E. M. Powell

by The Fifth Knight

“No.” Her whole body tensed to run.

  Benedict’s hand went to her shoulder. “Invisible, remember?” he murmured.

  Shouts came from behind her. She wanted to turn, every inch of her screamed to face the terror, to know when a sword would let fly at Benedict, when hands would grab her. She clutched her roll of clothing tight in both hands.

  He kept his gaze locked on hers. “Now, let’s see.” His voice was normal, steady. He lined up the straw hat and placed it on her head at a deep angle, arranging the ribbons under her chin. “Perhaps?” He bent his head to one side. To a casual observer, he perused his wife’s new bonnet.

  The shouts grew louder, more voices joined. The stallholder and the girls stopped their banter and stared up the street at the source of the noise.

  Benedict glanced around. “They’re almost level.”

  Metal spurs tramped hard, and the familiar rap of wooden pattens echoed with them. Voices raised in question, encouragement, conjecture echoed round her.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw them pass. Feet away. The knights and guards with swords ready. Fitzurse, his face purposeful and eager. Gwendolyn, her skirts held high to allow her swift steps. The woman’s gaze flicked across her and Benedict, but no recognition sparked there. It was clear she eyed the whole crowd, the better to check that everyone noted her passing. High color showed in her cheeks as she strode along.

  The color of triumph, triumph that she’d get the huge reward. Theodosia had to bite back a cry of anger, had to clutch her bundle not to fly at the woman for her betrayal.

  “They’ll be at Gilbert’s in a few minutes.” Benedict’s voice was only for her again. “When I put the hat down, we go.”

  A horrified realization swept over her. “What will Fitzurse do to him?” she whispered.

  “We can’t help him,” said Benedict. “We have to move on.”

  “But we cannot just abandon him.” She cast a furious look up the road as the search party moved along. “Not when he has been betrayed by his own wife, the sinful — ”

  “It’s the rules of war. He’d understand.”

  “Well, I do not follow such rules and I have no such comprehension. He did not abandon us, so we should not abandon him.” She set her shoulders. “He is a furrier, not a knight. I am not moving. We have to try.”

  Benedict swore softly. “Then I’ll go. If I’m not back in a few minutes, you have to leave this place.”

  “I want to come with you.”

  He swore again. “Theodosia, you have to calm yourself. Gilbert was appalled by Becket’s murder. He’s a good man who wants to do good. Your rushing right back into Fitzurse’s clutches won’t help him any. Stay here and look after these.” As he thrust his bundle of clothes at her, an odd half smile flickered on his lips for a moment. He said something as he walked off.

  She stared after him. Foolhardy? What did that mean?

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Alone in his storeroom, Gilbert folded away the pelts that had saved the anchoress’s life, his breath unsteady in his chest with the effort. Well, unsteady with excitement too: he’d had such a time of it.

  He went back out into the shop and wondered if he should reopen. Probably, even though it was getting late on. Gwen would have something to say if he didn’t.

  Pity she hadn’t been there to help the knight and the sister on their way. She was taking an awfully long time to get the food. Not that he’d even try to criticize her for it. Some things weren’t worth the trouble.

  He went to open the wooden shutters. The door crashed open and sent him staggering to one side.

  A huge knight with a scarred face burst in, sword at the ready. He pointed it at Gilbert. “Where are they?”

  Gilbert raised his hands. “I’m sorry, sir knight. I-I don’t know who you mean.”

  “Don’t be such a donkey, Gilbert.”

  The familiar voice cut him to the quick. “Gwen?”

  His wife strode in, along with a tall knight who had the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. Sir Reginald Fitzurse. It had to be, from Sir Palmer’s description. Gilbert looked from him to Gwen, appalled. “What have you done?” he asked.

  “I’ve done what you should have done,” she said. “I’ve told the knights who we have here.” She dug him hard on the arm. “The reward?”

  Gilbert’s strength disappeared from his limbs, and he sagged against the counter. “I have nothing to say.”

  Gwen pointed a triumphant finger at the storeroom. “In there.”

  Fitzurse nodded to the big knight, who yanked open the door.

