The Blood of the Fifth Knight

by E. M. Powell

  Forcurse it to hell.

  Rosamund Clifford lay beside him, her golden hair tumbled over her face. It was her weight that trapped his arm, not his own. And her weight didn’t include any clothes.

  Awake now, Palmer yanked his numb arm out from under her and sat up. His head argued at the sudden move.

  ‘Rosamund—wake up!’

  No reply came to his sharp whisper. With the tingle of returning blood in his clumsy hand, he parted her hair, ready for the usual playful glance that irked him.

  His breath stuttered in his chest.

  Rosamund’s look was fixed. Staring. With the whites of her eyes blotchy. Red. Her swollen tongue poked through still lips.

  ‘Rosamund?’ Palmer sat bolt upright and brought both his hands to her face, willing her to respond as his head pounded.

  Her flesh felt like damp marble.

  Lifeless. He shook his head, trying to clear it, for maybe he dreamed still. Yet the sight stayed before him: her dead face staring, without sight, up at his.

  Not dead—murdered. The thin strip of leather knotted tight around her neck told him how, biting right into her flesh.

  But what if she still clung to life? He’d seen it before, seen folk left for dead who somehow found their way back.

  ‘Come on, Rosamund.’ He shook her hard as he tugged at the strap. ‘Come on.’

  Nothing.

  He pulled at the leather, tried to release it, his breath fast in noisy gasps. ‘Wake. You must wake!’ She couldn’t be dead, couldn’t be.

  His knife. That would get it off. He scrambled out of the bed and stopped to grab his skull. His head pounded like it might break, and he thought he might hurl his guts. No mind. He grabbed his blade from his belt. The leather dug so deep, he had to make sure he didn’t cut her skin as he freed her.

  But he had to hurry—she had little time.

  He bent to put a hand on her neck. He didn’t touch live flesh.

  She’s gone, you fool. He knew that, no matter how much he wanted it to be different.

  He straightened up and took long, deep breaths. A hard sob rose within him, and he choked it off.

  Poor silly, beautiful, spoiled Rosamund Clifford. She lay cold and dead. The murderer had won. And it was his fault. He’d failed her.

  Palmer grasped the bed covers and pulled them up over her naked body. He shouldn’t have sight of her like that. No one else should either.

  He grasped for his clothes. He had to raise the alarm.

  Hauling on his breeches, then his shirt, his head thumped more.

  What alarm could he raise? That he woke to find the King’s mistress throttled in his bed. The King’s naked mistress. Henry would be very curious to hear his story.

  But he had no story. Palmer only had the truth. That he’d had plenty of wine, had fallen asleep exhausted from his battles of the last few days. That he’d not heard a thing after that.

  Not Rosamund slipping into his bed and being attacked?

  Wait.

  He shook his still-clouded head to clear it. Wine and bruises and fighting didn’t make him insensible. If they did, he’d have been slain by his enemies long ago.

  The wine. It’d taken him off very quickly last night. Too quickly. Either his food or his drink had been tampered with. He’d swear to that. And he’d prove it with the leftovers.

  Palmer bent to the side of the bed where he’d left the remains of his supper.

  The floor was completely clear.

  Sweat broke out over his whole body. Someone had laid Rosamund’s murder at his door. He was sure of that now.

  And the King’s representative at Godstow was Geoffrey. Geoffrey, who Palmer suspected of being the one making the attempts on Rosamund’s life. Geoffrey, who already accused him of toying with Rosamund. Geoffrey, whom Henry trusted.

  Palmer knew he would be found in this room. Soon. He had to get out.

  Head clear now, he finished dressing in moments. He threw his cloak over his shoulders and took a last look at the fixed, brutalised face of the fair Rosamund.

  A wave of fury broke through him at the obscenity of her death. He bent to kiss her gently on her cold forehead. Then he pulled the sheet over her face to shield her. Though she loved to use her body, she would never want folk to gawp at her with disgust, with horror. Had loved, Palmer: had loved. Words he could scarce believe he used about Rosamund.

