by E. M. Powell
The colour left Rosamund’s face at his words.
Geoffrey took a deep breath, brought himself under control again. ‘Now go and see to your preparations, all three of you. We leave for Godstow on the morrow.’
‘Tom, take this outside and show Matilde how it works.’ Theodosia handed him the little wooden hoop that Benedict had fashioned for him during the long winter.
Her son did as asked, obviously pleased to be allowed to play outdoors for a change.
‘And do not stray more than five steps from this house with your sister. Do you hear me?’ Theodosia waited for his nod, then closed the door to keep her actions secret.
Joan stood with a frown, hands on hips. ‘I can’t wait to hear this. What on earth could you have hidden here that Ordell shouldn’t find?’
Heart still racing in her chest, Theodosia hesitated. ‘It might be better if I ask you to leave too.’
‘Leave?’ Joan’s jaw dropped. ‘You want to cast me out?’
‘No, no.’ Theodosia smiled in spite of her anxiety. ‘Not like that. I do not know how I would go on without your help.’
‘Good. I wasn’t keen on taking to the open road again.’
‘It is because I possess certain . . .’—she swallowed hard—‘objects that you should not see. Yet I have to hide them from Lord Ordell. He cannot—he absolutely cannot—have sight of them.’
‘Theodosia, you’re still talking in riddles. If you want to keep secrets from me, just say the word. I’ll go outside to Tom and Matilde.’ Joan frowned. ‘But Ordell’s completely carried away with his fixation on sorcery. The whole place will be turned upside down by him and his men. So if you have anything you want to hide, you’d better be very, very sure it can’t be found.’
‘I will.’ Theodosia made her decision. Joan should not know. ‘And I think it is for the best if you go out. For your own protection.’
‘Very well.’ Joan stepped towards the door. ‘Let me know if you need a hand reaching up to the thatch.’
‘Joan. Stop.’ Theodosia stared at her, aghast. ‘How did you know I had planned that?’
Joan halted. ‘Oh, Theodosia Palmer. You are such a poor liar. As we spoke, you glanced aloft, showing me where you planned to put something.’ She sighed with a little smile. ‘As obvious as a mouse hiding corn in its nest. Ordell’s men would have found you out in five minutes.’
Theodosia put her hands to her face. ‘I did not realise.’
‘Because you’ve never had to.’
Oh, if only Joan knew how good she, Theodosia, could be at lying. Yet she’d failed this time. ‘Then what am I going to do? I will betray so many people.’ The King. Her mother. Benedict. The children. She pushed that inconceivable thought away. ‘So many.’
‘Then let me help.’ Joan put a hand to her arm. ‘We’ll find a way that you won’t have to lie.’
Theodosia nodded her wordless gratitude at not having to carry this alone. ‘A moment.’
Joan dropped her hand.
Theodosia stepped past her and went over to the bed she shared with Benedict. Reaching into the small gap between bed and wall, she pulled out a worn, cut-down grain sack, fastened with a length of old twine.
She put it on the bed and slipped off the twine to spill the contents onto the covers. There they were, as safe as they always had been: her mother’s Book of Hours and her store of messages from Henry. ‘Part of my secret, Joan. Benedict’s secret.’
Joan sucked in a sharp breath. ‘Theodosia. I can’t read. But I recognise the sign of royalty. And this prayer book is worth half the village.’ She brought a bewildered gaze to meet Theodosia’s. ‘Who in the name of the saints are you?’
‘I cannot tell you. But it is why Benedict and I live as we do. If anyone knows our true identity, we would be in mortal danger.’
Joan’s expression cleared. ‘He did become Sir Benedict Palmer, didn’t he? All that talk, from him to Ordell, about not being able to fight. It was only so much chaff. Wasn’t it?’
‘I cannot say.’
‘Your face tells me otherwise.’
‘Please do not goad me so.’
‘I don’t mean to. It’s the truth.’ Joan shook her head. ‘And I’m guessing you didn’t come into this world in a poor cottage like the one we stand in.’
‘Joan. Please.’
