The Blood of the Fifth Knight

by E. M. Powell

  Rosamund went on. ‘Find Hugo Stanton. Tell him I have something for him.’

  Lucine’s brow creased in a displeased frown. ‘Are you sure that’s a good idea, my lady?’

  ‘Sure as I am that you have no right to question me. Now fetch Hugo.’

  ‘Mm-hmm.’ Lucine left as fast as her awkward gait allowed.

  Rosamund rolled her eyes and turned to heat her back. Lucine would be better at being a nursemaid rather than a lady’s maid, she really would.

  She moved her shoulders to ease the stiffness from them. She would solve the mystery of Sir Benedict Palmer. It would pass the time while cooped up in here. Then she would take him to her bed, have him lie above her, move within her, as she ground her rapture from him and brought him to his. Her eyes slid shut. Then it would be her turn to lie atop. She would straddle his hips with hers, slide her hands over the hard muscles of his chest. Bring her lips to his and explore his mouth with her sweet little tongue as they found each other’s pleasure again . . .

  A soft knock at the door. ‘Rosamund.’

  She opened her eyes, her breath quick in her chest, her desire a hot surge within her. ‘Yes?’

  Hugo entered, closing the door behind him. His blue eyes shone from his smile. ‘You asked for me?’ His rumpled, thick gold hair glowed in the dim light.

  ‘I did.’ She stepped towards him. ‘I do.’

  She’d quite liked him, she really had. Until she laid eyes on Sir Benedict Palmer.

  ‘Then I am yours. As always.’ Hugo pulled her to him, and his lips came hard to hers. His exploring hand between her ready thighs had him groaning with desire.

  Rosamund responded. He wasn’t Benedict. But for now, he’d do. And at least he performed better than Henry.

  Palmer lay in bed in his small, chilly room at Godstow. He’d quenched the candle long ago. He didn’t need to see to sleep. He’d finish the plate of bread he had next to him on the bed, then settle. As always the case with darkness, sounds came clearer. The nearby river rushed full, swollen by the winter melt water from distant hills, and the rain that kept its presence.

  And the darkness made him even more aware of his body: his cuts, his bruises, his sprains from the last couple of weeks. But the darkness also brought him sadness. Not just the longing for Theodosia, for Tom, for Matilde. He would banish that longing by getting home.

  He bit off a mouthful of bread. No. This was the sadness of loss. Everything had moved at such a pace, he’d had little time to think of his mother, his sisters. Of their deaths. Seeing Amélie today, so overcome with the pestilence, seeing her struggles to breathe. Her quick hiding of the linen she coughed into. But not quick enough to hide the blood on it. Had his mothers and sisters suffered so? He guessed they would have. And not for them the comfort of a wealthy Godstow, the care of an Abbess Dymphna. No. He chewed another large mouthful.

  Not even the rough favour of a squire’s existence, which had saved Palmer’s life by sending him away from his childhood home. Had he stayed, he could well have come to his end in their small, poor cottage, a place far more wretched than the one he lived in with Theodosia and his children.

  The river rumbled on.

  No mind. He should have been there. Or at least known. But what could he have done? Sickness was no respecter of a sword or a knife. It was the world’s most skilful warrior, sending the defeated to heaven or to hell.

  Palmer sighed at his own prating. Faith, he’d started to think like Geoffrey sounded. Amazing he’d received an apology from Geoffrey earlier for not sending indulgences for Palmer’s dead family. Not the most heartfelt apology. No mind. He’d still given it. And to be fair, Geoffrey’s time had been taken up with this business with Rosamund, just as his own had been.

  And yet he was still no further along. Henry must be beside himself.

  Palmer finished the bread. He needed to give time to the King’s matter too. ‘Think, boy, think.’ The old order from his squire master had served him well before and should do so now. He began to sift through who could be behind these deeds. It had to be someone who knew the palace of Woodstock, who knew Rosamund’s movements.

  Rosamund herself ? Very, very unlikely. And the attempts on her life had been cunning. Rosamund wasn’t cunning. At all.

  Henry?

