E. M. Powell

by The Fifth Knight

  She waved him past, pulling her woolen cloak tight on her shoulders. All round her, the air buzzed with one topic: the murder and the knight who’d done it.

  “Chewets! Coffin pie!” A huckster stood on a corner with a tray of steaming pastries that made her empty stomach growl. Never mind. Plenty of time for that later.

  Her path clearer, she set off again, scanning the crowds for the uniformed castle guards. She wanted to bring her information right to the horse’s mouth. Otherwise some scoundrel was bound to present her information as his own, and rob her of her fifty crowns for that strumpet and whatever she’d get for the knight. She smirked at the memory of the mail-clad Sir Palmer. He’d be worth more than a stud stallion.

  At last. She spotted the dull-gray conical metal of a castle guard’s helmet. She pushed her way through the knots of people who gawked at stalls like they’d never seen an eel or a set of pins in their lives.

  “Guard.”

  The man turned with reluctance from whomever he spoke to, to see who it was had interrupted so rudely. When his eyes lit on Gwendolyn, they glazed with the utter disinterest of a young man for a middle-aged woman. He returned to his conversation.

  Gwendolyn tapped him sharply on the shoulder.

  The guard stepped back to view her with some ire. “I’m busy, mistress. Very busy.”

  The man to whom he spoke also viewed her with considerable irritation. A knight in full chain mail and immaculate surcoat, he had the noble features of an ancient statue and eyes bluer than the winter sky.

  “Begging your pardon to interrupt,” she said. Something about the knight made her dip in a quick curtsey. “But I have news about Sir Palmer.”

  The guard rolled his eyes. “In your closet too, madam?” He winked at the knight. “That’ll be four so far.”

  The knight didn’t respond to the guard but focused his attention on Gwendolyn. “Go on.”

  “The girl is with him.”

  The knight hissed in a sharp breath.

  “Short, dark-blonde hair. Skinny. Pale. Soaked to the skin when I found her.” Gwendolyn allowed herself a little preen. “But they have duped my blockheaded husband, got him to do their will. They’re still with him at our shop.”

  The knight muttered a set of instructions to the stunned-looking guard. “Now, mistress.” An angelic smile played on his fine lips. “Take us there. With all due haste, if you please.”

  EPISODE 3

  CHAPTER 10

  As Benedict finished his rapid account of the Archbishop’s murder and their pursuit by the murderous knights, Gilbert crossed himself.

  “I can’t believe there’s such evil in the world,” he said. “To think a man so holy would be struck down. In his own church.” His faded eyes met Theodosia’s. “To think a knight like Reginald Fitzurse would inflict such an end on a holy woman.” He shook his head.

  “Now, sir,” said Benedict. “You said you had information that could save our lives?”

  “Aye.” The old man looked from Theodosia to Benedict. “Everyone is looking for you. Word has come from the castle that there’s a price on your heads.”

  “How much?” said Benedict.

  “Fifty crowns for Sister Theodosia. He’s not said she’s a sister, though.”

  She caught her breath. People would hunt her to the ends of the earth for such a huge sum. “I hope you are not tempted by that reward, Benedict.” She gave him a knowing look.

  He flushed, but Gilbert gaped at her, aghast.

  “Sister Theodosia, it’s hardly my place to say it, but how can you make such a cruel jest about Sir Palmer?”

  Benedict raised a hand to him. “Ignore it, Gilbert. I deserve it.”

  “No, you do not, Sir Palmer,” said the furrier. “Sister, if you’d seen the state Sir Palmer was in when I found him in my byre. With you in his arms, him that beside himself with worry, ’twas no wonder I believed you were married.”

  “Gilbert,” said Benedict. “Pay it no mind.”

  But Gilbert carried on. “Half the night tending to you, caring for you, willing you back to life. The look on his face when you were out of danger.”

  Now it was her turn to blush, caught by surprise at the furrier’s account. “It appears I should not have made light of Benedict’s actions.”

  The knight would not meet her eye. “Is the fifty crowns for the sister alive?”

  The old man nodded. “Aye.”

