E. M. Powell

by The Fifth Knight

  The starlight disappeared once more behind the clouds, and the wind brought a fresh icy blast from the hilltop.

  Theodosia shivered as if the wind came straight from that pagan world, a world without her Savior. “Then we still have no way of knowing what has happened to the Polesworth nuns.”

  The door finally gave beneath Benedict’s powerful shoves. He reached in and removed an armful of straw. “The Abbess’s fake story would keep the monastery from harm. Us too, sending Fitzurse off to London.” He placed the pile on the ground, and Harcos dipped his head to eat.

  “It should never have happened. I led him there, with my fool’s pride.”

  Benedict picked up another pile of straw. “What’s done is done. And the Abbess was ready for him, remember?” Calling to Quercus, he went round the corner of the shelter.

  Theodosia took a dubious look inside. A few heaps of straw backed up against the far wall. No floor had been laid, with the hillside’s whitish rock exposed. “I will not have peace of mind until I know they are all safe,” she said as Benedict returned.

  “Then when we find your Brother Edward, you can ask him to help you with one of his letters.”

  The scent of old animal waste filled her nostrils as she ducked her head below the low lintel to enter the shelter. “If we find him.”

  “We will. And your mother.” Benedict came in behind her and pushed the door closed again. Its swollen wood yielded a squealing challenge as he kicked it flush with the lintel.

  In the gloom of the hut, she fumbled for the pile of prickly straw and lowered herself into it. “God willing.”

  Benedict settled himself next to her and gave a deep yawn. “The dawn’s on its way soon, and we need to set off then.” His hip pressed close to hers as he lay down. “We’ll get a short kip. Small mercies, eh?”

  She ached to lie back too, let the straw take her tired limbs into sleep. But she could not allow it. “You can sleep. I will be staying awake.”

  “What on earth for?”

  “I cannot sleep beside you.”

  “What do you think I’ll do?” His features were a blur in the darkness, but his voice held the edge of one insulted.

  “It would not be your fault. But when you are asleep, you are open to Satan and sin. My body would be against yours, sinful and unchaste of me. The devil would call forth lechery in you as you lie defenseless.”

  “I’ve never heard such cultch.” With a rustle of straw, he sat up beside her. His face close to hers, she could make out his deep frown.

  “I would not expect you to understand. You are not learned in the ways which sin could find you.”

  “No, I’m not. But I know my own actions and how to control them.”

  “You only think you do. That is how Satan collects souls for hell. Brother Edward explained it to me many times.”

  He snorted. “Then explain to me where Satan was the night at Gilbert’s.”

  “You know I cannot remember that night.”

  “Then I’ll tell you. I held you, all night. While you weren’t in your senses. For much of that night I slept. With you in my arms. And believe me, I controlled my actions where many men wouldn’t have.”

  A hard knot gathered in her stomach. “What are you saying?”

  “You were naked.”

  His words stopped her breath. Naked? With a man? With Benedict Palmer?

  “And no, Satan wasn’t there. Only me, holding you to try and will warmth back into your body. I didn’t lay a wrong hand on you.”

  His ignorance knew no bounds. “Of course it was wrong.” She clutched her bent knees as she fought for breath. “How could you? I trusted you; I even told Mother Ursula I trusted you with my life. Now you tell me this?”

  “Faith, I should never have said a word. I got you dressed again before you woke, left your bed. You would’ve been none the wiser.”

  “Then thank the Almighty I have found out. This sin, this terrible breaking of my chastity, has been on my soul for days, and I have not known a thing about it. If anything had happened to me, I would have gone straight to hell.”

  “I don’t know how saving a life is a sin. But you know far more about sin than I do.” The straw crackled as he flung himself onto his back once more. “I’m going to sleep. Wake me if you see anyone with horns and a tail.” He turned over, his back to her, his anger tangible.

