E. M. Powell

by The Fifth Knight

  “Sister Theodosia?” Brother Edward’s searching green gaze rested on her.

  Duty it might be. But no longer God-given. Only by sinful man.

  Amélie’s gaze rested on her too, drawn by her silence.

  She couldn’t form words, not now, not to them. To anyone. “Of course.” She managed a whisper.

  Satisfied, they turned their attention from her and began to talk through the whole wretched story once again.

  CHAPTER 24

  Theodosia lay abed in the shadowed, quiet room and watched the pattern of stars change slowly in the small window. Every muscle in her exhausted body ached for sleep, for oblivion. But it would not come. Not like all the times she’d lost her battle against sleep in her cell, slumped forward over her Psalter in the early hours. Her regret afterward, the knowledge of her weakness. Now, when she would welcome sleep’s dark forgetfulness, it would not come, and she knew why.

  She’d been taught to look on her bed in the same way as she did her grave, as if she were entering it for burial. A clean, washed body. She had done that earlier. A clear conscience also, to grant her scared rest.

  Her conscience had never been so disturbed. Her mother’s account of her birth whirled through her mind over and over. All she thought she’d been had been broken to pieces. Her life, based on truth, on holiness, had been revealed as one gigantic lie. A lie of which she hadn’t even been aware.

  She turned over yet one more time, willing her body to relax into unconsciousness. Her sore limbs refused, tensed as if they had life of their own. Across the room, her mother slept in the second bed, her slow breaths a reflection of her deep, peaceful slumber.

  The sleep of the just. With a sudden wave of fury that sickened her to her stomach, Theodosia sat upright. How on earth could Mama rest so? Mama’s calling to the holy life had been a lie, a lie to conceal a wrong passion and to continue it while her husband became betrothed to another. Mama’s gift of her, Theodosia, as an oblate: another falsehood. Worse, a falsehood that had cast her away as if she were of no importance, her child’s heart broken in the process.

  She bent up her knees and hugged them, willing her rage, her grief, to subside. But it did not. Her mother slept on, her form still beneath neatly tucked sheets.

  Her mother had given her life, the most precious gift there was, but through her selfish desires had brought death knocking, calling to her daughter, over and over again during the past, terrible weeks. Theodosia tightened her grip. Not only to her. To innocents like Becket, Gilbert, the nuns.

  And Benedict. The man who had faced death with her, had shielded her over and over again from its hideous embrace. His thanks had been her constant rejection of him, her desire to be rid of him, so she could reclaim her calling as an anchoress. A good, good man put aside so she could follow a calling as empty and false as the painted lands on the stage of a miracle play.

  Her limbs trembled with the tightness of her own angry embrace. She had to lose some of this wrong emotion or it would consume her. She slipped out of bed, the bare wood floor chilly beneath her feet. Arms crossed, she walked the short distance from bed to door and back, over and over. If she had to pace all night, she’d do it.

  The small table with the remains of their simple meal caught her eye. The few scraps of bread didn’t appeal. A half-full stone wine bottle did. Benedict had told her once he favored alcohol to help him sleep, to take the pains from his battle-weary limbs, to make him forget the terrible sights he’d seen. Perhaps it would help her pain in the same way.

  Theodosia went over to the table and picked up the bottle. A sniff to the open top had her wrinkle her nose. It smelled like the stuff he’d made her sip, had splashed over her in the kitchen at Knaresborough. Wine might be made from grapes, but it had a peculiar sharp scent. Further, it was a sinful potion that robbed men and women of their senses, made them fight. Lust. She went to replace it, then halted.

  So if it did cause sin? Why should she care anymore? Her days of virtue and purity had been for naught. She could achieve no rest, she was marked with evil. Now, if she chose to indulge as the rest of the world did, it would not matter. With hands that shook, she picked up a goblet and poured a full measure.

  She put the bottle down and brought the goblet to her lips. Again, the heavy scent of the wine prickled the inside of her nose. She took a sip. Bitterness flooded into her mouth, a soil-like taste and scent mingled together. Her tongue curled.