  Palmer moved to the door, on alert for any sounds of his discovery. He knew he had to find the one person that Geoffrey had not reckoned on in all of this. Sister Amélie, Theodosia’s mother. She knew of his loyalty to the King. She would know he spoke the truth and would vouch for him.

  So long as he got to her before Geoffrey got to him.

  Palmer hurried down the stairs to the gate in the wall that opened into the cloisters. He lifted the latch slowly, silently, praying hard it wasn’t bolted from the other side. It clicked open with ease, and he was through into the dim stone cloisters, quiet at this very early hour. Fighting to silence his loud breathing, he hid himself behind a pillar as he considered his next move. He didn’t know where Sister Amélie’s rooms were, as he had only met her in the chapel. He couldn’t risk searching bedrooms and raising the fuss of alarmed holy women.

  A door slammed.

  Palmer started.

  A set of rapid footsteps clattered along a stone floor. He peered out from behind the pillar but could see nobody. Yet something was wrong. The sounds, the movement had been too sudden, too fast. Every sense warned him of a raised alarm. He should try for the stables, make a run for a horse before the word spread.

  Then he saw Abbess Dymphna walking slowly in his direction, her head down in prayer. He still had a chance to get to Amélie.

  With a quick check they were alone, he stepped out. ‘Mother Abbess. I need a word.’

  She raised her head. ‘Oh, Sir Benedict.’ Her face was raw with recent tears as she walked up to him.

  Palmer’s insides coiled. Did she know of poor Rosamund’s death already? ‘What saddens you?’ He kept his voice even.

  ‘It is Sister Amélie.’ Dymphna broke into fresh sobs. ‘She died last night. Suffocated in her sleep.’

  Amélie too. Murdered. Palmer fought for breath, for any word, as terror gripped him.

  Geoffrey must know everything. He was simply clearing the way to take the crown. His mutter at Amélie yesterday as Dymphna helped her from the chapel: And may God grant you release from your suffering. Geoffrey had released her as surely as he had rid the world of Rosamund.

  But two things stood between Geoffrey and success. Theodosia. And their children. Dear God. Did Geoffrey know of his family too?

  Abbess Dymphna eyed him in concern. ‘Sir Benedict? Are you ill? You look ready for collapse.’

  ‘Mother Abbess?’ Geoffrey’s call came from beyond the cloister.

  ‘Please don’t speak.’ Palmer stopped Dymphna with a raised hand.

  ‘Mother?’ Another call. Nearer.

  Dymphna seemed unsure, about to draw breath.

  Palmer backed away from her. ‘Please, say nothing. Please.’ He turned and ran for the gates of the convent. Home. He had to head for home. Now.

  Theodosia stepped out of her cottage into the grey light of the breaking dawn, pail under one arm.

  She turned to Joan, who stood in the doorway, shivering in the chilly air.

  ‘Do you really think I should be doing this?’ asked Theodosia, voice low.

  ‘Yes. It’s for the best,’ replied Joan.

  ‘It’s just that I really dislike going for water when all the other women are there.’

  ‘I know you do,’ said Joan, ‘which is precisely why you should. Those women are as birdbrained as a gaggle of geese. The more they see you, the less notice they’ll take of you.’

  ‘But w
hat if there is something amiss?’

  ‘You mean like a dead toad?’ Joan grinned. ‘Oh, sister, you are such a worrier. It came to light days ago, and there’s been nothing wrong at the well since. These things happen from time to time. There’s no more to it than that.’

  Theodosia drew breath to argue, but Joan put a firm hand to her shoulder.

  ‘Now go. Go and fetch the water. Smile. Pass the time of day.’

  ‘Mistress Palmer!’

  Theodosia started at the sudden call.

  Enide Thatcher hastened down the street from the village towards the bridge, her face scarlet with her efforts.

  ‘What could she want?’ wondered Theodosia.

  Her own surprised look was met by Joan, who raised her voice. ‘Steady on, Enide! If you don’t slow down, you’ll put yourself in the grave.’

  But Enide did not slow as she pounded across the bridge’s rutted road. ‘Wait, Mistress Palmer.’ She waved both hands to emphasise her order.

  Theodosia obeyed, her grip tightening on her pail as Enide reached them.