  Palmer grinned to himself and reached for the jug of wine on the floor beside him. That would be an interesting one to explain to the King. The man would burst with rage. Palmer took a drink, followed quickly by another. The nuns’ cellars were as fine as those at Woodstock. Anyhow, Henry would never bother with such hidden methods. If he wanted to get rid of Rosamund, he’d simply send her straight back to her father.

  Nobles at the castle? There were so many, Palmer didn’t even know their names. He’d not had a chance to find out. And now he’d moved here. He yawned and took another long drink. He should ask Henry who they all were. That would be a start.

  Grooms, groundsmen, servants at Woodstock? Geoffrey had thought it one of them, nearly killing that poor menagerie keeper through his blame. But again, there’d been so many, and he, Palmer, had not had a chance to work his way through them. He drank some more wine.

  Yet Hugo Stanton was a servant. One very close to the King, but a servant nonetheless.

  Stanton had huge ambition, Palmer was sure of that. But he’d been a messenger for the last five years. Could someone have persuaded him of a quicker way to fortune? It would not take a wise man to judge that he might. And yet. The night Palmer had caught Stanton sneaking around Woodstock, trying to get to Rosamund’s room, the young messenger had been keen to point out what he felt for Rosamund. A fool’s desire, Palmer knew that. Although she might use Stanton, it wouldn’t be long before she chose another. Like she’d tried to choose him, over and over again. Yawning, Palmer drank and shook his head. Geoffrey was already convinced she’d made that choice.

  And what about Geoffrey? The King’s bastard son. The favoured son who had fought alongside Henry against the rebels, Eleanor and his other sons.

  ‘The favoured son.’ Palmer’s heart quickened as he said the words aloud.

  Henry had been so sure Eleanor was behind the attempts on Rosamund’s life. But what if it had nothing to do with Eleanor? An annulment of her marriage to the King would be a terrible blow for her. No doubt. Yet it would be good news for Geoffrey. Henry would have to name an heir, and Geoffrey would be the obvious choice. But if Geoffrey thought Henry planned to marry Rosamund, he would have grounds for wanting rid of her. And of course, Geoffrey didn’t know about Amélie.

  It all started to fall into place, like tiles that only made a picture when you laid a floor.

  Geoffrey had climbed the creeper, showing the King how it could be done, to put suspicion on an outsider. Geoffrey knew all the animals at the menagerie. Faith, he loved them and their viciousness. Too bad he, Palmer, had been summoned by the King. The bishop’s next actions? To give him, Palmer, a jammed crossbow and come within a hair of shooting him dead. Only Palmer’s own reactions had saved him. Then Geoffrey moved Rosamund to the tower, the tower that had held two dead guards and burned to the ground. With Rosamund safe, Geoffrey tried to get him to jump, which should have killed him. And Geoffrey had tried to get him dismissed. But that had failed and he’d been moved to Godstow instead. His heart beat faster.

  And of course, Geoffrey was targeting the wrong woman. Henry only kept Rosamund for his bodily enjoyment.

  Palmer started to get up to leave his bed. He had to go and confront the man, seize him if necessary. But what proof did he have? None. He only had his own guesses. They could still be wrong, as he’d been with Stanton. And Geoffrey was a bishop, the King’s son. They were in the King’s nunnery. Geoffrey would simply order Palmer from the place, as he had already threatened to do. Geoffrey could summon extra forces at will.

  But what about Rosamund? Would she be safe
tonight? Palmer thought it through. The same answer: they were in a nunnery. The Bishop of Lincoln would be obvious if he moved around. So far, he’d relied on the scale of Woodstock and its grounds, the number of places to conceal his wrongdoing. Palmer nodded to himself. Henry’s decision to move Rosamund here was as clever as it had been to move Amélie. If Geoffrey played his hand here, he would be found out by the King.

  Palmer lay back down. He had to get proof. Tomorrow. He’d search Geoffrey’s rooms while the man went to Mass.

  The roar of the river seemed louder than ever.

  Palmer’s shoulders unknotted in relief. He had his answer. And he’d find a way to show he had the truth. He finished the wine and gave a deep yawn. The exhaustion of the last few days finally caught him.

  Sleep broke over him like a wave.