  He peered in, but his voice rumbled in surprise. “Empty.”

  Fitzurse grasped Gwen’s arm. “If you have been lying to me — ”

  “No!” She was shriller than ever. “I left them here.”

  Fitzurse loosed his hold on her. He leveled his sword at Gilbert’s face, unblinking eyes like sapphire as he looked along the blade. “Where. Are. They.”

  Gilbert waited for the terror, but he felt none. Only a wave of calm. “Gone from here.” His heart beat fast, then slow, in his chest, but he cared not.

  Gwen flew at him, slapping at his face. “You idiot! Tell them! Tell them so I can have my money!”

  Gilbert shook his head. His chest suddenly had no air. Funny, that.

  Fitzurse transferred his gaze to Gwen. “I will give your husband a count of ten, then I will chop his fingers off.”

  “Wait.” Gwen ceased her onslaught. “The woman. In the street.” She turned to Fitzurse. “I saw a woman. In a dress. Exactly the same as mine: chestnut, with a yellow shawl. Down this street. I thought nothing at the time. But it was made special for me.” She wheeled back to Gilbert. “They’re wearing our clothes, aren’t they? Tell Sir Fitzurse. Where are they gone?”

  Gilbert watched her expression change to surprise as he sank to the floor. The stone was cold against his cheek, but so very, very soft.

  Gwen’s shrieks, Fitzurse’s threats, all faded together until there was only silence.

  “Dad-dad?”

  He moved his eyes to the door. There stood his Isobel, in her primrose-yellow linen frock. She waved her special wave, her little fingers making a twinkling star. He scrambled up and ran to her, his old limbs moving as they had as a young man.

  “Izzie!” He grabbed her and swung her into his arms.

  Her hands went tight around his neck, and he buried his nose in her soft, sweet curls.

  “Gilbert?”

  He looked up at the sound of the young woman’s voice. One he had not heard in a long, long time.

  Framed in the light, waiting at the door, was Catherine.

  “It’s time to come home, love,” she said.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Palmer retraced his recent path, every sense alert for a call he’d been seen.

  The furrier’s house and shop came into view. A noisy crowd surged around it, all the shops and stalls abandoned as people tried to see inside.

  Near to Palmer, a couple of cooked-meat stalls stood empty. Beneath the metal cooking griddles, bright orange embers glowed and sputtered from drips of melted fat. Maybe he could set a fire, cause a distraction.

  Hat low over his face, he moved to the back of the crowd, careful to keep out of the line of sight of the shop.

  Rumor and opinion about what might be happening in there buzzed around him.

  “I saw a sword behind the counter earlier, I swear on my mother’s life,” said a fat man.

  A horse-toothed woman jabbered to a group of two or three others. “That knight, the one that killed de Morville, I’ll wager he’s killed in these parts before. Jane’s cousin said the man who murdered her husband had black hair.” They shrieked.

  “I’ll bet Gwen charges them to search the house,” said a large man who held a tankard of ale, much to the mirth of his friends.

  Palmer wanted to shout at them, pummel some sense into their heads. A man could be being tortured, killed in there, and they cared not a whit. He cra
ned his neck to catch a glimpse, catch the slightest sound.

  Nothing. The crowd filled the place with their noise.

  Desperation began to take hold. If he were to act, he’d have to do so blind. And in full view of all here.

  Should he be recognized, Fitzurse’s order would have him torn to shreds by the crowd’s bare hands. “A crown for every piece of him.” It would be only a matter of minutes before Theodosia was found. Then Fitzurse would have her to torture to death at his leisure. The nightmare of her smooth, delicate skin, roasting and melting like the meat on the griddles nearby, flashed before him. But unlike the animals cooked on there, Theodosia would still be alive. He couldn’t do it. Whatever Fitzurse might do to Gilbert, it would be swift. Fitzurse needed his information urgently.

  Gilbert, my man. The bed of heaven to you for your courage. Forgive me for abandoning you. Your death is on my soul. The old battle prayer gave Palmer no comfort. He turned to leave, sick to his heart though he knew it was the right decision.

