by E. M. Powell
He paused at the thorny hedge he’d have to climb or push through, trying to get his breath. And with him out of the way, where would that leave Theodosia? His children?
The bells of the convent rang out, slow and solemn. They called to the world that somebody had died. They’d summon mourners to prayer from miles around.
Palmer crashed through the spiny branches. He had to make the river.
The ground on the other side stopped his steps like the first. He didn’t care. He surged on, his chest burning from effort. Nearly there.
Then came the sound of hooves.
He looked over at the roadway. A horse rode from the gates at a hard gallop. The rider crouched low, had his sights fixed on the road ahead.
As Palmer crouched to a stoop, he caught the flash of yellow hair under the man’s hat. Stanton. Dispatched no doubt to bring word to Henry. He could persuade Stanton to let him ride with him, or at least to deliver his own message to the King. Palmer filled his lungs to call out.
He caught back his shout.
A man had appeared at the convent gate, pulling it closed.
Stanton carried on down the roadway with no glance back or around.
In a low, desperate scramble, Palmer made the cover of the trees. Ahead, the river flowed fast and loud. He stood up straight, wiping his muddy hands on his muddier cloak, cursing that he hadn’t been able to cut off Stanton. He only had a small advantage. And it wouldn’t be for long. He had to find a way to get word to Henry. Word that he’d failed his mission. That he’d failed Rosamund. Amélie. That he had finally found the answer. An answer Henry would not like. At all.
Too dangerous. The words Stanton had used about this work for the King. Why Henry had forbade Theodosia and the children from coming too. Well, the King had judged that right.
But if Geoffrey knew of Amélie, he might well know everything. And he, Palmer, had been fighting for the King’s mistress when he should have been standing over his wife and children.
Palmer swallowed down a sudden, hard lump of tears. Don’t be a gutless fool.
No, he couldn’t be a fool. He had to work out a way of getting home as fast as he could, as well as getting word to Henry. He peered out through the branches. A few people hurried along the road that led to Godstow, brought by the still-tolling bell.
In the meantime, Palmer knew he had to hide out. With no money. No horse. No weapon except his dagger. The best way to hide from folk? Walk among many. He left Godstow at his back and headed for the noisy river. For downstream lay the busy town of Oxford.
‘No!’ Theodosia’s cry drowned in a chorus of shouts, calls, screams that came from hate-filled faces.
‘I knew it!’ Ordell’s piercing accusation came with his pointed finger. ‘Guards, arrest this woman for sorcery!’
A group of men came forward at Ordell’s command as Williamson replaced the wrappings around the terrible object and handed the bundle to the Abbot.
Theodosia held fast to her children. ‘I have done nothing, I swear by Almighty God!’
Joan kept hold of her arm and took a half step in front of her. ‘Let her be!’
Williamson grabbed hold of Joan and wrenched her from Theodosia. ‘Come here, pretty.’
‘Get off me!’ Joan took a swing at his face, but he dodged it and bundled her to him.
The guards pressed against Theodosia, their rough grasp upon her as she clung to her children. ‘You will not take them!’
Matilde shrieked in fright.
‘Let go of my Mam!’ Tom kicked out hard.
‘What do you want me to do with this one, my lord?’ Williamson had his forearm across Joan’s throat. His other hand grasped her breasts.
Joan struggled to breathe, though her eyes would have the man dead.
‘At least let her talk!’ Enide’s loud voice cut through the din as she tried to push forward.
Ordell’s furious gaze sought her out, but the Abbot raised a hand.
‘All of you: wait!’ he said. ‘Allow Palmer’s sister to speak, Williamson.’
The reeve loosened his hold as people shoved closer to see, hear.
Heavy hands still held Theodosia’s shoulders.
Coughing hard, Joan spoke. ‘I wasn’t even living in Cloughbrook when the first signs of sorcery were found. You know from where I came, Abbot. And when.’
The Abbot gave a slow nod. ‘She speaks the truth, my lord. I can vouch for her.’
‘Then obey the word of the Lord Abbot Remigius and release her,’ said Ordell. ‘I don’t care about her.’