  As she wondered how anyone could tolerate such a thing, the liquid hit her stomach. Strange warmth began to grow there, as if she had a low fire within. She took another mouthful. The bitterness was less this time, and the subtlest taste of fruit broke through. The heat brought by the first mouthful increased and spread along her arms, her legs. This was what Benedict must have meant. She drank again, and it tasted almost palatable. A final mouthful emptied the goblet, and she replaced it on the table. A slight wooziness in her head should have prevented her from having any more. Should have. She filled another goblet and drank it down in one untasted draught. She wiped her mouth with her fingers. Now perhaps she’d sleep — her head spun as if she might faint.

  Theodosia considered her narrow, hard bed with its tousled covers and scratchy straw mattress. She’d lain in it for hours already without closing an eye. Hours where she had thought of her mother, the King, Thomas. She clenched her fists in frustration. Here they came again, the same thoughts, the same pictures in her head. The wretched wine hadn’t worked, whatever Benedict might claim. She needed to get out of this room, try somehow to break this horrible repeated wheel in her mind.

  She made her way out the door and onto the deserted corridor. A large window stood at one end, secured with iron bars rather than the rare, expensive glass of the church. It faced the open sky to light one end of the corridor. Through it, she could see the small moon hang in the starlit sky. She went toward it to get a better view. Funny how the chill night air seeping from it seemed to bother her little, even though she was dressed only in her thin shift and underskirts.

  As she stepped up to the barred window, she caught her breath. On the quayside, the sea had lapped dirty against the dock, hidden by the jam of boats and humanity. But from this high window, the water glistered with starlight and the mirrored moon, opening out before her, promising her a world of wonder, of possibility. She had a sudden desire to leave the hostel, to go out and get on the first boat to leave, put this life and its heartbreaking history behind her. She put a hand to the bars as if they might part before her touch. Of course they didn’t. They stayed resolute, cold, hard, like all the barriers in her short existence. Barriers put up by her mother. By Edward. By the church. Even by her beloved Thomas.

  “Theodosia?” Benedict’s voice made her start.

  She turned from the window.

  The knight stood at the door of his room in woolen breeches and half-open shirt, his dark hair rumpled from bed. “What are you doing?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “I could not sleep.”

  “Waiting for Satan again?” His sleep-filled tone was kind, but she shook her head in a terse reply.

  He came up to her and put a wide palm on her arm. “You’re shivering. You need to go back to bed and get warm.”

  “I’m not cold. I’m upset. Sickened. Angry.”

  “About what?”

  “Not what. Who.” She shook him off and paced again, eyes fixed on the stretch of open water beyond the window. “Everyone. Mama. My fa — the King. Edward, the whole church. Even Becket.”

  Benedict took a sharp breath. “Theodosia. Think of what you say. Becket laid down his life, paid the highest price. For you.”

  She halted and looked at him. “What about my life? I was disposed of as neatly as a set of soiled rags. Buried alive on the pretense of serving God.”

  Frowning, he bent toward her, his face inches from her mouth. “Have you been drinking wine?”

  “What if I have? It’s only my stupid, silly naiveté that listens
to the teaching that says it’s a sin, that keeps my head covered because loose hair is a sin, that keeps me from sight because that’s a sin, that, that — ”

  “Hush.” Benedict raised his hands as he glanced around uneasily. “You’ll wake the whole house.”

  “And if I do?” Theodosia glared at him for his interruption.

  She got a stern look in return. “If Brother Edward or your mother finds us here, alone, half-dressed, in the dead of night, they’ll have my manhood lopped off. Lord knows what they’d do to you. Please, go back to bed. I am, before someone hears us.”

  He went to return to his own room, but Theodosia didn’t budge.

  Instead, she turned back to the window, folded her arms, and looked out once more.

  “Oh, forcurse it.” He came up behind her and put his hand on her shoulder. “You can’t stay here,” he said, tone low and forceful. “You’ll freeze, your skin’s already like ice. You don’t feel it right now because of the wine.”

  “Like ice.” She raised her eyes to his. “Like the night I fell in the river?”

  He shook his head with a half-smile. “No. Not as cold as that.”

  She didn’t drop her gaze. “Like when you found me in that cell in Knaresborough? Like when we rode all those miles in the snow? All you’ve done for me, the number of times you’ve saved me, and all for a stupid lie. You’ve been made as big a fool as I.”