  “Excuse me, mate.” A stocky man in a shoemaker’s apron bumped against him as he too made his way out of the crowd.

  He fell into step beside Palmer and gave a loud sniff. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “Look at me, blubbing fool.”

  Palmer nodded a response.

  “A disgrace, that’s what it was.” The man continued as if Palmer had replied. “Kicking their way into Gilbert’s home like that, frightening the daylights out of him. I couldn’t hear nothing clear, not with all the yelling. But when he fell down, and him an old man, no one went to help him.” He sniffed richly again.

  “Was he all right?” asked Palmer.

  “Naw. Went down like a tree. Didn’t move. I know a dead man when I sees one. My granddad went the same way.” The man palmed at his watery cheeks. “God save us all from such a fate. Good day, stranger.” He peeled off from Palmer’s side and went to a nearby shop piled with neatly paired boots and shoes.

  Palmer carried on, desperate to hurry and frustrated he couldn’t. Yet his spirit soared for Gilbert, for the valiant, brave man who’d answered his battle prayer from the gates of heaven itself. And with any luck, Saint Peter had readied the knighthood.

  CHAPTER 11

  Theodosia stood near the back of the hat stall, a tall basket filled with peacock feathers shielding her from plain sight of the street. She pretended to examine them with deep interest, lest the stallholder wonder why she stayed for so long. She risked a peep through the bright fronds back up the street. No sign of Benedict. The pattern on the feathers mocked her, for all the world like eyes accusing her of stupid rashness, of quickness of mood. She’d no right to force Benedict’s hand the way she had, to send him back into mortal danger. What if he were being torn apart right now? A terrible end, and one that she had caused. The blue feathers shimmered in her trembling touch. Brother Edward had chastised her over and over for her impetuousness, her inability to keep herself contained. Gwen’s betrayal had brought her own sinful anger forth in a heartbeat, with Benedict paying the price.

  Still no sign. Fitzurse must have him. Her stomach turned over. Then it would be her next. Should she go, go now, while she still had a chance? That’s what Benedict had told her. Her stomach turned harder at her base cowardice. She’d no right to flee her own death if she’d sent Benedict to his.

  There he was. Her knees weakened with relief, to the point she might drop. He made his way through the crowd at a measured pace, calm as the day. But only him. She stepped out from behind the feathers to meet him, damp hands locked on her two packages of their old clothes.

  She looked past him to check if anyone followed. “Gilbert?” she whispered as she handed him his bundle.

  He shook his head. “He’s dead.”

  With a soft gasp, Theodosia crossed herself. “May God have mercy on his poor soul. Who performed this foul deed? Fitzurse?”

  “No, he went with the strain. His heart stopped.”

  She scanned his face, looking for his lie. “You are humoring me.”

  “It’s the truth, I swear,” he said. “One of his neighbors was a witness. I left quick as I could.”

  She crossed herself again. “His virtue was rewarded with his merciful release. He will have even greater reward in the next life, bless his soul.”

  “Bless Gilbert indeed. Thanks to him, we’re still alive.” Palmer took his package of clothes from her. “And his sacrifice will be for nothing if we don’t get away from here.” He offered her his arm.

  She took it, her knees still like water. “I should not have sent you back. It was a decision based in anger. I am sorry.”

  “You didn’t send me; I went.”

  Not exactly. Theodosia prepared to argue but fought it down. Containment. “Then I stand corrected. Where are we going to go?” She kept her voice low, but it mattered little. The crowds were louder and denser than ever as the street ahead opened out into a wide square, surrounded by tall half-timbered inns and shops. Canvas-topped traveling stalls and wagons filled the central area, with people thronging around them.

  “You’re going to tell me,” said Benedict.

  Music echoed in the air: a fast hurdy-gurdy, the pipe of tin whistles.

  She glanced up at him, bewildered. “I don’t understand.”

  “Posewore.”

  She stopped dead to an impatient tut from someone behind her. “What did you say?”

  “You heard.”

  A cheer came from one area, and a man in a jester’s hat appeared on a wobbling ladder, then collapsed back down again to howls of laughter and loud applause.