Williamson did so with a frown.
Joan shoved him back from her. ‘I swear my brother’s wife is innocent too, my lord. And that will be proven.’ She held out her hands. ‘Theodosia, give me the children. They should see no more of this foul—’
‘No.’ Ordell’s order cut across her. ‘Guards, take the brats too. They will be from the same bad blood.’
‘No! Not my children!’ Theodosia’s scream tore from her.
A guard snatched Matilde from her arms; still another picked Tom up by his jerkin.
‘You can’t!’ Joan lunged forward, but Williamson stopped her.
Theodosia’s reason went. She twisted in the guards’ hold, got a hand free, went for their eyes. ‘Don’t touch them! Don’t you dare!’ She kicked, spat, bit.
A blow to her face sent her staggering, sightless.
The shouts and jeers from all around faded, then came back again. Matilde wailed on as Tom yelled his outrage. Hands locked on her again. She could not move.
Ordell’s form, high on his horse, swam before her. ‘Now the mild Mistress Palmer shows her true colours, Remigius.’
The Abbot nodded. ‘Indeed.’
‘Take them to my manor and lock them up.’ He clicked to his animal. ‘And I have my blessed wife’s funeral to arrange. Abbot, I will need your assistance.’
The Abbot fell in behind him, and they moved off without a backward glance.
The guards pulled Theodosia forward.
Head reeling, she staggered in their hold but moved one foot after another as if she could catch up with her children. But they were so far ahead. Already she could hardly see Matilde’s golden curls, Tom’s red tufts in the press of big, brutal men.
And the man who would have stopped this was not here. Benedict. She called for him in her heart, a futile, desperate appeal.
‘Theodosia! Theodosia!’
She turned her head at the frantic call.
Joan’s dark eyes met hers. ‘Don’t despair! We will find the truth.’
But Williamson pushed her back. Joan disappeared from her sight. She was utterly alone.
Chapter Nineteen
Palmer made his way along the busy roadway, cloak around his head to hide as much of his face as he could. The track followed the course of a side stream as it looped around the base of Oxford’s walls. Palmer kept alert for any sign that he was known, suspected. So far, nothing. He looked ahead, keen for his first sight of a gate into the town.
Above him, the stone tower of the castle rose high against the morning sky. Another of Henry’s strongholds. Maybe he could use someone from there to send a message? Not likely. Those at the castle would be among the first to hear from Geoffrey of Palmer’s supposed crimes.
The supervisor, Lewis, had called it a large town. He was right. Ahead, buildings spilled out well beyond the walls, spreading in a tangle of busy streets and alleyways. Many sections appeared built in his lifetime. The smell of new-sawn wood in the air, along with the sound of hammers and saws, told him more were being put up. Still others sat burned and ruined. A great number of towns had been laid waste during Stephen’s ruinous reign. This one too.
A town gate came into view, with folk before it slowing into a thick knot of carts and horses. As many were trying
to make their way out as were gaining entry. Palmer kept his grip tight on his cloak. He needed to find a way in there, and then to move unnoticed while he found transport faster than his own legs. The busy press of people would help, but there would still be guards at the gate and the nearby castle.
A ragged man walked past him, making for the gate, a basket on his back. In it, Palmer could see small pieces of wood, some a bit charred, but still good for fuel. It gave him an idea. He left the main road and headed for a street with scorched and tumbled-down houses.
He looked into the first. Its blackened walls were open to the sky, and grass grew on the floor. The same with the next. In the third, he found what he’d hoped for.
An old man, dressed in rags, and reeking with filth, bent to what remained of the walls. He worked with a small hatchet in one hand. A battered reed basket sat on the ground next to him, filled with scraps of wood.
He shot to his feet when Palmer walked in. ‘Hey, what d’you want?’ He held up the hatchet, a poor thing with an old rusty blade. ‘Go find your own pickings.’
Palmer pulled his muddy cloak from his head. ‘I want a trade.’