  Her neighbour’s breathing puffed like a bellows in full use. ‘Terrible news.’

  Theodosia’s heart threatened to stop. ‘Have you had word of Benedict?’

  ‘No.’ Enide shook her head hard, trying to get her wind. ‘Lady Ordell has been murdered.’

  ‘Murdered?’ Theodosia’s response was echoed by Joan. But though shocking, Enide’s words had not delivered the news Theodosia most dreaded.

  Joan had lost colour in her face also, and quick anger flashed in her eyes. ‘You mean you have nearly killed yourself to run and tell us this hideous gossip? What ails you, woman?’

  The recovering Enide scowled at her in return. ‘Nothing ails me. And I did not hurry here to spread gossip.’ She laid a large, sweated hand on Theodosia’s. ‘The murder was terrible. The lady’s heart was cut out.’

  Theodosia swallowed down her nausea as Joan swore in disgust.

  Enide went on. ‘Lord Ordell and the Abbot have decreed it sorcery. There is to be a new search. All of our homes are to be turned upside down again.’ Her hand tightened even more on Theodosia’s. ‘I don’t know what’s been going on with you and Benedict. But if you do have anything that Ordell’s eyes should not see, then destroy it. Now. He was keen to find something amiss in your home before. I saw it in his miserable face.’

  Theodosia’s stomach settled in relief. ‘Thank you for the warning, Mistress Thatcher. But my home and my conscience are without blemish.’

  ‘They had better be. Because Ordell will show no mercy if he finds anything.’ Enide released her and moved towards her own front door. ‘I have my stock of healing herbs that those ninnies couldn’t find the last time. They’re going on my fire.’ She disappeared inside her home.

  ‘I’m not trying to worry you, Theodosia,’ said Joan. ‘But you’re sure you have nothing?’

  Theodosia allowed herself a reassuring smile. ‘Nothing. I swear.’

  Raised shouts and screams came from the village. A plume of smoke rose above the roofs, acrid and black.

  ‘That’s no hearth,’ said Joan.

  Along the main street, a couple of doors opened, and people gaped and pointed.

  Theodosia shivered. ‘May Lord Ordell be comforted in his grief. Such a horrific end for his poor wife. Enide could have mentioned that, instead of running to hide her herbs.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Joan’s eyes were wide. ‘And I’m beginning to wonder what sort of a place I have come to.’

  A loud crash echoed from behind the tight huddle of cottages, and more tall plumes of smoke rose. High screams cut the air.

  Theodosia put a hand to her mouth. Enide had spoken the truth. This search would be relentless. ‘I am going to fetch the children outside. I want them near me.’ She stepped back into the cottage and put down her pail. ‘Tom. Matilde. Come here.’

  Matilde trotted over to her—Tom too—but with dragging feet and wide yawns from the early hour.

  She hustled them outside.

  ‘What’s going on, Mam?’ Tom stood up on tiptoe to look in the direction of the fires.

  Theodosia picked up Matilde. ‘A terrible sin has been committed. Lord Ordell wants to find out who did it.’

  Ashes floated past on the light breeze.

  With the hard, rapid pounding of hooves, one of Ordell’s guards rode into view on the main street, a burning torch aloft. ‘Out of your homes, peasants!’ His shout rang out loudly. ‘On pain of death!’

  ‘We are out. Has he no eyes?’ Joan’s terse mutter reached Theodosia’s ears only.

  Theodosia’s spirit quailed. ‘They cannot burn us out. They cannot.’

  ‘They won’t, sister. We have no reason for them to do so.’

  More doors opened as if by magic. People spilled onto the street, some wide awake and dressed, others still blank-faced with sleep.

  Next door, Enide hauled a half-dressed Alf out, her husband complaining.

  ‘Enide, I’m still in my breeches.’

  ‘Better half-dressed than dead.’ She blocked his return back in.

  More hooves sounded, slower than the first rider, but many, many more. All from the direction of Lord Ordell’s looming hall in the trees.

  Theodosia clutched Matilde to her and locked her free hand on Tom’s shoulder.