  Alive. Of course, she thought. So Fitzurse could roast her to death for his pleasure. She asked, “You said there is a price on both our heads. What has been said about Benedict?”

  Gilbert paled. “A crown…” He swallowed hard. “For each piece of him.”

  Stifling her cry of disgust, Theodosia looked to Benedict, still embarrassed by her clumsy barb. “That will have come from Fitzurse, won’t it?”

  His face remained composed. “Of course. Having me chopped to mincemeat would bring him great joy.”

  “You can hide here as long as you like.” Gilbert squared his bent shoulders as best he could. “’Tis too late to save the Archbishop’s life, but I can stop any more evil being committed. I’ll not turn you out. Stay here, then leave under cover of darkness, as you’d planned.”

  The knight shook his head. “Make no mistake, I’m truly grateful for your offer.” He cast his eyes up with an oath. “But I don’t think the cover of night will help much now. Folk are out hunting, with us as a wealthy prize. They won’t give up just because the sun sets.” He paced the floor of the shop.

  “Then we hide for longer,” said Theodosia, a deep urge within her for him to agree. “It’s safe here, Gilbert has promised us. We’ll lock the doors, stay in here. No one will know.”

  “Exactly, sir knight,” said Gilbert. “This storeroom will be your sanctuary. For as long as you need it.”

  Benedict frowned as he stopped his pacing and gestured around him. “A sanctuary, until someone decides to search the houses. Anyone comes, there’s no windows in the storeroom, no way out. We’re here for the taking.”

  “I’ll hide you better than that,” said Gilbert. He indicated to his stored piles of skins. “I can make a space in those. No one would think to look.”

  The old man’s tremulous hope touched Theodosia to her soul, though she knew his suggestion was useless. “I think, kind sir, they would,” she said, as gently as she could.

  “Then we’ll have to make a run for it. Darkness will be better, but not much. And we still have to stay hidden till then.” Benedict unsheathed his dagger and turned it over in his palm. His dark eyes met Theodosia’s. “This is all that stands between us and death.”

  She nodded, finding no words with the turmoil in her chest. That he’d held her, a rough man like him, she could understand. But worried for her? Cared for her?

  “Gilbert, what weapons do you have?” said Benedict.

  “There’s me tanner’s knife,” said Gilbert. “You should have that, because your young hands shake less than mine. Though the blade’s not what it was. A bit like me. There’s a mallet on a shelf in the cowshed. Nothing else.”

  “That’s better than nothing,” said Palmer. “Can you fetch them, please? We need to be as ready as we can be.” He stared at his knife, as if willing the short blade to become a sword.

  “Aye, sir knight.” The old man gave a small smile as he went to leave. “Lord knows, I wish I had a sorcerer’s wand and could make you both invisible.”

  “That would be a miracle, sir. Would it not?” Theodosia looked at Benedict.

  The knight stood stock-still and stared at Gilbert. “What did you say?”

  “I said I would make you both invisible.”

  Benedict broke into a broad smile. “You, sir, are a man of the finest intellect.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Gwendolyn trotted along beside the blue-eyed knight, head held high. So many of her neighbors pointed her out, spoke to each other with great excitement as she passed by.

  The blu
e-eyed one, Fitzurse, had been joined by another two. A great hulk of a fellow called le Bret and a loud-voiced, red-bearded one named de Tracy.

  Oh, she was someone now. Walking through the center of Knaresborough, with three high-ranking knights, if you please, not to mind four castle guards.

  Her thoughts went to the reward again. Fifty crowns definite, plus at least a hundred for Palmer. They’d have a horse, fur cloaks. She’d have new silk dresses. She brought a hand to her throat. A pearl necklace.

  “How much further, mistress?” Fitzurse had the refined tones of a real nobleman, tones that dripped with wealth.

  Gwen thrilled to her toes. “Another three alleyways, my lord.”

  “Make ready, men,” said Fitzurse.

  The group drew their swords in one movement.

  Those who watched from the pavements gasped and moved back with somber murmurs.

