The Blood of the Fifth Knight

by E. M. Powell

  ‘To my shame,’ said Theodosia, heart pounding.

  Ordell sniffed. ‘Then let us pray the idiot is not carrion by now.’ His eyes narrowed at her. ‘Though misadventure seems to follow you around, time and again. I have to be sure it is no more than that.’ He shifted his gaze to Williamson. ‘Take that hovel apart. Leave nothing unturned.’

  ‘My lord.’ Williamson stepped back inside, smashing the empty henhouse with a heavy boot as he did so.

  ‘No!’ Joan gave a sharp gasp.

  Theodosia stayed her again with a hand. There was no point in opposing Ordell. He at least appeared satisfied at the explanation of Benedict’s departure. Pray God, he would be equally satisfied that she had no hand in sorcery. She could only watch as the reeve and his men dragged her whole life into the street, adding it to Benedict’s things.

  The couple of pots she cooked in. Tom’s stool and hoop. The straw mattresses from the bed she shared with Benedict. A pail. The shovel. Her meagre tools for carding, spinning and weaving her small stock of wool. The children’s small mattress, followed by Joan’s makeshift one. Humiliatingly, her clothing too, the few bits she possessed. Thrown onto the muddy street, her patched and darned skirts and stockings looked like the rags they were.

  ‘Search it properly,’ said Ordell. ‘Anything could be hidden.’

  Williamson jerked a thumb for the others to go back inside. He pulled a long knife out and set to work cutting, ripping what he could.

  ‘That’s not right,’ called Enide.

  But Alf closed her off.

  ‘It’s not,’ said Joan through gritted teeth.

  Theodosia knew the injustice too. She longed to protest loud and hard, condemn Ordell for his persecution. But it would only make things worse. Her fingernails dug into her own palms, her way of controlling her anger from her days as an anchoress.

  And no one else spoke up. Rather, everyone pushed forward, craned their heads to see a possible discovery, the air buzzing with their curiosity.

  Lord Ordell remained silent. His attention locked on her home in unsmiling, unsavoury anticipation of what would be brought out.

  Williamson’s boot crashed through her pots, Tom’s stool, savage in his unnecessary destruction.

  The walls of the cottage shook as the men ripped plaster from the walls while their sifting hands and knives moved and hacked at the worn thatch.

  A shout came from within. ‘Nothing, my lord!’

  Williamson straightened up, breathing hard. ‘Nothing here either, my lord.’

  Ordell’s gaze swept over the ruins of the Palmer family possessions before it alighted on Theodosia. ‘Then you are in the clear too.’ Surprise wrinkled his brow.

  Williamson jerked his head at her.

  ‘Thank you, my lord,’ murmured Theodosia with forced politeness.

  Joan said nothing.

  Ordell pulled his horse’s head around. ‘We will keep searching. And keep ever vigilant.’ He kicked the animal’s sides and moved off, his retinue falling in behind him.

  Disappointed at the lack of spectacle, those assembled dispersed too, making their way back to the village across the bridge.

  ‘I still say it’s a shame.’ Enide was hustled indoors by Alf.

  ‘As do I,’ called Joan.

  Theodosia sank to a crouch, trembling hard in contained fury. Everything lay broken, shattered. Destroyed. But they had found nothing. No links to her and Benedict’s past. No links to sorcery. Nothing. They were still safe.

  ‘I swear that Ordell will burn in hell, God rot him.’ Joan put a hand on Theodosia’s shoulder. ‘Don’t take on so. We can fix all this.’

  Theodosia nodded. Let everyone think she shook in fear, in defeat.

  ‘Mam!’

  She raised her head at Tom’s cry.

  ‘Who broke my things?’ His eyes rounded in his small face, which was reddened from his games; he held Matilde firm in one hand.

  Theodosia grabbed Tom and Matilde and pulled them tight into her arms, her face buried in their smooth little necks. ‘This does not matter.’ She breathed in their sweet scent. Still safe, still safe in this growing madness. And pray God, Benedict remained safe too.

  Palmer sat on a narrow, upright wooden pew before the altar in the chapel at Godstow Nunnery, the newly falling rain battering against the tall, arched windows. He stretched out his legs, keen to shed his boots and get some food and drink. His arrival with the rest of the group had been dealt with with the briskness he’d experienced when dealing with houses of God before.

