The Blood of the Fifth Knight

by E. M. Powell

  Of course. They would believe that a ragged, stinking man would need to send a message to the King. Palmer shook his head at his own folly as he picked up another barrel to place on the cart. Think.

  Monastic posts. Hugo Stanton used to be a monastic post rider. His name might be known at the monasteries. Palmer could pretend that he knew of a relative of Stanton’s whose life neared its end. The message could be that his sister, Theodosia, was dying. Palmer took a sharp breath in. No mind that he made up a coded message. Even to think those words of his beloved wife threatened to fell him.

  And Stanton would surely go to Henry with such a disturbing message. The coward of a messenger would be too afraid not to. And Henry would know he had to take quick action.

  Palmer reached for yet another barrel. None of this might work. And none of it would work until he got this horse. The blasted carter was taking his time with his ale.

  As he hefted the barrel onto the cart, he thought he heard shouts from the far end of the market. Hard to tell, with the noise of this place.

  But others seemed to have heard them too, stopping to stare.

  Palmer boosted himself up onto one of the high wheels of the cart for a better view.

  Geoffrey. Astride his destrier, with mounted guards behind him. They made their way steadily through the press of people in a growing wave of noise.

  The carter came out of the inn, ale in hand. ‘What’s going on?’

  Palmer jumped back down, reaching for another barrel. ‘I don’t know, sir.’ He made sure he kept his back to the roadway. Bad luck that Geoffrey had chosen such an early search of Oxford. But wearing these clothes, doing this work would keep him hidden. All he had to do was hold his nerve.

  Then a sound cut through the rising din that Palmer knew well. The sound that told him his disguise was for nothing, that explained why Geoffrey had followed on his heels to Oxford.

  The howls of Geoffrey’s hounds. Dogs worked on scent. Not sight.

  The carter took another sup of beer, craning for a glimpse of what approached.

  Now or never. Palmer hoisted another barrel up onto the cart, then pulled himself up into the driver’s seat. He grabbed the reins in one hand and the whip with the other.

  ‘Hey!’ The carter’s shout came too late.

  With a sharp whistle, Palmer jerked the reins and cracked the whip across the quiet animal’s flanks.

  It took off in whinnying shock, sending the carter to one side and folk shrieking out of his way and nearly unseating Palmer.

  He couldn’t go back the way he came. He whipped the horse faster and made for the nearby North Gate.

  ‘Mam, why has Lord Ordell put us down here?’ The displeasure came clear in Tom’s voice.

  Theodosia could hardly make out her son’s face next to her in the gloom of the undercroft, with its low stone ceilings stopping air as well as light. ‘It is not so bad.’ She kept her tone light though her own heart threatened to break from her chest. ‘And I am sure it is a mistake.’ With Matilde on her lap, she sat on the floor as far away from the locked iron gate as she could, her back fixed and rigid against the ooze of the damp wall. As if that would protect them.

  ‘At least we are together.’ Thank you, sweet Mother of God. When her children had been dragged from her arms and carried off, she had thought she would never see them again. Shoved hard in here to land agonised on her hands and her knees on the rough stone floor, all pain had left her when a guard had nudged her two children in after her.

  Matilde’s sobs had since ceased in her locked arms. Tom had not cried.

  ‘Is it because of that thing they found under my bed?’ he said.

  She could not speak of what had been found. Not to him. ‘As I have said, it is all a mistake.’ She extended one unsteady hand to stroke his messy hair. ‘And you have been very brave. I cannot wait to tell your father how brave.’

  ‘But what was that thing?’

  ‘Tom, somebody has committed a great sin. We shall talk no more of it. Instead we can pray for Lord Ordell to find out who has sinned.’

  Tom stood up and scuffed at the floor with his boots. ‘There’s lots of straw over there. Can I build a castle?’

  ‘Of course.’ His quick change of subject brought her a small relief. Her heart turned over as he went over and hunkered down to play. Matilde’s head came up to watch him, curious.

  Children moved from one thought to another so quickly. The full horror of the discovery in the cottage had passed over their heads. And if she kept her composure, did not reveal her terror, then she could perhaps keep them protected from these wicked events.