  “You talk in riddles. There is no lie to you, to who you are.”

  “Not riddles. The truth. For once. Everything about me was a lie. My calling. My life. My religion. Even my name. I’m no gift from God. I’m just a worthless woman.”

  Benedict brought his other hand to her shoulder and pulled her none too gently from the window. “My room. No arguments.”

  “Take your hands off me.” She squirmed in his hold.

  “As soon as no one can hear you.”

  Benedict hustled her through to his room and pushed the door shut behind him with one foot. He sat her down on the hard bed and hunkered down with his back to the wall opposite her. It was far less fine than her and her mother’s room; their knees almost touched in the narrow space.

  “I’m not staying in here, Benedict.” She went to rise, breath fast in her chest.

  “Yes, you are.” Reaching forward with one long arm, he pulled the rumpled rough cover from his bed and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Keep that on. You need it.” He pinned her with his dark gaze. “Out with it.”

  “Out with what?”

  “My squire master used to say it to me. He’d say it to any of the lads who fumed and raged. It’ll eat you up, he’d say, if you keep it in. And not only are you angrier than a she-bear who’s had her cub stolen, you’re drinking wine, telling me you’re worthless. So out with it.”

  Theodosia’s lips tightened. “Do you presume to be my new confessor?”

  “I never said I was here to grant forgiveness.” He raised his eyebrows. “Worthless?”

  Her own word tore into her soul. “Yes.” Her anger was twisting her so hard, she felt tears build.

  “Why?”

  “I told you. I’ve only lived a lie.” Realization bit. “Because…I’m not chosen. I’m not picked by God.” Her tears spilled over, running hot and unchecked down her cheek.

  Benedict said nothing, did nothing. Only sat in silence as she cried quietly, painfully.

  Then his hands covered hers. “Can I tell you what I think?”

  “Please don’t. I know what your opinions are about my religious calling, the religious life. I don’t need you to gloat, to tell me you were right all along.”

  “That’s not what I was about to say.” His grip tightened, held her hands fast within his. “I want to tell you that you are the furthest thing possible from worthless. You’re brave. Headstrong. Resourceful. Clever. Quick-witted.” He let go of one of her hands and gently brushed away her tears. “You have courage that makes you foolhardy. But I admire it to the soles of my boots, and that’s not worthless.”

  “It is good of you to say such things.” She collected herself, brought her sobs to a stop with a shuddering breath. “You have said them before, I’ve not forgotten.” She tried to smile. “Even though they make me sound more of a knight than a woman.”

  “Believe me, you’re a woman. I’ve seen you, remember?” He gave a sheepish smile. “In my sinful way.”

  “I can’t have looked much. You lay beside me and didn’t touch me wrongly.” Her cheeks flamed. “Remember?”

  His dark eyes held hers with a sudden intensity. He let go of her, raised his hands to her. “Believe me, I almost had to cut these off. But I couldn’t do anything, you weren’t in your senses.” He lowered his hands again, and a corner of his mouth lifted. “You might say Satan was there. I’d say I lay with a desirable, beautiful woman.”

  “Not I.” She wished her voice didn’t shake.

  “Yes, you, Sister Theodosia Bertrand.”

  “Sister Theodosia Bertrand used to eat cold food to keep a pure heart. Sister Theodosia Bertrand used to dream of men in that cold, horrible cell, dream of them as any young woman would, and be repenting for it for days after. Sister Theodosia Bertrand was horrified that you’d held her in your bed.” She trembled with where her words were taking her, but she couldn’t stop them if she tried. “Sister Theodosia Bertrand was a lie. I want to stop lying, be a woman, a real woman. The woman Laeticia never got to be.” She wrenched the bedcover off, exposing her shoulders, the curve of her breasts in her thin shift. “So is Satan here now?”

  Benedict ran his hands through his hair. “You can’t — ”

  Her fingers fumbled for the thin ribbon that laced the front. Gaze locked on Benedict’s, she slipped open the knots, loosed the top. “Now?” Softer.

  “Faith, I don’t care if he is.” He brought his hands to either side of her face, drew her to him. His lips brushed her cheek, the side of her mouth. His unshaved face was a scrape on her skin that almost hurt, yet pulled a heat from deep inside her. It was the feeling from those dreams again, the feeling she’d fought down, pushed away, scrubbed away in her confession. Now she could let it loose, now she could savor every second of it.