  A cluster of black-robed nuns had gathered to help Rosamund to her chambers. The Abbess, a tall, raw-boned woman called Dymphna, her voice edged with the softness of the Celts, greeted Geoffrey with all the respect due to a bishop. She ushered him to his chambers while she pointed the way to the stables for Palmer, Stanton and the carriage driver.

  His horse sorted, Palmer had asked the groom about his own quarters.

  ‘Not ready yet,’ had come the reply from the door. Abbess Dymphna.

  How she’d managed to be near in two places at once, Palmer couldn’t figure. But her firm suggestion that he go and pray awhile in the chapel while he waited asked for no argument.

  Aside from the noise of the rain, the grey-stoned chapel was silent, cold. The altar was no match for the riches on display in the King’s chapel at Woodstock. Only a square of white linen covered it. A simple cross, fashioned of iron, sat on its centre. That was more like it. Folk shouldn’t need gold to bring out their prayers. He shivered, chilled already from sitting still. He got to his feet to bring the warmth back, as well as for something to do, bored and cold after half an hour. How Theodosia had spent years in places like this, praying for hour after hour, he’d never know.

  Theodosia. It had been so many days since he’d seen her, held her, touched her. He missed her with a deep, constant ache that he hadn’t thought possible. And unlike most pains, it didn’t lessen as the days went by, but grew and grew.

  He walked past paintings on the walls, the lives of saints, of Christ Himself. But to Palmer, none had life or movement. The flicker of candlelight from a side altar caught his eye in the gloom. He went towards it, curious to see what merited the only light.

  Gold glowed as he stepped before it. Of course. Henry’s donation to Godstow that Geoffrey had spoken of. The blood of Saint Thomas Becket. A glass vial held the actual blood. But the vial sat in an object of wonder: a gold frame, inset with the finest jewels Palmer had ever seen.

  Resting on a carved metal stand, padded white silk filled the frame to show off the darkness of the blood. The stones caught the poor light, throwing out a gleam of their own. But it was the dark, dark blood that Palmer couldn’t take his eyes from. He’d seen it himself as it broke from the Archbishop’s skull, stained the altar at Canterbury. Blood spilled from a man; now people worshipped it as shed from a saint.

  ‘You may well stand in wonder, Sir Benedict.’

  His shoulders stiffened in surprise. A woman’s voice. One he hadn’t heard in six years, but one he knew well. He swung round, unsure whether his ears played tricks. ‘Sister Amélie?’

  ‘It is I.’ Theodosia’s mother, dressed as he had last seen her, in her nun’s habit. Supported by the Abbess on one side and a stick on the other, she limped slowly in his direction. ‘Though I doubt you expected to find me here.’

  ‘It never entered my head.’ Palmer hurried to her, stunned by the discovery but shocked by how frail looking she had become. ‘Please. Walk no further.’

  She shook her head. ‘I wish to sit before Saint Thomas.’

  ‘Then let me help.’ Palmer put an arm to her shoulders. He realised that the strong Abbess already took most of Amélie’s weight, though Amélie had no weight to speak of. Her breath wheezed loud in her chest.

  They quickly had her sat, as asked. ‘Lea
ve us please, Dymphna.’ The effort of speaking set her off in a long, liquid cough.

  The Abbess looked at Palmer. ‘Call me when Sister Amélie wants to return to her room. Do not allow her to walk unaided. She is still sore afflicted from the pestilence.’

  Palmer nodded and she hurried out. He sat next to Amélie and waited for her to recover her breath. Truth be told, he had to recover his too. So this was where Henry had moved his true wife after the attempts on her life by Fitzurse and his men. A clever move, no doubt about it. Everyone knew about the King’s public sorrow for the murder of Becket. The nunnery was close to Woodstock. Using it to keep the blood of the Martyr in a holy place and to make his regular penance would raise no eyebrows. And Henry could continue to see Amélie. Henry had hidden her in plain sight, where no one thought to look.

  She finally got her breath. ‘You seemed surprised to see me. But only a little.’

  ‘His Grace finds clever ways to arrange things.’