  Lord Nicholas Ordell scrubbed at his eyes and moved the manuscript closer to the candle. His private chambers above his hall afforded him great comfort as well as seclusion. But no matter how well appointed his padded chair and desk were, reading for many hours without daylight always presented a challenge. Yet he must persist. For a great challenge was what he faced: the threat of sorcery.

  He reached for his goblet of wine and took a sip, wincing at the sharpness brought by the powder swirling within it. It should have restored him to his full manhood by now, this foulness of dried vultures’ kidneys and testicles, ground into fine grains. He had found the details of this defence against the devil’s work in his store of great writings. It had worked since the time of Charlemagne, but was yet to make a difference to him. Many months had passed of forcing this rancid sand down his gullet, and still his member remained lifeless.

  Sorcery had its grip on him and recently was becoming bolder by the day. The findings in the woods, the dead toad. And always the same woman linked to the discoveries: Theodosia Palmer.

  Ordell’s jaw set. She already bothered him, that silent wife of Palmer. Was never around the other women. Answered her husband back like she was his equal. And as for the day of the search of the village, Ordell would have sworn she had something to hide. He could smell the guilt wafting from her. He took another mouthful. He wished he had more robust troops in this fight. But God had given him what he had, poor though that was.

  Cecily. His prayerful wife. Tonight, as on so many other nights, she knelt before the shrine of Saint Thomas Becket in the chapel below in the hall and would remain all night as ordered. A limited contribution, but one could expect nothing more from women.

  Remigius prayed with her. The Abbot had dined with them beforehand, as he so often did, enjoying any excuse for winebibbing as he debated at length about the nature of the sorcery afoot in Cloughbrook.

  Ordell shook his head. He needed an abbot of the traditional mode. One who deprived his flesh to draw closer to God. Not one who delighted in it. But for all his personal excess, Remigius kept a tight grip on all the monks in the abbey. There was no suggestion that any of them had strayed into heresy.

  Stifling a sour belch, Ordell went back to his current reading: Master Gratian’s vast Decretum on the canon laws of the church. It was laborious work. Most scribes favoured a discourse on the texts by age. Some arranged them into groupings that had a logical flow. Gratian, to his credit, had included references to thousands of canons but had ordered them in a peculiar manner. Moreover, the scribe included a discourse of his own.

  Thus far, nothing.

  Ordell read on, his tiredness plaguing him. He would finish soon, take to his cursed marital bed waiting for him at the other end of his solar. The distant monastery bells had rung the Midnight Office hours ago. Then a passage leapt from the page.

  ‘If sexual intercourse cannot be performed.’

  As Ordell read through it, his stomach tightened in fury. Many, many more accounts of women who could invoke malevolent sorcery, maleficium, to make their husbands impotent. Other evils too. He pushed on with his reading, exhilaration now replacing his exhaustion. Gratian may well be about to reveal an account of where a sorceress had made her husband disappear. If Ordell could find such a record, his suspicions about Theodosia Palmer would have the resilience of proof.

  Then a scream echoed from below.

  Ordell’s hand jerked, knocking over his ink. He shot to his feet, ready to kill the buffoon that had caused him to make such a mess.

  The screams carried on: high, fast and unclear whether they were made by a man or woman.

  Ordell made for the door and flung it open.

  The calls became clearer, with one word standing out: Murder.

  And Cecily was below with the Abbot, praying to Becket’s shrine in the chapel off the hall. Ordell grabbed for his sword and descended the winding stairs with rapid steps.

  Many of his servants converged on the door as he did, calling out questions with sleep-filled, anxious faces.

  ‘It’s murder! Murder!’ The shouts carried on from the hall.

  The door stood ajar.

  ‘Stand aside, fools!’ Ordell pushed through and shoved the door wide.

  The fire in the hearth on the wall opposite had died. Only weak candlelight shone out from the chapel to his right, sending deep shadows across the rush-covered floor.

  One of his male servants stood in the hall, facing the shrine, hands to his head, still shouting.

  Ordell stepped into the hall, sword ready.

  The servant started at his approach, his screams turning to whimpers.

  ‘My lady. Oh, my lady.’