The man peered more closely at Palmer with milky eyes. ‘Trade what? I’d guess you’re no beggar.’
The poor old wretch had little sight. ‘My cloak. My boots.’ Palmer took in the man’s size. ‘For a couple of your garments. And your basket.’
‘Don’t know.’
Palmer stepped towards him, and the man waved the hatchet. ‘Keep off, you hear me?’
‘I’m not doing anything to you.’ Palmer thrust a handful of his cloak into the man’s free, filthy hand. ‘Here. Feel this.’
The man did so, and his face changed. ‘That’s fine wool. And a fine weave.’
‘My boots are good too,’ said Palmer. ‘Your shoes. For them. Do we have a trade?’
‘I’m guessing my silence is worth a bit too, stranger?’
‘I don’t have any coin.’
‘With your finery? I’m half blind, not half-witted.’
Palmer didn’t have time for this. Every moment that passed was one bringing Geoffrey closer. ‘It’s the truth. And I’ll find someone easy enough on these streets who believes it.’ He turned to leave.
The man tightened his grip. ‘Hold, stranger, hold. I’ll trade with you.’ He gave a gummy grin. ‘Can’t blame me for trying, can you?’
‘No.’ Palmer tugged at the catch on his cloak. ‘But you might want to think harder about who you try with.’ He pulled it from his shoulders.
The old man gathered it to him. ‘Fine, fine wool. This’ll keep the wind off.’ He shrugged off his own outer covering in a wave of stench. ‘There you go.’
Palmer grasped at it and his hand went through the rotting, filthy cloth. No mind. He used the tear as an armhole and brought the rest over his chest and shoulders. It gave out the old man’s stink. Another smell, rancid and sharp, reached him and he glanced down.
The man’s tattered shoes were off, feet bound in stained bandages. ‘Feels strange, that. Wear ’em all the time.’
Palmer pulled off his own boots. ‘There you are. Now we’re done.’
The man’s face lit as he took them. ‘God smiles on me. These are a goodly weight.’ He sat down on the floor to put them on.
With hard pushes, Palmer got one foot in, then another. Cracks split the ancient, reeking leather, so he could manage.
The man lifted his head, seeking out Palmer. ‘I could walk with you, stranger. Show you around, like.’
‘No need.’ He picked up the basket. ‘And no need to mention me either. You hear me?’
The man caught his warning tone. ‘I do, I do. Good day to you.’
Palmer left, picking up his pace to get to the gate. The different shoes, badly fitting and spongy with wet and sweat, made his stride uneven. No bad thing. He checked his face with one hand. Plenty of mud on there still, from his escape from Godstow. He pulled a section of the ragged tunic over his head as a hood and rejoined the busy roadway, basket at his shoulder.
A group of farmers’ wives, bundles of goods for selling heavy on their backs, moved to one side as he did so. More than one put a hand to her nose.
Good. The old man’s stench on him would help him pass.
He soon joined the throng at the gate. His heart tripped faster. As he’d thought, guards stood on duty there. He searched for signs that they had been put on alert. None he could see. Maybe his plan had worked, and Geoffrey scoured the countryside for him. Palmer pictured the bishop’s growing fury as he got more and more saddle-sore and still could not find his quarry. He allowed himself a quick grin.
Most of the guards talked idly among themselves, with the odd glance over the crowds. Those that stood alone looked bored. One yawned openly.
And these were the men Geoffrey trusted to find signs of the escaped leopard. Faith, it would take the creature biting someone’s head off in front of them to rouse this lot. No mind. Better that than sharp-eyed sentries with their wits about them. Palmer shuffled past in the slow stream of people that made their way in, head down against his basket.
Now he joined them inside the walls. He headed away from the huge castle, looming large to his left. Not every guard would be a dozy time-marker.
‘Which way to the market?’ he asked another man dressed in rags.
The man pointed above the jumble of roofs to a high, square tower. ‘Follow that, called Saint Michael’s, if you get lost. It’s by the North Gate.’
Palmer nodded his thanks and hurried on as best he could in the solid stream of people, horses and wagons. The market would be full of traders. He might be able to beg transport on a cart. A cart with a horse he could steal when the roads quietened.
