves in the name of de Morville!”

  The call shot through her soul. Palmer had roused the guards.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “Guard! Open up the bloody door.” Sir Hugh de Morville shouted his order as he rounded the last corner of the passageway that led to the dungeon.

  He stopped in surprise as the door came into view. All in order, closed tight. But no one stood watch. The torch flickered on an empty post.

  De Morville made the last few steps and tried the door. Locked, of course. He swore and spat richly on the damp floor. Where could the knave be? Doubtless sat on the privy, or other such time wasting. Worse, the man might be curled up in a warm corner, using the deserted castle and late hour to sleep off his watch.

  Wherever he was, it meant de Morville’s pleasure was thwarted, leastways for the time being. He dealt the door a hefty kick. “Raise yourself, Sister. Once I have the key, you’ll be at my bidding.”

  A muffled voice came from within.

  De Morville halted his next kick in surprise. That were no maid’s voice. He put his right ear to the door. “What are you up to, you mangy dog? Unlock this bloody door and come out. You’ve no business in there.”

  “I can’t, sir. He’s locked me in, took the key. Chained me up too. Can hardly breathe.”

  “Who has?”

  “One of the knights, sir. He went with the prisoner.”

  “Which bastard knight?”

  “Called himself Palmer, sir.”

  Rage sobered de Morville as quick as a bucket of icy water over his head. “I knew it.” He kicked the door so hard he near broke his foot, but the wood remained solid. “You fool, soldier. I’ll deal with you later.”

  “Very sorry, sir.”

  “Don’t worry. You will be. Sorrier than a gelded goat if I have anything to do with it.” De Morville gave the door the punch he wanted to give to this oaf’s face.

  Then he turned and sprinted back toward the stairwell.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “Show ourselves? Have you no eyes, man?” Sir Palmer slurred his words as he lurched toward the gate.

  Theodosia staggered too, half pulled off her feet by the knight’s tight hold on her waist.

  The thickly clothed sentry looked askance at them as they approached and drew his sword in readiness. “Stop where you are.”

  Theodosia tried to respond to the clipped command, but Sir Palmer paid no heed. “I’ll thank you to have some manners, soldier.”

  “Stop. Now.” The sentry held his sword in readiness.

  Theodosia grasped at Palmer’s arm as hard as she could. They would be cut down.

  The knight carried on, halting only a couple of steps away from de Morville’s man and his sharp metal blade.

  Her heart pounded in her chest, and she feared her knees would give way.

  “I’ll thank you to open that gate, soldier,” said Palmer.

  The sentry’s unimpressed look swept over them both. She could strike Palmer for his foolishness. Had he stayed quiet, they might have had a chance.

  “And I’ll thank you to explain yourself, you insolent swillbelly.” The sentry gave a loud sniff. “I can smell the drink from here. Sir de Morville will want to know how you and your trollop got hold of his supplies.”

  Palmer drew himself up and took a step toward the sentry. “I am Sir Benedict Palmer, returned with Sir Hugh from his recent mission. He poured his supplies into my glass with his own hand. How does that make me a swillbelly?”

  The sentry paled and lowered his weapon. “My lord, apologies — ”

  Palmer cut him off with a wave of his free hand. “Enough of your blubbing. I care not. And you were right about one thing.” He made a clumsy lunge at Theodosia’s chest, crushing her lips with his. She held in her cry of disgust. He broke from her with a coarse laugh and addressed the sentry. “You’re right, she is a trollop. A bit dirty, but very willing.”

  He jabbed his unseen fingers against her ribs to prompt her enthusiastic nod.

  “So willing that she wants me to meet her friends at a bawdy house in the town. Are you going to keep me from my pleasure, soldier?”

  “No indeed, Sir Palmer.” The sentry turned and hurried to the massive main gate, where he busied himself raising the heavy wooden bars.

  Palmer glanced down at her. “Keep it up,” he whispered through clenched teeth.

  Stomach turning at her own base actions, she flung a hand to the knight’s neck and stroked it.

  The gate opened with a deep creak, the gap enough to allow them through. “As you required, Sir Palmer.”

  “Good man.” Palmer leaned Theodosia against him and made his way to the gate.

  “Good night to you, sir. What’s left of it.” The sentry gave a brief salute as they passed through.

  The road ahead dipped steeply toward the straggle of the town of Knaresborough lining the river along the narrow valley.

  “Carry on with our slow stagger,” came Palmer’s low murmur. “And once the gate’s closed, we run.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The sentry slid the bolts in place and made the gates secure once more. It was tricky work in his thick leather gloves, but he wouldn’t remove them for a gallon of hippocras, not on a night as cold as this. At least his work on the gate had made his blood move round a bit more. Guard duty in winter could lead to black fingers and toes if you weren’t careful.