  “Nor I.” Her arms went round his neck as she pulled him yet closer to her. Her mouth found his, and his lips pressed hard, demanding, upon hers.

  His wide hands went to her hips, pulled them to him as he lowered her onto the bed.

  Theodosia parted her lips, let his mouth press harder, deeper, on hers as his sweetness brought an ache to her breasts, a warmth between her legs. Her breath came in a long, low moan.

  Benedict broke from her.

  Pulse hammering, Theodosia forced herself to look into his eyes. If she saw disinterest, disappointment there, she’d flee. Not a bit of it. He scanned her face as if she were made of pure gold. He traced the line of her face with his fingers, then her neck, the top of her breasts. “I wanted this so much the night at Gilbert’s,” he murmured. “Your body called to mine the first night I saw you.” The glide of his rough, callused skin over her smooth, untouched flesh made her gasp. With a deep sigh, he brought his hand back to her face, stroked her cheek. “But it would be wrong for me to carry on. Wrong as it would have been those other times.”

  “Let me decide what’s wrong. Wrong was me fighting these feelings for years. A wrong, foolish battle. But you don’t want me, so — ”

  “Forcurse it, woman.” He grasped for her hand, brought her hand to his chest, to the wide opening of his woolen shirt. “What does this tell you?” Beneath his coarse black hair, his hard muscles, his heart raced in a rapid thud that matched hers.

  He did want her, he really did.

  He went on. “I know full well what it’s like to keep fighting when you’re weary of carrying heavy weapons. All you want to do is stop, even if that means the enemy besting you.” He gripped her hand tight, kissed it hard. “But that’s not you. You never surrender. And neither do the best warriors until the day is
done.” His arms closed around her, held her tight against him.

  The King, her father. His falsehoods, Mama’s falsehoods. Her, Theodosia’s, vocation, a lie. Her fresh, raw anger tonight. Anger that had awakened desire, desire for Benedict Palmer. Sinful desire, no matter how much she ached for it. For him. “The day’s not done, is it?”

  “No.”

  She tipped back her head to look at him. His steadfast dark gaze soothed her anger, her pain. But not her desire, not yet. “Then at least let me have my truce.” She squirmed hard to burrow down against his chest.

  “Theodosia, you should go back to your own bed.” His voice came deep, low, as she lay in his warm hold. “We can’t risk your being discovered here.”

  She shook her head, the quiet joy of being held by him enveloping her. “My truce,” she said with a yawn, the edges of sleep relaxing her limbs. “A little while.”

  “I’ll wake you soon.”

  Theodosia yawned again. Then knew no more.

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Palmer brought his lips to Theodosia’s bare shoulder and brushed it once, twice. She slept already, curled against him in his hold. Her ribs rose and fell in a steady, peaceful rhythm as he stroked the curve of her hip with one hand. He’d imagined this, thought about it, hoped for it. And more. Yet he’d passed up the chance at more, like a witless fool. Not a fool. He was used to women of the world, not a nun with vows of virginity. And not one beside herself with anger, with grief. And drink. Taking her while she was in that state would’ve made him low. He sighed to himself. He probably shouldn’t have done any of it, should’ve packed her back to her own bed. But when she’d sat there, gray eyes raised to his, the pale skin of her naked arms, shoulders. Then the pull of her shift open, with the swell of her smooth white breasts, inviting him, asking him…

  He shifted his position to ease the strain in his breeches. He had to stop thinking of her like this. Specially with her the daughter of the King. Did that make her a princess? And if so, was he now first in line for beheading?

  He rolled his eyes to himself at his knave’s prating. All that mattered was he held the woman he loved. Loved more than any other he’d met. Ever. His Theodosia. With need still hammering in him, he stroked her soft blonde hair away from her smooth cheek. She could never, ever be Laeticia to him, no matter how much she railed at him about it. She would always be Theodosia, his gift from God. But he couldn’t allow her to sleep here much longer. She needed to be in her room before her mother woke up. A long journey lay before them tomorrow, when they would set off for France for an audience with King Henry. Her father.