  Her heart raced in her chest. How could he conjure up a name from her past, a name she’d never breathed to anyone?

  “I’m waiting.” His dark eyes did not leave her face.

  She drew herself up and tightened her hands on her bundle. “Unless you tell me where you heard tell of this place, you can wait until the crack of doom.” She gave him her fiercest look. “For only a spy or a traitor would know.”

  The suspicion of a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, believe me, I heard it from you.”

  She opened her mouth to deny his ridiculous assertion, but he cut across her.

  “Heard it while your mind was addled from the cold. Now spit it out — every moment is a risk.”

  She’d no memory of what she’d said, done, while the cold had gripped her, no way of testing if he told the truth. She had to trust him; she had no choice. “The only time I heard it mentioned was the day Mama left Canterbury.”

  She was ten years old, had been for just over a month. She was still Laeticia, her baptized name, her name of childhood, of innocence. The early-summer sun warmed her arms, her face, as she sat in the bright cloister garden at Canterbury, Mama next to her on a low bench. She had an open manuscript of verses from the Bible on her lap, reading quietly. Mama sat with her lips moving wordlessly as she held her own tiny Book of Hours.

  “Sister Amélie.”

  Laeticia looked to the source of the serious-sounding male voice. A tall, dark-haired man stood in the shade of the cloisters. His deep blue robes were far, far finer than any of those she had seen the monks wear. Next to him stood a black-robed monk, her Brother Edward, though she didn’t know it then.

  “Chancellor Becket.” Mama’s questioning gaze was locked on his.

  He gave a rueful grin. “Not chancellor anymore. Archbishop.”

  Mama gasped. “You mean?”

  He nodded. “Of Canterbury.”

  “Oh, my dear Thomas.” Mama tucked her little book away in her pocket, got to her feet, and hurried to him. She fell before him on her knees and kissed the ring on his left hand with deep reverence.

  His straightly featured face showed some discomfiture. “Please rise, Sister A-Amélie.”

  Laeticia wondered at the little trip he gave over his words.

  Becket nodded in her direction. “We need to talk,” he said to Mama.

  “Of course,
my lord.” Mama raised a warning finger. “Leave us be, Laeticia.”

  Becket turned to the strange monk. “Brother Edward. Why don’t you converse with little Laeticia?”

  “Yes, my lord.” Brother Edward made his way over to her as Mama and Archbishop Becket set off at a slow walk down the east cloister, engaged in low-voiced conversation. Brother Edward took Mama’s place on the bench. He was tall too, not as tall as Becket, with shiny black tonsured hair and eyes as green as the early-summer leaves.

  He gestured to the manuscript. “You like the pictures?”

  She gave a copy of the short sigh Mama would give when her childish ways exasperated her.

  “No?” The monk’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

  “I prefer the words, Brother.”

  “Goodness.” His eyebrows remained up. “A little bird that can read. How remarkable.”

  She curled her bottom lip in. She shouldn’t have prattled so. Mama had always told her it wasn’t very ladylike to read.

  But the monk didn’t seem to mind. He gave a disbelieving frown and shake of his head. “I think you tell me a tale.”

  She couldn’t tell a lie. “I do not, Brother Edward.” Laeticia pointed to the words on the open page and read them to him steadily.

  “My, my.” He gave her an astonished look.

  A muffled cry came from the cloisters. She looked over to see Mama, face in her hands.

  She shoved the book into Brother Edward’s hands and jumped from the seat.

  “Stop, child.”

  She took no notice of the monk, made for the shaded cloister. Briefly blinded from its contrast with the brilliant sunshine, she cried out, “Mama, what’s wrong?” Her vision adjusted to see her mother drop her hands, face deathly pale.

  “Theodosia.” Her tone was sharp. “I told you to leave us be.”

  “I am sorry, my lord.” Brother Edward had followed after and went to take her hand.

  “No, leave her.” Thomas sounded kind as he addressed Mama. “You have to tell her, Amélie. Now.”

  Mama knelt before her and took her by the shoulders. “Thomas is a very important man. He has had to bring me some very important news.”

  “Amélie, you must be brief,” said the important man.