  He stamped his feet a couple of times for good measure.

  Across the courtyard, the door from the porch at the bottom of the main keep flew open. A flushed-looking de Morville dashed out.

  The sentry snapped to attention as his lord ran over to him, slipping and sliding on the icy stones.

  “Have you seen Palmer and the prisoner?” said de Morville.
/>   “I’ve seen Sir Palmer. But he had no prisoner, my lord. Only a harlot.”

  “A woman?”

  “Yes, my lord. I allowed them passage to the town. He wanted to go to her brothel.”

  “Fool!”

  The sentry ducked from his lord’s furious swipe. “I’m sorry, my lord. He said he’d been feasting with you tonight. He had great authority.”

  “And you have a tiny helping of sense.”

  “I will get the gates open at once, my lord. We can give chase — they must only be at the bottom of the hill.”

  “Forget that.” De Morville heeled round to return to the castle. “I’ll take the sally port. Going down the tunnel will give me the surprise of being ahead of them, when they expect me to come after.” He held out a hand. “Give me your sword.”

  The sentry complied. “Please excuse my foolishness, my lord. Whatever you want, I will do it to put it right.”

  “Then take yourself up to wake Lord Fitzurse. Tell him to follow me down the tunnel. Armed.”

  The sentry breathed a sigh of relief as de Morville hurried off and he hastened behind. His apology had been accepted.

  De Morville paused and gave the sentry a sour look. “And on the morrow, you’ll get your flogging. Six for each prisoner and six for your stupidity.”

  “Yes, my lord.” His bowels knotted tight but cramped at his lord’s next words.

  “And if I don’t find them, I’ll hang you.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Palmer’s breath clouded before his face as he and Theodosia ran through the unlit narrow streets of Knaresborough, his arm locked tight through hers to keep her speed up. Dark houses and shuttered shops meant no one would see them pass but might easily hear them. The brown, smooth ice that coated the mud road snapped and cracked under his boots, her shoes.

  Theodosia’s feet went from under her, but he blocked her fall and pulled her on.

  “Hold, sir knight.” She panted so hard she could scarce speak. “It feels like a knife in my side.”

  “That’ll pass. We can’t stop.” He hurried her along the slippery surface. “Keep going, and faster.”

  Her brow creased as she fought for breath.

  He knew how much it hurt when you couldn’t get air in your lungs and still had to run. Yet she tried to match him, even with her shorter legs. “That’s it.” He took more of her weight to help her.

  They neared a row of wretched cottages, the wattle-and-daub walls splintered and crumbling. A dog barked as they passed, scrabbling against a warped door.

  Theodosia clutched at him hard. “What if it gets out?”

  “Keep moving.” He forced her past.

  The animal fell quiet and she relaxed her hold.

  “We’ve nothing to defend ourselves with. Nothing.” Her gray eyes shone with fear.

  “I’ve got my dagger.”

  “There was an axe in the cell.” Her look judged him as a fool.

  “And what would the sentry have done if I’d come into the courtyard carrying a weapon with the Knaresborough crest?” He fixed her with a scathing glance. “Leave the fighting to me, Sister.”

  Beneath the filth on her face, the flush rose at her mistake. “With pleasure.” She gasped. “What’s that noise?”

  Palmer paused to listen out. The ceaseless rumble of turbulent water. Knaresborough’s river, the Nidd. “Our guide from this place.” He headed down the steeply sloped road toward the loudening roar of the river, Theodosia still in his grasp.

  As the land flattened out, he released her, scanning for the best route. The buildings and streets petered out to a broad swath of thick shrubs, patches of grass, and a few moisture-loving willows. It might be a waste of land, but one look at the river beyond told him only a fool would build a house this low down.

  Palmer signaled to Theodosia. “We need to find the towpath. But mind, the river’s very high.”

  She followed him with a wordless nod.

  As they drew close, the noise grew. The wide Nidd battered against the frozen banks, churning the brown, soil-filled water to yellow foam. The recent rainstorms had swollen it right up to the top of its normal channel, threatening a breach. Its fierce current bit out chunks of the riverbank, carrying more soil, weeds, and pieces of grass with it. A few hundred paces downstream, it thundered over a high natural weir, throwing up spray and more foam.

  “At least no one will hear us now,” said Palmer. “Keep behind me on the towpath and stay away from the edge. And while we need to make haste, don’t run.”

  “But we have to run — you made me on those icy streets.”

  “It’s too dangerous on here.”

  “Then if it’s perilous, we should find another way.”

  The axe. His route. His judgment. His jaw clenched at her picking. “I don’t know this countryside. If we strike out, we’ll get lost. We only have a couple of hours till the alarm is raised.” Palmer pointed ahead, past the weir. “We’ll track the river’s course till we come to another town.” His boot slipped in a patch of mud made liquid by river water, and he fought for balance. “Watch this bit.” He looked back to check she obeyed.