Joan nodded to herself as if Theodosia had given a different answer. ‘Then the discovery of the contents of this old sack could be very dangerous in the wrong hands. Am I right?’
‘Yes.’ Theodosia had no other reply.
‘We need to destroy them.’ Joan turned to the fire.
‘No.’
‘You would put yourself in danger for squiggles on vellum?’
‘Those with the King’s mark can go. But the Book of Hours—’ She bit back the sting of tears. Her one, her only link to her mother, after her precious crucifix had been sold to the Jewish moneylender. It did not matter; it could not matter. ‘Burn that also.’ Swallowing hard, she picked up the book and thrust it at Joan.
Joan flung the letters onto the fire, where they took hold with a strong, bright flame. She held up the Book of Hours. ‘But, Theodosia, I can see your deep sadness. This belongs to someone you have lost, doesn’t it?’
Theodosia nodded, unable to trust speech.
Grief also clouded Joan’s dark eyes. ‘Then I know your heartbreak, for I have lost so many dear to me. What they leave behind becomes even more precious.’
Theodosia reached out to touch it for one last time, her fingers running gently over the cover as her mother’s would have done. ‘So be it.’
‘No.’ Joan’s eyes lit with the hard glint Theodosia had come to recognise. ‘Put it back in the bag. Secure it again and give it to me.’
Theodosia did so.
Joan grabbed her cloak and pulled it round her, shoving the sack beneath. ‘Even Ordell can’t comb every square inch of land. I’ve seen places on my trips that no one would think to search.’
‘But will this work? You knew I lied about its whereabouts.’
‘Exactly.’ Joan smiled. ‘If you don’t know where I’ve put this, then all you have is the truth. Which is?’
‘There is nothing hidden here.’ Theodosia folded her hands and drew in a long breath. ‘The truth.’
‘Exactly.’ Joan hugged her hard.
Theodosia returned the embrace. ‘Thank you for your good, good heart. For your understanding of what this possession means to me.’ Her treasured crucifix might be long gone. But thanks to Joan’s kindness, her Book of Hours, her reminder of her mother’s love, could be saved.
Chapter Fifteen
Raoul de Faye shared his smile of delight with Eleanor’s portrait, its colours newly freshened once again on his wall at Faye-la-Vineuse. ‘My love, my plans are coming together.’
‘Henry thought he had won. Thought that a dead archbishop had ensured his victory.’
‘Indeed, my Queen. And how wrong he was.’ De Faye searched beneath his robes for the object he always carried on his person.
He drew out the small leather pouch, securely tied at the top with a robust leather thread. Always attached to him, even when he slept at night. Yes, he kept his possessions ordered in chests and had a bed that could be taken apart and moved. He understood only too well the importance of a prompt departure when necessary.
But sometimes the leaving of a place had to be even hastier. The leaving where one had to flee in only the clothes one had on one’s person at the time. Hence this pouch. He could never, ever afford to lose what it contained.
He undid the tie and pulled out the small item, wrapped in dark red silk. The precious possession that his love would wear the day he freed her.
De Faye had many spies. But he had obtained it from one of the most efficient. A female servant, not one with
a great deal of potential—or so he had thought.
This servant was called Gwendolyn Prudhomme, and, as it turned out, was serving him very well indeed.
Knaresborough, North Yorkshire, England, 1173;
three years earlier
‘A woman wishes to see you, my lord.’
Raoul de Faye glared in irritation at the guard who stood before him, head low in apology for the interruption.
Bad enough that his repast was a collection of boiled fishes of dubious origin and even more dubious age. Poor too, the thin wine, acid on the tongue and drying his spittle. Worse was the stewed cabbage that had the smell and consistency of a late summer pond. Adding to his displeasure, the constant gusting of cold, damp air through a tear in the tent. One would think it was February with this cold and wet, not a week before April’s Eastertide. His swift, uncomfortable travels through England, gaining support and pledges from those supporting the rebellion against Henry, might endear him to Eleanor but made him frightfully ill balanced.