  ‘Make it tall, men.’ Tom piled up the straw, his small voice low with orders among his group of assembled pebble soldiers. ‘Taller than a tree.’

  And such wickedness. Theodosia swallowed hard as sweat coated her face, her body. Not content with the spilling of animal blood, whoever was abroad had spilled poor Lady Cecily’s too. And laid it at Theodosia’s door. But why? ‘We will find the truth.’ Joan’s call as she had been dragged away echoed in her soul. A courageous call. But Ordell would simply lock Joan up also if she became a nuisance to him.

  Tom murmured on. ‘Don’t forget the moat.’ One pebble fell in with a long cry.

  Matilde shifted. ‘Me, Tom.’

  ‘Your sister would like to play.’ Theodosia released her and she toddled over to Tom to crouch beside him.

  He ignored her, but Matilde took to gathering pebbles, her way of joining in.

  How could she as their mother not despair? Theodosia’s hands curled and her nails pierced her palms in her sudden wave of fury. That one existed who could think these two could do anything wrong. They were so young, so innocent. Yet Ordell had thrown them into this dark place with her. They will be from the same bad blood. His vicious words, words he would not have dared utter if Benedict had been here.

  Benedict had to come back soon. He had to. He would get them released from this unjust captivity. Her beaded sweat trickled from each temple, and she fumbled in her belt pouch for a kerchief to dry it. She must compose herself; the children could not see her anxiety.

  She pulled out her small kerchief. Something else tangled with it. Of course. The linen square that would hang on the tree in the forest: the signal between her and Hugo Stanton. She opened it up on her lap and smoothed it out. Hugo. The carrier of words between her and Henry, of any news of Benedict. He might leave a hundred new squares on the tree. And she would not see them. She could not check there now.

  ‘Line up, men.’ Tom laid pebble beside pebble, Matilde helping.

  But Joan could. As Joan could take this square and use it as means to send an urgent message back with Hugo. If Theodosia had the opportunity to tell her. She must, she must.

  Theodosia reached up to her coif and pulled out one of the pins. She pushed it into the cloth to start to form the first letter. The pin simply separated the loose weave of the cloth. The hole did not remain clear.

  ‘We are going to fight the enemy.’ Tom moved his captain pebble before his troops, to Matilde’s fascination.

  Her children were fully occupied.

  Theodosia took a deep breath and bit down on her lip. She jabbed the pin into her fingertip, rewarded with a bead of blood as well as the stab of sharp pain. She brought it to the linen and it made a clear dot. She did it again. And again. And again, moving to the next fingertip as each grew too sore.

  The pebble army moved across the floor in an ordered manoeuvre.

  There. Her task was complete. Send help. Spelled out in her own blood. And if a stranger picked it up, it told nothing. She’d kept the King’s secret. She blew on it to dry it off, then folded it and pushed it back in her apron.

  All she had to do was to tell Joan where to leave it. If she saw Joan. She pushed down the doubt. Joan would be doing all she could to help
them, she knew that. She had to believe Joan would find a way here. She had to keep her faith. Her hope.

  ‘Aha, men! We have found the enemy!’

  She gave a small smile. As in Tom’s game, they would win. But her smile dropped at his next savage words.

  ‘Cut out all their hearts!’

  Theodosia put a hand to her chest to steady her own. So he had heard it all, understood it all. Taken in every depraved detail. A child. Her child.

  She stumbled across the floor to sit with them. ‘Let us think of a more noble fight for your soldiers, shall we?’

  The evil was winning. She could not allow it. But what if it did?

  Palmer kept a tight grip on the reins with his left hand as the cart bounced hard and fast over the cobbles, the horse in full panic. People screamed and jumped out of the way, dropping their goods and scrambling for cover. Still he lashed the whip with his right. He had to keep the beast at this fast pace.

  A pilgrim on a donkey veered into his path, mouth agape.

  Palmer wrenched his animal to one side, slowing it hard to miss the man but striking the cart’s right wheel against a heap of wooden cages holding hens for sale. With wild squawks, the freed and injured birds half-flew and fell back onto the people trying to avoid him, adding to the din.