  Lord Nicholas Ordell came into view on the street, leading a dozen men on horseback. The Abbot Remigius rode behind him on his poorly controlled mount. Yet more of the lord’s men accompanied him on foot, armed with axes, swords, torches. His reeve, the black-bearded Williamson, walked to the fore.

  Ordell swooped his sword in an arc to encompass every home. ‘Search them! Search them all!’ His thin face was streaked red with his fury. ‘I will not rest until this evil has been rooted out!’

  Many villagers followed the search, some wounded, some showing burns. But all kept their counsel.

  One man moved too close to a horse as the search reached his cottage. The rider kicked him aside, his wife steadying him as he spun away with a yell. The rider responded with a thrust of his torch into the handcart next to their door. Flames leapt up.

  Yet no one protested.

  Mouth dry, Theodosia could only stare as the search party surged over the bridge to the Thatcher toft: Lord Ordell, the Abbot, Williamson.

  A silent Joan stood with her, a hand on her arm. ‘Be brave,’ she spoke, her voice a tiny whisper.

  Theodosia gave a faint nod. Far easier to be brave with Benedict at her side. But he was not.

  Not even Enide dared utter a word of protest as Williamson stomped into her home with three men, and the sounds of shattering and breaking came from within.

  Remigius offered up a loud prayer. ‘May God help us find the sinner!’

  No one joined him.

  Williamson emerged, throwing one of Enide’s pots to the ground in a shower of shards.

  Alf kept a warning hand on his wife.

  Then Ordell’s gaze met Theodosia’s. ‘And now.’ His eyes burned with his lust for revenge. ‘The last. Search it. Right down to the last straw.’

  Williamson nodded, bringing his men with him.

  Theodosia squared her shoulders and steadied her breathing, holding tight to Matilde and Tom. Lord Ordell should be shown compassion for his anger. She could not imagine the grief, the rage he must be feeling.

  Williamson walked out.

  ‘So soon?’ Ordell’s sharp question mirrored her own surprise.

  The reeve held something. A small bundle of cloth that Theodosia had never seen before. A bloodstained bundle. ‘I found this concealed beneath the children’s bed.’

  The ground tipped beneath Theodosia’s feet as Joan’s nails dug into her arm.

  Williamson held the bundle up to Lord Ordell and the Abbot.

/>   A terrible silence fell, with only the crackle of the torches and the horses’ shifting breaking it.

  Ordell’s hands clenched his reins, his knuckles pure white. ‘Open it.’

  Williamson did so.

  And the silence broke in a wave of cries of disgust, of horror, of disbelief.

  ‘No.’ Theodosia could only force a stunned whisper.

  For nestled in the cloths, wet and seeping still, rested a bloodied human heart.

  Palmer ran.

  He’d left the gates of Godstow Nunnery wide open behind him. No mind. There was no time to close them. He had to get away.

  The stones of the puddle-filled cart track crunched under his feet. He needed to leave this road and make for the nearby river. He glanced over his shoulder at the high convent walls and gate. No sign of any movement yet. But all it would take was for a watcher to look down from the walls or out the gate onto the completely exposed roadway. Trees edged the river. They would hide him from sight. If he could get there in time.

  Jumping across a small stream that lined the roadway, he landed in the muddy field next to it. His boots squelched in the soggy grass and through to the soft mud under it, quickly taking on more and more weight as the wet mud stuck to them.

  The muscles in his legs strained with the extra load. But he couldn’t slack off. Not out here, and him a slow-moving target for Geoffrey.

  Had Dymphna said anything to the King’s vicious son? Palmer didn’t know. And he couldn’t have stayed to find out.

  His right boot slipped off a tuft and into liquid mud up to his knee. He swore as he tugged it out again. He moved more slowly than an aged man out here. If he’d been on horseback, he could’ve been a couple of miles down the road by now. But there’d been no time. The river gave him his only chance now.

  Geoffrey had fixed the tableau of the dead Rosamund in his bed. God alone knew what the bishop had done to poor Amélie. Palmer pushed the sweat from his forehead. No one would have believed his side. No one.

  Still wouldn’t. If he was caught now, he’d be done for.

  The river was still a field away. Palmer checked back again.

  Still nothing.