‘Tell her to go away.’ De Faye examined a spoonful of the slippery fish. ‘Unless she appears to have great wealth.’ Meal or no meal, he needed to lay his hands on every penny available. His plans to win both throne and Queen were proceeding exactly as they should but were costing a fortune.
‘She does not, my lord.’
‘Then deal with her, man. And interrupt me no further, do you hear?’
‘My lord.’ The man bowed and went outside.
Voices raised in argument filtered through.
De Faye chewed at the slimy piece of mud-flavoured fish, frowning to himself. It was more bones than flesh.
The voices grew louder, and the tent flap was flung open to reveal a ragged servant woman of around his own age.
De Faye stopped chewing. The audacity.
‘Hey, wench.’ The guard behind her scrabbled for a hold on her shoulders, but she squirmed from him.
‘My lord, I have to speak to you.’ She addressed de Faye directly. ‘You won’t be sorry, I swear it on my life.’
‘Get this crone out of my sight.’ De Faye preferred even the poor food to her.
‘Come, you.’ The guard twisted one arm behind her back, and she shrieked.
‘Then I swear on the King’s life!’
De Faye looked at her again.
Her eyes burned with a fervour that was either deep madness or the truth.
‘I’ll speak, my lord.’ She nodded at the guard and rubbed her arm with a scowl. ‘But not with him here.’
‘Your tongue sorely needs taming, woman,’ said de Faye. ‘Yet I will allow you a brief audience. And mark this: if I don’t like what you have to say, I will give my guard leave to beat you to a pulp.’
The colour rose in her face, but she didn’t flinch. ‘That’s a fair deal, my lord.’
‘Leave us.’
The surprised-looking guard did as ordered and fastened the flap closed again.
De Faye could tell the man relished the thought of using his fists on this ill-mannered woman in a few minutes. He shared the same opinion, and he would watch. It would be a small diversion after the inedible meal. ‘Well?’
‘What I can offer you is worth a king’s ransom,’ she said.
De Faye rested a hand on one cheek as he slowly tapped the tabletop with a fingertip. ‘Then what is it, pray? A pig you’ve heard at market, reciting the Pater Noster? A saint that has unblocked your privy?’
‘No, my lord.’ She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘A gold crucifix, set with rubies. Looks like a woman’s to me. It must be worth a fortune.’
De Faye folded his hands into a steeple and rested his chin upon them. ‘Show me.’ He already knew her answer.
‘I don’t have it.’
As he expected. She was mad after all. ‘Enough time wasting. A beating will be yours.’ He drew breath to call his guard.
The woman flung her hands up to stop him. ‘Please, my lord. You must believe me. There’s other riches too. A chest of coins. I know where he hides them and where he keeps the key. My employer is a moneylender.’ Her mouth puckered in disgust. ‘A Jew, name of Manser. I’m a slave to him and his wife. And their brats—’
De Faye held a hand up to cut off her tedious whine. ‘Hardly a surprise that a moneylender would have money, though unusual to have a cross of such value.’ He shrugged. ‘Who knows what a usurer might accumulate? Either way, it is up to this Manser to come to me if he wishes to gift the rebellion his wealth. Now, get—’
‘But, my lord, what if the Jew had come about this cross by dishonest means?’
De Faye took a sip of wine as he considered her swift question. Perhaps she did present an opportunity here. So many feared the Jews, hated the Jews. Wished them wiped from God’s Christian earth. Applied in the right way, blackmail could be a very effective lever. ‘Go on. And no more riddles. If you do not satisfy my curiosity in the next minute, I will summon my guard.’
The crone read his expression. ‘A thieving knight sold the cross to him. It was wintertime—Saint Thomas Becket had just been murdered that winter.’ Her words came fast, precise. ‘A group of four knights came here, to Knaresborough. They came with Sir Hugh de Morville, to his castle here. Their leader was Sir Reginald Fitzurse. Blue, blue eyes, my lord. Very refined.’