His slow pace irked him as he made his way there. He needed to start home. And though Geoffrey might be on a fool’s errand hunting for him now, it wouldn’t be long before he turned his sights to Oxford.
The crowds of sellers and buyers grew thicker, thwarting him as he tried to near the church that guided him. Cloth sellers traded all over, with merchants bargaining for the best deal. He passed a narrow shop selling costly parchment, the owner alert for custom and thieves. Hawkers held baskets of bread and pies, and the many alehouses served folk as if they supped their last drink. Even at this early hour, whores stood in the darker alleys, whistling and calling to passing men. More than one fellow ducked in and out of sight.
Palmer caught the eye of a pockmarked girl with a brazen, low-fronted dress, her bare arms pink in the cold air. She winked at him, and he broke from the stream of people.
‘Do you know of anyone who could offer a ride from Oxford?’ he asked.
‘I can offer a ride here.’ Her smile dropped, and her nose wrinkled as he stood before her. ‘But it’ll be extra.’ She waved a hand before her face. ‘And quick.’
Palmer didn’t blame her. ‘I’ve no coin for you. I need a cart.’
‘No coin, no joy.’ She lowered her voice. ‘I don’t waste time talking. Now, piss off. Folk will think I go with filthy-breeches like you and will pay less.’
‘Sorry, miss.’ Palmer raised a hand and went to move on.
‘Miss?’ Her look brightened. ‘Never been called that.’ She laughed. ‘You could try the inns. They have folk coming and going all the time.’ She laughed again. ‘Though you won’t find anybody that’ll take you while you smell like a midden full of old offal.’
‘My thanks.’ Palmer carried on.
Ahead, he saw a row of inns, just as the girl had said.
He didn’t dare go in, not dressed like this and with no money. Likely he’d bring notice to himself that way. He went past the first three. Then, at the fourth, he saw a red-faced innkeeper and cart-driver wrestling a barrel from a fully laden cart. That might be a chance.
‘Help you, sirs?’ he asked as h
e walked up.
The innkeeper scowled but the carter nodded in relief. ‘You’ve got muscle.’ He pointed to his cart. ‘Get them four barrels off.’
‘We don’t need him,’ said the innkeeper.
‘Friend, you are going to have apoplexy if you carry on lifting,’ said the carter. He waved the innkeeper away. ‘Go on. I’ll see him right for his help.’
Muttering, the innkeeper marched back inside.
Palmer put down his basket and lifted down the first barrel, unaided.
‘Quick as you can,’ said the carter. ‘I’m running late already.’
Palmer lifted another as he sized up the carter. ‘Can help you at each stop if you like.’ The short man had little bulk. When there’d be no folk to see, Palmer could easily overcome him and borrow the horse. And the fellow would get it back. Palmer moved another keg.
‘And I suppose you’ll want paying?’ the carter asked.
‘Glad to do it if I can ride along.’ Palmer lifted down the last barrel. ‘I’ve been on the road for weeks.’
‘Done.’ The carter jerked his thumb to a stack of barrels by the door. ‘If you put them on too.’ He smirked at his own cleverness. ‘I’m for an ale while you do it.’ He disappeared inside the inn.
Palmer itched to take the cart right this minute. But if he did, there’d be a huge fuss raised. He couldn’t risk that, not here. He had to wait for the right moment. Pray God, it wouldn’t be too long. He needed the horse. And once he had it, he’d make for home. He lifted down the last full barrel. And what of word to Henry?
He turned to fetch the empty barrels and collided with a monk.
‘Watch your step, ruffian.’ The monk dusted down the front of his habit.
‘Sorry, Brother.’
The monk stalked off, head high and chest thrust out.
No apology in return. Of course. He’d bumped into a man of the church. Palmer picked up the first empty barrel—easy compared to the ones laden with ale. But maybe the church could help him. He’d pass many monasteries and convents on the long ride home. Would there be any way of convincing one of them to send a message through the monastic posts?