  Gwen held her head even higher. Oh, she was someone now.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Theodosia stood in the privacy of the storeroom in Gilbert’s shop, a clean embroidered linen shift of Gwen’s strange against her skin. Clumsy in her haste, she laced up the front of a soft wool corset with fingers that shook.

  She scooped up her ruined woolen underclothing from the floor and went out to the shuttered shop. “Do you really think this is going to work?”

  “We’ll soon find out if it doesn’t.” Benedict’s reply came through a set jaw. Bent over a bowl of soapy water on the countertop, he shaved his stubble with rapid strokes of a razor.

  When you are pulled apart in front of me and I am dragged off to Fitzurse. “I do not know how you can make light of this.” Palms damp with fear, she placed her old clothes on the free space on the counter. “What is more, you still have not told me where we are going.”

  Careful footsteps came from the stairwell.

  “I’ll tell you when we’re alone,” said Benedict quickly.

  Gilbert arrived with an armful of clothing. “I’ve found what I can. Here, Sister.”

  Theodosia took the proffered dress from him, its rich red-brown hue like the autumn chestnuts she had seen on the altar at harvest thanksgiving. The finely spun soft wool rested light in her hands. “My goodness. Gwen likes to display finery.” She pulled it over her head.

  “Aye, she does,” said Gilbert. “Dresses always make her happy — the finer, the better.”

  “I’m ready, Gilbert.” Benedict wiped his newly shaven face clean with a cloth, and Gilbert handed him his clothing. The knight went through to the storeroom.

  The front of Gwen’s dress closed by means of supple leather lacing, with the loose material gathered in. Its neckline sat far lower on her chest than Theodosia had ever worn in her life. She touched her exposed skin, the skin where her cross had lain. She was naked twice over now, her body exposed and her cross gone. A thin leather belt, fastened tight, made the dress sit even lower. How could she parade in public like this? She eased the dress up as far as it would go, then adjusted its short sleeves and straightened out the long sleeves of the linen shift beneath.

  Gilbert handed her two tubes of light-green fabric heavily embroidered with cream silk. “Pin-on sleeves,” he said. “All the townswomen have them.”

  “It is a pity there is no pin-on cover for my bodice.” She took them and went to affix them to the dress. The small metal pins slipped in her sweat-coated fingers.

  “Permit me.” Gilbert’s gnarled digits were far more deft than hers.

  With her linen shift covered by the patterned sleeves, she picked up a spotless pale green linen head wrap. She slipped it on and pushed her hair beneath with rapid tucks. “Is it all under? I hate my hair showing.”

  “You look champion, Sister.” The old man busied himself wrapping up Benedict’s mail in his surcoat to make a neat bundle.

  “Gilbert, I need your help or I’ll be here forever.” Benedict emerged from the storeroom, chin lowered in his task. Already clad in dark red woolen hose and knee-length black boots, the knight held the two edges of a brown woolen doublet that he strained to bring together across his linen-covered chest. “I don’t think this will go on.” He looked up, and his eyes lit on Theodosia.

  “Looks quite the lady, doesn’t she?” said Gilbert, with clear satisfaction.

  Benedict’s swift glance traveled down, then up, her body. “You could say that.”

  His appraisal brought a flush to the exposed skin on her chest and neck. “Hopefully not for long.” She went to the counter and folded her skirt and chemise into a tight bundle, fighting down her shame.

  Pants of effort came from Gilbert as he helped the knight with his clothing.

  “We need your help, Lady Theodosia,” said Benedict.

  “Do not mock me.” She knotted off her bundle with a furious twist. “It is not seemly, and certainly not at a time like this.”

  Gilbert moved to one side of Benedict and pulled one edge of the doublet with both hands. “This is going to be a tight fit. I was close on your height when I was young, sir knight, but never as broad. Come on, pull hard. Sister, pray give us a hand.”

  Leaving her tied bundle, Theodosia went over to them. She stopped in front of Benedict and tightened the laces of the doublet, working them up through the eyeholes with swift twists of her fingers.

  “Don’t think I’d want this performance every time I got dressed.” Benedict held his chin up out of the way. “Give me chain mail and a surcoat any day.”