  Theodosia remained sitting upright, hands rigid on her bent knees. Unclothed, like a wanton. Presenting an occasion of sin to him. She could not sleep now if she tried. Penance, she had to beg God’s forgiveness for what Benedict had told her. She shuddered at the mortal danger she had been in, danger she’d known nothing about. Benedict Palmer might pride himself on saving her life, but his pride was an empty, foolish one. He could have lost her immortal soul.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “Saint Michael’s.” The monastic post rider pulled his mount to a stop outside the fine Southampton church. “I can’t take you no further, mistress.”

  Amélie Bertrand appraised the church’s high stone tower and gave silent thanks. King Henry himself had granted this chapel, along with three others in this town, to the priory of Saint Denys. This was surely a link to her and her vocation.

  “If you’ll permit me, mistress.” The post rider had dismounted and now awaited by Amélie’s horse, arm outstretched.

  “I thank you.” Amélie unlocked her cramped hands from their grip on the front of the saddle and eased herself from the animal’s back, her limbs stiff from her many undignified hours upon it.

  The post rider steadied her as she dropped to the ground, exclaiming to herself at having to perform such a graceless action. He untied her bag from the saddle as she looked around, the dawn light still harsh and gray. They stood at the side of the church, in a yard edged with a row of stables. Grooms and stable boys and other rough men went about their business but paid her arrival little heed.

  The post rider handed over her bag with a respectful bow. “Good day to you, mistress.” He led the horses away.

  Amélie drew breath to ask him for further directions but contained herself. Brother Edward had said he would find her. She would not seek the judgment of a man with the post over a holy, ordained one. Clasping her bag close to her, she walked back out onto the main street, where she joined a steady stream of people. They all seemed to be going in the same direction. Why, they must all be heading to the church, of course. Even at such an early hour, on such a cold morn. She relaxed. What a godly place indeed it was. Brother Edward would surely be among them.

  But the chattering strangers walked past the high doors of Saint Michael’s as they drew level. She saw for herself the doors were still closed. Mystified, she stayed with the flow of people and turned to the right again, which brought her to the other side of the church, showing her the reason for the crowds.

  A fish market, set out beneath the shadow of the looming church. That was where the folk of the port of Southampton hurried to, hurried to in their droves. The sights and sounds of its business at dawn’s break assailed her senses. Men’s coarse shouts as they unloaded the cram of carts. Raucous cries from hardened women as they squabbled over the price of slick silver fish. Charcoal fires that hissed with steam from boiling pots. A group of mangy dogs that snarled over a discarded rotten fish.

  Yet she had no choice but to thread through the dreadful throng, to try and catch sight of Brother Edward, or he of her.

  While the din was bad enough, the chaos and disorder were worse. She stepped through suspicious-looking puddles, slick and brown with clumps that squelched under her feet. A gap-toothed man, dressed in foul rags and reeking of ale, staggered into her and bumped her hard.

  “Sorry, dolly.” He leered openly at her.

  Amélie shuddered inside, drew her cloak tighter round her, and hurried on. She detested these lay clothes. Without her wimple and veil, her head felt chilly beneath the simple linen wrap. The cloak was a nuisance, slipping this way and that. Worst of a
ll, she felt exposed, nay, almost naked, without her sacred black habit.

  She craned her neck and looked to see if she could catch sight of Brother Edward. Nothing, only hordes of strangers. She took a deep breath but stopped it, revolted by the smells of fish and frying bacon that overwhelmed the fresh dawn air.

  Amélie set her mouth to avoid its turndown in disappointment. She would have to remain here until the church opened its doors. That would give her a refuge in which to wait. The thought that Edward might not come, that she might be amongst these hardened folk as night fell again, panicked her to the core.

  “Mistress.”

  A powerful hand landed on her shoulder.

  She turned with a suppressed cry.

  A tall man stood before her, shrouded in a dark brown cowl and cloak.

  As she parted her lips to challenge his rudeness, he brought both hands to his hood and lowered it to his shoulders.

  She could have wept with relief. “Brother Edward. Oh, thank the Lord.”

  “Sister Amélie.” His green eyes shone with his success at finding her. “God be praised for your safe arrival.”