  ‘Oh, he does.’ Amélie smiled, her thin skin stretching over her bones. ‘Firstly, Theodosia. How is my daughter?’ Her eyes shone with the same longing that plagued Palmer.

  ‘She is most well, Sister.’

  ‘And her children?’ She put a thin hand on his, her flesh colder than the chapel. ‘Your children?’

  ‘Tom and Matilde are most well too.’ He covered her hand with his other, as if he could bring a bit of warmth to her. ‘I’m blessed with them.’

  ‘And yet you are here?’

  ‘Henry asked me to serve him once more, and—’

  ‘I know about Rosamund Clifford.’ Amélie’s breath bubbled as she drew the name out.

  Faith, he had no words for her.

  Amélie went on. ‘As I do all of the others. They are only for his lust.’ She cleared her chest with another wet cough. ‘I have his heart.’

  ‘I know, Sister.’ A sudden anger at Henry surged through Palmer. The King had no right to make these women his chattels, deciding which would answer each of his needs.

  ‘You do not approve. But you are not a king.’ She pulled linen from her overskirt and brought it to her mouth to cough again and again.

  No. Not a king. Thank the Almighty. Palmer waited, Amélie’s struggle to catch her breath painful to watch and hear.

  ‘Henry got his miracle from Saint Thomas Becket.’ Amélie gestured to the vial. ‘As will I. Any day now, the Pope will grant the annulment of his pretence of a marriage. We will be together soon, together for all the world to see.’ She raised deep-set eyes to Palmer. ‘And we can claim our daughter, our grandchildren. Another miracle.’ Her breath caught on the last word, sending her into another spasm of coughing.

  A rattle came at the door, and Geoffrey strode in, still robed.

  Palmer tensed. How much had the bishop heard?

  ‘There you are, Palmer. I’ve been looking for you.’ Geoffrey took in the scene with a scowl as he walked over. ‘I hope you’re not bothering this holy woman.’ He stood over them both.

  Amélie shook her head. ‘He is not. He was here when I came in, sat before the sacred relic of the blood. We have been speaking of the Saint.’

  ‘Why did you want to see me, Geoffrey?’ asked Palmer.

  ‘Only to tell you that I have sent the money for the indulgences for your family, as the King requested.’

  Amélie frowned at Palmer. ‘Your family? Why do they need indulgences?’

  ‘I have recently lost my mother and three of my sisters,’ said Palmer quickly. ‘God showed mercy and spared me one of my sisters.’

  Her expression cleared. ‘Oh. I see.’ Amélie squeezed his hand, her strength a butterfly against his flesh. ‘I am so sorry to hear. But the prayers that the good bishop is arranging will aid their passage to Paradise.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I should have sent them a few days ago, but other matters came up.’ He threw Palmer the briefest of bows. ‘My apologies.’

  Abbess Dymphna arrived with her definite tread. ‘Sister Amélie, I have come to take you back to the warmth of your room. You have been in the cold long enough.’

  ‘I would like to stay a little while more. With Sir Benedict.’ Amélie coughed. ‘There is so much I would like to discuss with him. If you will both leave us—’ Her coughing overcame her.

  The Abbess slipped an arm round Amélie’s shoulders as she struggled for air. “You see?” Dymphna waited until Amélie drew ragged breaths again, then gently brought her to her feet. “You’re worn out from it.”

  ‘Good rest, Sister,’ said Palmer. ‘We can talk tomorrow.’

  ‘I look forward to it, Benedict.’ Amélie allowed Dymphna to support her as she left the room. ‘God bless you both, gentlemen.’

  ‘And you, Sister Amélie.’ Geoffrey brought his hand up in a swift blessing. ‘And may God grant you release from your suffering.’

  Palmer doubted if Amélie heard him, for the bishop’s last words were a low mutter.

  Then Geoffrey strode from the room without a backward glance, leaving Palmer alone.

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‘A nunnery. I’m in a nunnery, Lucine.’ Rosamund stood by the darkening narrow window in her new room, fists balled against her skirts in fury.

  ‘I know, my lady.’ Her servant carried on with her task of unpacking and setting out her things. ‘You have said.’

  ‘And I have to keep saying it,’ said Rosamund, ‘for my mind will not take it in.’