  “Do not speak,” said Theodosia. “It makes it twice as hard to do this up, and we have little time.” She had to stand on tiptoe to reach the top two. When the ends were secure in a double knot, she stepped back as Gilbert loosed his hold with a long breath.

  “Will I do?” Benedict screwed up his face as he shifted in discomfort in the tight doublet.

  “I suppose so. But I am more accustomed to men concealed in the modesty of robes.” Not parading every muscle. She stepped to one side and bent over to put her shoes on. The unwanted flush was back — she’d cut her throat if she thought she could stop it.

  “It’s the fashion, Sister,” said Gilbert. “Most folk would near kill for a well-cut shirt and hose.”

  “Well, more fool them.” Shoes buckled, she straightened up.

  A heavy brown wool, fur-trimmed cloak was now fastened across Benedict’s shoulders. He pulled a loose black velvet cap onto his head with gray-gloved hands. “Come, stand next to me.”

  Theodosia picked up a mustard-colored woolen cloak and placed it over her shoulders, then moved to Benedict’s side. “What do you think?” he asked Gilbert.

  The old man shook his head in disbelief. “Who’d have thought it? The whole town is looking for a knight and a ragged girl. No one is looking for a visiting townsman and his lady wife. Besides, it’s market day; the whole town is full of strangers.” He smiled. “Maybe not all as fine-looking, but certainly as well-dressed.”

  “Then it’s time to go.” Benedict went and picked up the bundles of their old clothing.

  Theodosia took hers from him, mouth dry. This was like being back in Canterbury again. Safe within walls, but forced to go out, to leave the peace of enclosure for a wild, dangerous world.

  She followed Gilbert and Benedict to the door.

  As the old tanner unlocked it, Benedict extended a hand. “Our most grateful thanks to you and your wife, sir. We owe you our lives.”

  Gilbert shook his hand. “’Twas nowt. Anyone would have done the same.” He pulled the door open.

  Bright winter sunlight flooded in, along with the sound of dozens of voices, of footsteps on the street. The voices and footsteps of people who sought her and Benedict, who would claim them for the huge prize in a heartbeat.

  “Godspeed, my friends,” said Gilbert.

  “May God keep you,” whispered Theodosia. “You’re a good, good man.”

  Benedict stepped out into the street and looked up and down. “Come, my dear.” He crooked his free arm for Theodosia to take.
r />   “Is that necessary?” she asked.

  “It’s what real people do,” he said.

  Theodosia stepped out and took his embrace, her bundle clutched in her other hand. The pale sunlight fell sharp on her eyes after so long indoors, and she scarce dared to breathe. Surely someone would guess, someone would shout? But no. Like Benedict had predicted they were invisible. They set off down the street with the same measured pace as the other market shoppers. Underfoot, rubbish cast aside by stallholders and shoppers crunched beneath her shoes and stirred against her skirts.

  Lines of shops and stalls stretched on either side along the street. A shoemaker’s, with the scent of leather on the air and the steady blow of his hammer on the awl. Candle stalls, with rows of fine beeswax tapers hanging high out of reach, and piles of smelly tallow lights in baskets at the front. Dried flowers and lavender at one, the scent not as pure as fresh blooms, but still welcome sweetness from the displayed posies. A heavy-armed woman stood holding out handfuls, others arranged in her apron pocket. “Sweet your air! Sweet your air!”

  Theodosia breathed more easily as they made their way along. It was so easy, so simple. It was working. Praise God. “Now tell me. Where are we going?”

  “It’s not a place — ” He broke off. “Forcurse it.” His gloved hand tightened on her wrist.

  “What are you doing?” She tried to shake him off.

  He propelled her to look at a stall hung with dozens of woven straw bonnets.

  The stallholder was busy with two young women who were making each other shriek with laughter by pulling faces as they tried hats for size.

  “Explain yourself,” she hissed.

  He put down his bundle of clothing and picked up a ribboned hat. Bringing it close to both their faces, he said, “Keep your back to the street. Gilbert’s wife is on her way back.”

  “Then we should say good-bye to her, thank her.”

  Benedict’s dark eyes bored into hers. “For what, precisely? She brings the knights with her.”