  “The years have hardly changed you, Brother,” she said, permitting herself a smile of chaste welcome.

  “If only that were the case, Sister. I don’t move as fast as I did. And it’s well I have my tonsure, as I’m sure I’m half bald.”

  She eyed his thick black hair with its few silver threads. “Oh, do not belittle yourself so, not with such a fine head of hair for a man.”

  “Let me take your bag.” Edward gave the nearby crowds a quick perusal. “We are completely anonymous here, which gladdens my soul. I have arranged a couple of rooms. Saint Michael’s has a fine maison-dieu where we can await our sailing to France. It’s this way.” As they made their way out of the market, he paused by a woman selling a hot milky drink. “Two, please.” He handed over a small coin for two steaming cupfuls.

  Amélie held up a finger to him as he proffered one. “It does not have alcohol?”

  He shook his head. “Honey only. I wouldn’t insult you with such baseness, Sister. I remember your virtues well.”

  “Bless you, Brother.” She took the steaming cup and sipped with relish at its wholesomeness.

  “I hope it revives you a little,” he said.

  “Indeed it does,” she said. “The journey with the monastery post horses was swift, for which I was grateful. But I feel my bones are rattled to pieces, as well as my dignity.” The delicious warmth spread through her limbs. “Are you still planning for us to sail the night after next?”

  “Our passages are booked.” He cast her an inquiring glance and lowered his voice. “Have you had any word of Laeticia?”

  “No. I do not know anything more than your letter.” Her voice trembled. “Who knows what may have befallen her by now at the hands of those terrible knights? Robbed of her virtue, her chastity. Carried off by death without a proper confession.” She trembled harder. “Her soul might be crying out to me now from hell, but I cannot hear her.”

  He raised a hand in sympathy. “Sister Amélie, you cannot torture yourself with such grave fears.”

  “But without a confession — ”

  “If she has departed this world, her soul will be receiving its eternal reward in heaven, united with our beloved Thomas.” Edward took her empty cup from her and returned it to the stallholder. “I have been her confessor for many years, and have offered up absolution every day for her since we lost her.”

  Amélie let out a long breath. “Oh, God be praised for you and your care, Brother.”

  “Now you need to come with me so you can rest at the hostel. You must recover your strength for the journey to France.”

  She fell into step beside Edward as they left the market to join a busy street. “It will be hard to rest while I do not know my daughter’s fate.”

  “Then if you cannot rest, use the time to pray.”

  Her voice cracked. “But what should I pray for? I am so afraid for her.”

  His green eyes softened in sympathy. “Pray for her deliverance,” he said. “If God is good, that will mean her safe return to you.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Theodosia began the second of the glorious mysteries, the regular rhythm of her rosary bringing comfort and peace to her soul. The weak light of the winter dawn showed Benedict asleep beside her, his breath measured and even. Soothed by her prayers, her heart softened for the sleeping knight. She should pray for him next, with his soul so far away from the protection of the church. He needed to realize the wrongness of his ways.

  A low murmur came from outside. In this inhospitable place? Prayer abandoned, she strained to listen. The wind moaned from the hilltop fort like a disturbed spirit, as if the ancients questioned her and Benedict’s presence. Was that the sound? An abrupt bleat made her start, then almost laugh aloud. Of course. The sheep that roamed outside. She settled back into her sacred call to Mary.

  There it was again. A voice. Male. Definitely. Kept low. A whinny of recognition from Harcos. Dear God. Fitzurse. Oh, Mother Ursula. What did he do to you?

  She grabbed for Benedict, put her mouth close to his ear. “Wake up, wake up. Fitzurse has found us.”

  He shook off sleep in an instant. “Are you sure?” he whispered.

  “Harcos knows his master,” she whispered back. “Listen.”

  The muted sounds repeated, along with the low rumble that could only be le Bret.

  She tightened her grip. They were stuck here, like beasts at slaughter. The door, wedged shut as it was, would open with a few hard pushes.

  “The roof.” Benedict’s lips formed the words against her temple.

  “How?”