  Ordell’s gaze lit on a still figure crumpled on the floor of the tiny chapel, and he caught the gleam of his wife’s fur robe. He opened his mouth to call, but no sound would come out.

  Cecily.

  He ran towards her, and the rushes beneath his feet clogged with damp. A sharp scent rose from them, the scent of blood.

  Ordell reached the chapel in half a dozen strides.

  He stepped in next to her. The walls threatened to close in on him.

  Cecily’s chest was carved open from neck to stomach, her white ribs snapped and raised.

  The horrific sight robbed him of the strength in his legs. He sank to his knees, using his sword to stop his fall.

  Gasps and shrieks broke out from the other servants as they followed him to the chapel entrance and saw too.

  Ordell’s gaze swivelled to the servant who’d raised the alarm, who continued to shake and cry. ‘Take a hold of yourself, man.’ His choked words sounded like another’s. ‘What did you see?’

  ‘I saw nobody. Nothing. Only my lady as she is now.’ The man’s tears flooded more. ‘My poor, poor lady.’

  ‘Then has no one seen anything? Anything? Has a ghost come in here?’ Deep fury brought Ordell his voice, his strength to stand once more. ‘And where is the Abbot? Has he been slain also?’

  ‘I don’t know, my lord.’

  ‘Has anybody see Abbot Remigius?’ Ordell’s tone sharpened as he looked from one shocked face to another. ‘Anybody?’

  Heads shook.

  Then the Abbot’s loud, displeased voice came from another doorway, the one that led to the guest chamber. ‘What in the name of Christendom is all the noise about?’

  ‘Noise, you call it, Remigius?’ Ordell’s cracked voice filled the hall. ‘Come and bear witness and then tell me if our clamour is only noise.’

  Huffs told him the Abbot hurried, and then those watching parted to allow Remigius through.

  Dressed in his sleeping clothes, with a robe across his shoulders, his face shone with his recent slumber. ‘I didn’t mean that you made noise, Lord—’ His mouth gaped in silent horror as his eyes met the scene.

  ‘I have been making a clamour. And I will be making more. You were with Cecily.’ Ordell flung a hand at his wife’s body. ‘Why were you not here to prevent . . . this?’

  ‘I went abed some time ago.’
The Abbot glanced down at her again. He put a hand to his mouth and gulped loudly. ‘I had finished my prayers. But my lady had too. She sent me to my rest, said she would quench the candles and go to find you to fetch you to bed. I swear it.’

  ‘Then you saw nothing either?’

  The Abbot’s mouth set. ‘I doubt if I could have done much against such an attacker, my lord.’ He drew his cloak around him tighter and stepped forward. ‘Now, pray let me do the one thing I can do to help. I need to give Lady Cecily Ordell the last rites, to speed her soul to God.’

  Ordell changed places with Remigius.

  His hands tightened on his sword as, with noisy breaths, the Abbot lowered himself to his knees in the tiny chapel, gabbling a flood of Latin prayers.

  Then the Abbot paused. He bent forward to peer at the gaping wound in Cecily’s chest, then leaned in further still.

  ‘Remigius, what are you doing?’ asked Ordell.

  The Abbot’s head shot up as he gave another, deeper gulp. ‘My lord. It is worse than we feared.’ He raised his bulging eyes to Ordell. ‘It is sorcery, the devil’s own work. My lady’s heart has been cut out.’

  Screams of horror and outrage broke from the servants, with many falling to their knees to beg for God’s help as the Abbot crossed himself repeatedly.

  But Ordell would not fall. Vengeance could not be done on his knees. Like the stone carvings on his pillars, the only true response should be death to the sinner.

  Again, his grip on his sword handle tightened. ‘Summon my guards.’ He knew what had to be done. ‘I will tear the village apart if I have to. As God is my witness, I will find the evildoer.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Palmer awoke in his Godstow bed, his eyelids sealed from a deep but dream-filled sleep. His head thumped hard, and his tongue stuck to the roof of his dry mouth. He opened his mouth and swallowed. Tasted like the nuns’ wine wasn’t as good as the King’s after all. He went to move his right arm, cramped and dead under him from where he’d slept on it. It wouldn’t budge. Fuddled with sleep, he forced his eyes open.