  ‘Oi! You bastard!’ The hens’ large seller grabbed for Palmer’s leg, tried to haul him from the slowed cart.

  Palmer kicked out as he urged the horse on again. ‘Hey up!’

  But the man reached for the reins, got a hold. ‘You’re paying, you hear me?’ His glare held Palmer’s.

  Palmer raised his whip.

  ‘And me!’ A wiry scowling shoemaker came at a run through the heaving street, waving his ruined goods.

  Palmer cursed and lowered the whip. With two, they’d have him off.

  ‘Not so clever now, are you?’ The hen seller grinned.

  Palmer let go the reins and whip and reached behind him, hands closing on one of the empty ale barrels that had stayed on. ‘Maybe I am.’ He picked up the barrel and raised it over his head.

  The man’s look shifted. ‘Oi!’

  Palmer threw the barrel, and it sent the man backwards into the approaching shoemaker. Both men went down. But they’d soon be up.

  Palmer grabbed the reins and whip again. ‘Get on!’

  The horse took off, scattering folk again as the cart raced along.

  He was nearly at the gate. He looked back. He still had the edge on Geoffrey. The busy streets held the man back, made worse by Palmer’s chaos.

  He faced forward again. Fifty yards. Then he’d be out. He’d have to waste a precious few seconds freeing the horse from the cart. But he had to. Then he’d ride for—

  The right wheel struck something again. Harder than hens’ cages. And shattered.

  The cart lurched to one side in a steep slope.

  Palmer fell with it, the reins yanking from his left hand. He clawed for a hold on the wooden side, raking his palm with sharp splinters. No good. He slammed onto the filthy cobbles, the breath struck from his body.

  The horse ploughed on, more panicked than ever, dragging the ruins of the cart through stalls and people, its high whinnies matched with its flailing hooves. Screams, shouts, curses, crashes followed it.

  Chest protesting, Palmer pulled himself to his feet, the whip still in his hand.

  If anyone paid him any mind, he couldn’t see it. He set off at a run down the nearest side street. The North Gate was no good now. Too much chaos. And he’d not get near that horse. No one would for a long while.

  Palmer fought his way through the gathering throng, almost all coming against him, pulled by the noise and excitement.

  He didn’t care. He pushed some folk aside, buffeted against others. A few choice oaths followed him.

  ‘What are you up to, knave?’ A patrolling guard stepped out in front of him, axe raised.

  Palmer stopped dead. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’ He held up the whip, breathless. ‘My master had left this behind in an alehouse. He promised to use it on me if I didn’t fetch it right away.’

  ‘As I’ll use this axe if you don’t show the good people of Oxford manners. Proceed at a civilised pace. You hear me?’

  ‘Of course, sir. Thank you, sir.’ Palmer nodded and bowed, then carried on as fast as he dared, aware of the guard’s eyes on him as he lost himself in the crowd again.

  ‘Stop that man!’ Geoffrey’s faint shout.

  Palmer ducked down another alley, smaller, quieter, before people could fix on him.

  Only an ancient woman sat outside one hovel, eyes vacant as she sat on an upturned bucket.

  He went past her to the last house, where he could turn again. A dead end met him. The last house jutted out and he’d not seen it. Forcurse it. He turned to run back. And froze.

  At the entrance to the alleyway, stock still, tail swishing, stood a huge brindle-and-white dog.

  Geoffrey’s dog, Talbot. Talbot barked long and hard. Then he locked eyes on Palmer and began to move towards him.

  Palmer glanced around. There was no way out. He had to go up. Shoving the whip handle between his teeth, he jumped for the chest-high wall of the low building next to him, the timbers giving him narrow holds.

  Talbot was halfway down the alley, still barking.

  Palmer clutched at the overhanging thatch roof. It crumbled away in his hand.

  Talbot closed in on him.

  His hand found a stronger piece. He pulled up. It broke too. He grabbed at another bit to stop his fall.