  “Thatch. I’ll cut through and get you out. Then run. Make for the fort. It’s the only cover.”

  A stifled cough from outside brought them both to their feet.

  Benedict stretched to the sagging fibers of the roof. Loose pieces snapped off onto Theodosia’s face and shoulders as he cut furiously and quietly with his dagger.

  The door squealed, sealed for now against whoever gave it a cautious push.

  “They’re coming in, Benedict.”

  “Almost there.”

  Another protest from the door’s damp wood.

  Benedict hauled at the thatch as he slashed harder. It came away in a shower of dust and dried, dead insects. A circle of pale dawn sky appeared above them.

  “Palmer. I know you’re in there.” Fitzurse’s voice. “You make more noise than a herd of swine. You know what I want. Come out if you know what’s good for you.”

  “Quickly.” Benedict crouched to form a step with his hands.

  Theodosia raised her right foot onto them and grasped his shoulders. She looked into his dark eyes, ashamed at her earlier anger. “You save me again.” It sounded so weak.

  “Go.” He boosted her up.

  Her upper body squeezed through the gap in the thatch. She looked down. Their two horses grazed on. Le Bret and Fitzurse crouched before the door. Le Bret’s spiky-haired head crammed against it to listen for sounds within. Fitzurse had his sword drawn and ready. All it would take was for one of them to glance up. Pushing steadily with her arms, she eased herself out. She beckoned to Benedict.

  He gestured for her to run.

  “I’ll count to three, Palmer.” Fitzurse’s voice, so clear in the open air.

  She nodded, her heart torn. She slid across the roof to the side opposite the waiting knights, terrified the small snaps and rustles she made would be heard.

  “One.”

  The thatch moved beneath as Benedict tried to jump up. But there was no one to help him.

  She got to the edge. The ground was double her height below. Rough rocks poked through the thin layer of grass. What if she landed wrong? Broke her leg? Fitzurse and his sword would be on her in a moment.

  “Two.”

  The thatch bounced again. She looked back. Benedict’s hands clawed for purchase at the
opening, then fell back. Theodosia focused back on the ground. She had to do this. If she failed, his selfless bravery would’ve been in vain. She launched herself off. The ground came up to meet her. Sharp stone stung her outstretched hands, and fire shot up one knee. She scrambled to her feet and set off toward the fort at a run, a complaint from her knee with every stride.

  An oath came from Benedict.

  She glanced over her shoulder, and her heart leapt. Benedict had levered himself up through the roof, his chest and shoulders clear.

  “Three!”

  She slowed. He had to make it.

  He was out. He threw himself across the roof and rolled off.

  Le Bret’s roar of murderous intent echoed across the barren slopes as Benedict hit the ground.

  The crash of the door was followed by another shout, this time of surprise.

  Benedict rose and sprinted toward her.

  Fitzurse appeared round the side of the shelter. “They’re here, le Bret!”

  Theodosia turned and ran up the steep hillside, Benedict’s rapid steps behind her.

  “Keep going.” He caught her up and grabbed her hand.

  “We’re done for. We can’t outpace horses.”

  He stumbled on a loose rock. “They won’t use them to chase us on this. Too risky.”

  “You’re on a fool’s errand, Palmer!” said Fitzurse.

  “Not as foolish as yours, Fitzurse.”

  Tendrils of mist draped around the fort’s forbidding silhouette as they raced toward it. With fast, shallow breaths, they neared the top of the slope. Then the ground fell away beneath them in a great dry moat, three times the height of a man and twice as wide. The other side rose even higher.

  Theodosia glanced behind her, Benedict too. Their pursuers closed the gap with every purposeful step.

  “What do we do?” she said.

  “We slide.” He yanked her down with him as she screamed, flat on her back. Wet with dew, the grassy sides were like oil. Bumped and jarred by stones, she landed, winded, at the bottom of the huge ditch.

  Benedict splashed beside her into a slime-filled puddle. He got to his feet at once and pulled her with him in a swift movement. “We have to climb. Now.” He propelled her to the final slope.