  ‘It’s not all bad, my lady.’ Lucine pulled the coarse convent bedding from the low bed and folded it. ‘It’s very clean. Tidy.’

  ‘Empty, you mean.’ Rosamund left the window and spread her hands before the pitiful fire. ‘And poor.’

  Lucine bent to dressing the bed with Rosamund’s own fine linens and blankets. ‘It’s not poor, my lady. The nuns use their money in different ways.’

  ‘I don’t care what they do,’ said Rosamund. ‘The King had no right to move me here. He has so many palaces, all comfortable. All safe for me. With plenty to entertain me. Here?’ She paced the small room. ‘I might as well be in a prisoner’s cell.’

  Bed finished, Lucine moved to a wooden airer before the fire. ‘You have one of the best rooms in the whole convent, my lady. The Abbess told me so.’

  Rosamund sniffed. ‘That scrawny Irish one? I’m sure she’d be comfortable sleeping in a field.’

  Lucine gave a slight frown. ‘My lady?’

  Rosamund waved a hand as she paced. ‘She has that . . . outdoor appearance.’

  ‘She is a nun, my lady.’ Lucine moved to the large chest that contained Rosamund’s clothes and pulled out a folded white linen garment.

  ‘Precisely, Lucine. And I am not. Which is why I should not be here. That’s what I keep saying.’ She threw her hands up at her servant’s failure to grasp the seriousness of her situation. Old Lucine could be so dull-witted at times.

  Her servant returned to the fire and placed the clean shift on the frame to warm it through. ‘I’m sure it won’t be for long.’ She rolled up her sleeves and nodded to the large basin of steaming water that had been delivered a little while ago. ‘And for now, we need to prepare you for bed.’

  Rosamund folded her arms, facing the flames to keep warm while Lucine pinned her hair up and out of the way. ‘And am I supposed to be like a nun in bed also?’

  Her servant’s deft hands helped Rosamund to disrobe. ‘It would be wise.’

  Rosamund gave a little shiver as the cooler air met her skin. ‘But even more dull.’

  ‘Mm-hmm.’ Lucine made the annoying response she always made whenever she didn’t approve of something.

  ‘You would have me bored, then?’

  ‘What I would have you above all is safe, my lady.’ Lucine bent over with her usual grunt of effort to pick up the discarded clothes. ‘Sharing your bed with anyone exce
pt his Grace is very unwise.’

  Rosamund sighed. ‘You sound just like my father.’ She wet one of the linen cloths and washed her skin. ‘Imagine what he will say when he hears Henry has sent me to a nunnery.’ She smirked to herself. ‘He will be beside himself with rage.’

  ‘Sir Walter will be just as worried as we are at all the things that have happened to you.’ Lucine reached into the bowl to wet another cloth and stepped behind Rosamund. She clicked softly. ‘If you could only see the state of your back. You’re still all bruised.’

  ‘I did fall a very long way.’ Rosamund shuddered.

  Lucine cleansed her back with tender hands. ‘I know, my lady. I watched it happen.’ Her breath caught. ‘I cried out to God to save you. And in His mercy, He did.’

  ‘It was Sir Benedict who saved me. Again.’

  ‘Then he worked as God’s noble agent.’ Lucine helped her to dry off quickly, then held up the shift.

  ‘I wish he was a bit less noble. I’ve made it clear what he could expect from me.’

  Her servant slipped it over her head and raised arms. ‘Mm-hmm.’

  Rosamund pulled it down her body. The fresh linen, scented with rosemary and lavender, slid over her own fragrant flesh. ‘And still he refuses.’

  Lucine undid her hair. ‘There is no explaining men sometimes.’ Her servant combed it through as Rosamund stayed before the fire. ‘There’s you, like an angel from heaven, and him not wanting you. I can only think he’s afraid of his Grace finding out.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Rosamund admired the sheets of her own shining hair as it fell across her chest and shoulders. ‘But he doesn’t seem to be afraid of anything.’

  ‘Like I say, there’s no explaining men. There you are, my lady. All done.’ Lucine went to a side table to replace the comb. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to see about a warming stone for your bed.’

  Rosamund stretched long to catch the heat of the flames, her clean skin delicious after the dirty travelling. ‘It doesn’t matter. I won’t need one.’

  Lucine paused.