  And Talbot was there, a couple of feet below him, jumping and snapping for his legs and feet.

  Palmer took a new hold on the roof. The wall shook as the huge dog bounced off it in another high leap. The dog’s snout struck Palmer on the back of the leg. But the bite missed.

  He grabbed the whip from his mouth and struck down. ‘Back, you devil!’

  Talbot crouched back with a snarling howl.

  Palmer swiped again and the dog grabbed the lash in his jaws, uncaring of the sting. Palmer let go and the dog pulled back with its prize.

  It gave him a moment. Palmer grabbed at the roof further up, praying it was more solid. His hand closed on a beam and he pulled himself up onto the roof.

  He stood up as Talbot leaped and barked below him in fury. If he climbed across the roofs, he could let himself down to another alley, which gave him an exit. He could still make for a gate.

  Throwing down his filthy rags of a tunic for Talbot to seize, Palmer stepped from roof to roof, aware his foot could go through at any second. He got to the end of the row. All he needed to do was climb down. The dog would have to work its way around. He still had time.

  ‘I’d stop now if I were you, Palmer.’

  Geoffrey’s voice. Palmer looked to the alley behind.

  The bishop held a crossbow. Cocked right at him. He couldn’t waste time climbing. He had to risk a jump. He tensed for his leap.

  ‘Don’t do it, Palmer: I never miss. Remember?’

  Palmer did. Forcurse it, he did. He slowly held up his hands in surrender.

  He had no other choice.

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘Take Palmer to the slaughterhouse.’ Geoffrey dismounted as he gave his order.

  The guards holding Palmer’s bound arms acted at once, swearing as they dragged him across the deserted stable yard at Godstow Nunnery. He’d made himself a dead weight and with his feet landed a couple of good strikes on kneecaps and crotches. He knew his struggling would come to nothing. But he didn’t want to satisfy them with an easy catch.

  One man went ahead to open the door, holding it ajar as the others wrested Palmer inside. He forced his bent elbow into the guts of another and got a wheezy oath as reward.

  ‘He’s in, my lord!’ The man who called dripped with
sweat.

  Geoffrey walked in, Talbot quiet and watchful at his heels. The bishop held a length of rope coiled and ready in one hand. He threw a length up and over a beam and looped the other end around Palmer’s bound wrists.

  ‘The slaughterhouse?’ Palmer met his eye, inches from his own. ‘Trying to tell me something, Geoffrey?’

  ‘You will be the one telling me.’ Geoffrey tied off his hard knots, the rope gouging into Palmer’s wrists. He stepped back, the free end of the rope in both hands. ‘Let go of him, men.’

  The guards stepped away as he gave rapid, hard pulls on the rope.

  Palmer’s arms were hoisted over his head. His feet were still flat on the floor, though he doubted that would be for long. He kept his stare on Geoffrey.

  The bishop secured the free end of the rope around an upright beam. ‘Leave us.’ He waved the men out, pausing one with a raised hand. ‘And find me a blacksmith.’ His voice dropped as he gave the man other instructions that Palmer couldn’t catch.

  ‘As quickly as I can, my lord.’ The man left with a salute.

  Geoffrey booted the door closed behind him and clicked his fingers for his dog to slink to a corner. The stale air of the slaughterhouse gave up its strong smell of old blood and gone-off flesh. He moved back in front of Palmer.

  ‘Will you need the nuns to help you?’ asked Palmer.

  The bishop’s full-on blow cracked against his mouth. He shook his head to steady his sight. Blood trickled from his split lip, and he licked it off.

  ‘How dare you?’ Geoffrey smacked one fist into his open hand in his familiar pattern as he glared at Palmer. ‘How in the name of all that’s holy dare you jest? You murdered the King’s mistress in cold blood.’

  No, you did. And you want it on me. ‘Never.’

  ‘She was a girl, Palmer. A girl.’

  The other side of his face this time. Palmer shook his head again.

  Geoffrey went back to the secured rope, unknotted it and yanked it hard.

  Palmer’s feet near left the floor. He stretched his toes as long as he could. Already his arms protested. Already he found it hard to breathe.