  She trod with short rapid steps, focused on the path. “I don’t see how a town will help us. We could hide better in the woods.”

  Questioning me again. “There’ll either be a church, a monastery, or folk will know of one. Once we find it, we’re safe. I can state my case for ransom. It won’t take them long to arrange payment. Then you and I are done.” Thank the Almighty.

  “I suppose I owe you thanks. Though your methods are not honorable.” She inclined her head stiffly.

  Palmer ignored the goad. “I don’t need your thanks, only your value.” He set off again, taking long strides on the drier patches, shorter ones where mud and water pooled.

  Then stopped dead as a familiar voice floated over the thrum of the river.

  “Goodness, what have we here?”

  His gaze shot to the opposite bank.

  Fitzurse stood there, drawn sword in hand. “I do believe that’s my prisoner, Palmer. How did she get there?” He didn’t sound angry, merely curious. But his curiosity was backed up by a ready broadsword.

  Palmer glanced back at Theodosia. She stood rooted to the spot in terror. He took a half step to shield her from a thrown weapon.

  “I’m waiting, Palmer.”

  He had nothing. No weapon. No defense. All he had was the truth. “I released her, Fitzurse.”

  “Indeed. May I ask why?”

  “I overheard your conversation. With de Morville.”

  “How did you do that, Palmer?” Again, the tone even, measured.

  Again, he had nothing. “Earlier tonight, I went to the minstrel gallery by mistake. I heard what you said. About not being sure of me, testing me. About the Brazen Bull. I freed her because I couldn’t do that.”

  “He will kill us both now.” Theodosia’s anguished whisper came to his left ear, but he didn’t respond. Fitzurse had one sword, and he couldn’t get them both, not from this distance across the rough river.

  “Then we were right to question you, were we not?” said Fitzurse, eyebrows raised. “You ran away, like a yellow-breeched knave. Not able to see a job through.”

  Palmer boiled inside, but he kept it down. He had a chance at getting a weapon. “Not a bit of it. I’m going to ransom her back to the church. I’ll still be paid.” He adjusted his stance, ready to pull Theodosia to the ground when Fitzurse’s sword flew.

  Fitzurse shook his head slowly, then, to Palmer’s astonishment, lowered his sword. “Well done, boy. You’ve passed the test.”

  “Test? Your test for me was to roast the anchoress alive.”

  “I’d already seen your strength, saw it on the ship. But I had to ask questions about what you carried between your ears. You missed the girl and the monk in the cathedral, Palmer.”

  Another whisper. “Don’t listen to him.”

  Palmer opened his mouth to respond, then closed
it again. Fitzurse was right.

  Fitzurse nodded. “There was also the question of your mettle. You didn’t land a single blow on Becket.”

  “I didn’t — ”

  “No, you didn’t.” Fitzurse shook his head. “A quest ordered by the monarch allows no room for doubt, Palmer.”

  “Stop filling his head with your poison!”

  Palmer started at Theodosia’s sudden cry above the river’s noise.

  Fitzurse merely smiled. “Don’t take on, Sister.” He didn’t move his gaze from Palmer. “Hence your test. De Morville and I invented a terrible fate for the anchoress. Planned for you to hear of it on the morrow, see how you’d react. As it happened, you came clattering into the gallery and gave us a ready-made opportunity.” Fitzurse gave his clipped laugh. “We were obviously convincing. I must say, you acted far faster, far more effectively, than we thought possible. And making sure you’d be paid as well? You’ll go far, Benedict Palmer.”

  “Th-thank you, my lord.” All wasn’t lost. In fact, nothing was. He’d been tested and found true.

  Another cry. “You lie!”

  Fitzurse brought his sword across his body and slowly sheathed it, shaking his head. “It’s a royal mission, my girl. Why would I lie?”

  A wave of relief swept through Palmer. “What he says is true, Sister. And he’s withdrawn his weapon. We have our proof.”

  “Palmer!” Fitzurse reached beneath his surcoat and pulled out a bulging leather pouch. “Here’s your reward. I know waiting for it plagues you.” He threw it high across the water, and Palmer caught it in one hand with a loud clink.

  He unknotted the looped tie at the top and looked inside to see the unmistakable glow of gold. He opened it up fully. Fabulous yellow discs, too many to count as they lay atop each other against the red silk lining. A fortune. Forever. He raised his gaze to see a smiling Fitzurse. “You’re most generous, my lord Fitzurse.”

  “Half of it is for the girl. She can take it back to Canterbury. Use it to build a shrine to Becket, or whatever the monks want to do with it,” said Fitzurse. “I truly regret frightening her, but it had to be done. We only have to ask her a few questions. If she knows nothing, we’ll release her.”