De Faye put up a hand again, pausing her speech. Fitzurse. Younger. Vicious. A potential rival for Eleanor’s affections. ‘I know that the four knights came here.’ De Faye spoke to her as to a slow-witted child. ‘The world knows it too, knows that King Henry sent them on their terrible quest to kill Becket. They fled here after their clumsy murder. A terrible sin.’ De Faye made an extravagant sign of the cross. The world was wrong in their belief: the group had been brought together by Eleanor, sent hunting for the nun in the walls of Canterbury. And they’d failed, had never reported back to Eleanor. ‘The Pope has banished them on penance to the Holy Land for twenty years.’ Good riddance. He smiled. ‘I doubt Sir Reginald Fitzurse was also stealing crosses.’
The woman shook her head hard. ‘No, my lord. Fitzurse was hunting the thieving knight. The fifth knight.’
De Faye froze, wondering if he had heard her coarse tones correctly. ‘A fifth knight, you say?’
She nodded. ‘A knight called Sir Benedict Palmer. And he was hiding from the other four. And he had a woman with him, young—said she were called Theodosia—’
‘Silence.’ De Faye shot a finger to his lips, then gestured for her to come to his side of the table.
The woman allowed herself a little triumphant smile as she stepped next to de Faye.
He stood and had his knife to her throat in one movement. ‘Forget games, madam.’ He put his mouth close to her ear. ‘Tell me what you know, without any tricks, and I might, just might, spare your life.’
‘Palmer was with the girl.’ Though her eyes bulged, still she kept his gaze.
‘And?’ The loose skin on her neck parted under the pressure of his blade.
‘I—I found them in our cowshed. She was half-dead, but my husband, Gilbert, saved her life. Then I went out, heard Fitzurse had put out a reward for Palmer and the girl. But they slipped away. Palmer got a horse with the Jew’s money.’
‘Your husband?’ De Faye dug harder.
‘Gilbert’s stupidity got him killed. Serve him right, I say. And his boneheadedness beggared me. And all of it thanks to that snake, Palmer.’
And harder. Another push and her skin would yield. ‘And what about your stupidity in coming here and betraying your employer, in trying to best me?’
Her stained teeth clenched at his pressure on her neck. ‘Revenge isn’t stupidity. If Manser had kept his purse closed, Palmer and the girl would never have got away. I would’ve been rich.’
Still she wasn’t quavering for her life. She had begun to interest him. A little. ‘What�
�s your name, grieving widow of Gilbert?’
‘Gwendolyn Prudhomme.’
De Faye released her and she stood upright. The hand that went to her neck appeared steady.
She knew so much, this woman. Yes, she knew the whereabouts of this fabulous crucifix. De Faye could now guess whom it had belonged to. It would be obtained, and that would certainly help the coffers of the rebellion.
As he replaced his knife, he considered her. She could identify Theodosia Bertrand’s appearance, as others could and had. But she also knew what this fifth knight, this Benedict Palmer, looked like. She had no idea of the true value of this knowledge. ‘What would you say if there was no immediate reward for your information?’
Her eyes widened, and he saw the expected anguish there.
Anguish chased away by joy at his next question. ‘What if you were to work for me? There will be a test, but that could lead to a great reward eventually. And part of that reward is that Palmer and his lady pay for what they did to you.’
And Gwendolyn Prudhomme told him everything, and he, in return, outlined what he expected from her. De Faye expected resistance. He got none.
Now, she was really beginning to interest him.
Gwen Prudhomme stood in the baying throng that packed the field outside the town of Knaresborough. She tucked her shawl more tightly round her against the chill from the morning breeze and heavy grey clouds.
Josef Manser’s shout rose above the mob’s roar. ‘At least spare my wife!’
‘Like you spared Mary Fuller? Burn in hell, Jew!’
The scream of fury to her left near deafened Gwen, as did the chorus that followed it.
She kept her face still. Her work was almost complete. Today she only had to stay quiet, cause no trouble.
Not like Josef Manser. He fought those that held him like Satan himself possessed him. It didn’t matter. His arms were bound by his sides, and four strong men dragged him through the teeming crowd.
‘I did no harm to the child! None!’
Folk jeered, yelled at his shouts.
Behind him, bound too but completely silent, face chalk white, came his wife, Mirabel. She gave no trouble to the two men that held her arms as they propelled her forward.
