by E. M. Powell
Geoffrey tied the hoist off and moved before him once more. ‘And you killed her in your bed, your filthy devil.’
‘I swear I did the lady Rosamund no harm.’ Not like you.
Another blow landed. His stomach this time. His feet swung from the floor, and he scrabbled hard to get support back, his mouth filling with acid spit.
Geoffrey brought his face close to Palmer’s. ‘No harm?’ The bishop reddened with rage. ‘You strangled her.’ He lowered his voice in his fury. ‘And you had lain with her. The infirmary sister could tell.’
Palmer’s head cleared in shock. ‘I didn’t—’
Geoffrey’s yank down on his right arm came swift. Brutal.
Palmer’s right shoulder burst into sudden agony. He screamed. Tried to bite back the sound. But his howls kept on. He scrabbled hard with his feet. Tried to take weight on his overstretched legs. Stop his limb from moving.
Geoffrey jabbed a finger in his face. ‘A lie. And you know it.’
Palmer fought for breath in the pain that held him. His shoulder was out. No question. ‘No. But I do have the truth.’ The truth about you.
Geoffrey dropped his hand. ‘Oh?’
‘Truth that is for Henry’s ears only.’ He steeled himself for a new blow.
But Geoffrey laughed. ‘I see. You, who have slain she whom the King loves, would like to have the company of his Grace alone.’
The fast punch crashed into Palmer’s ribs. He scarce felt it. His shoulder. All his shoulder.
The bishop went on. ‘Do you take me for a fool, Palmer? Do you take his Grace for a fool?’
Palmer strained to raise his head. ‘No. I swear I’m a loyal servant.’ The pain had him so hard he mumbled. ‘I have the truth. But on my life, I can’t tell you. I have to speak to his Grace.’
A knock came at the door. Talbot raised his head.
‘Enter.’ Geoffrey kept his stare on Palmer as a man carrying smithy tools came in. A couple of guards followed him, carrying a large, weighty table. ‘You know what to do?’ Geoffrey’s question brought a nod from the blacksmith.
‘Yes, my lord.’ The man crouched low to the floor, hammering an iron loop into the floor as the guards manoeuvred the table to one wall.
Geoffrey folded his arms and watched.
Palmer swallowed his spittle. Tried to steady his breath, bring his pain under control by shifting his straining feet.
The blacksmith moved to another corner and hammered in another hoop as the guards went back out, then wheeled in a cart.
Palmer could not see what it contained. But he could guess. ‘You didn’t have to go to all this trouble, Geoffrey.’ His voice came hoarse. ‘I’m sure all this is in place at the castle.’
The King’s bastard didn’t react.
‘Will that be all, my lord?’ The blacksmith straightened up, not looking at Palmer.
‘You are dismissed, fellow.’
Pale with relief, the smithy hurried out.
Geoffrey moved over to the secured rope and untied it.
Palmer’s feet came flat to the ground in a small relief. He didn’t dare move his shoulder. Not yet.
Then Geoffrey nodded to the guards. ‘Legs to the beams. Arms to the loops.’
The men acted on his order.
Their hands grabbed Palmer, cutting his bound hands, pulling at his arms. He clenched his jaw but his new howls broke through. A kick to the back of his knees sent him to the floor. Then they were on him again, forcing his arms and legs out and apart and securing him on his back on the floor.
‘That will be all.’
Through his pain, Palmer heard them leave. The table legs scraped across the floor.
Geoffrey stood above him and tipped the table carefully upside down on Palmer’s chest and stomach.
The pressure pushed down on his agonised shoulder, made each breath hard to catch. And it would only get worse.
Geoffrey hunkered down next to him. ‘And yes, Palmer. I have all sorts of helpful devices at the castle to get people to tell me things they don’t want to. But I want to handle this as discreetly as I can.’ He rapped the table hard with his knuckles. ‘And I have found that it’s the effect of an object on a body that matters. Not the object itself.’ He stood up with a click of his knees and disappeared from sight for a moment.
He came back into view, holding a large rock. He bent to place it carefully on the centre of the flat wood of the table.
In an instant, Palmer’s chest tightened, with every breath harder.
Geoffrey stood above him and folded his arms. ‘I have a whole cart of these stones, Palmer. It could take me several days to use them all.’ He hunkered down again. ‘And use them I will, until you tell me exactly who you are and why you brought murder in this holy place.’
Despite his agony, Palmer’s heart leapt in hope. Geoffrey knew exactly who’d brought murder. He had. But he didn’t know who Palmer really was. If he did, he’d have just shot him dead on the roof at Oxford. And Geoffrey desperately wanted to know. Wanted to know who was the person Henry had such trust in. And why. Geoffrey used this torture to try to find out. Then he mustn’t know about Theodosia. Tom. Matilde. So Palmer would say nothing. Nothing. He’d keep their secret until the end.
Geoffrey scowled. ‘And if you keep your silence, you will be crushed. Your ribs won’t hold out forever. Pressing is messy, Palmer. Messy.’
Palmer didn’t answer. His family would live. That was all that mattered.
Finally, Raoul de Faye had begun to receive the news he wanted. The news that his snares were closing, that all this time of careful planning was coming to fruition. Like Yvain, he would become the master of his love.
He crossed his solar to her portrait. ‘Eleanor, the day of your release draws ever nearer. We will be able to celebrate the feast of Pentecost together. We will have the greatest banquet, the finest wines.’
The glow of her skin in her likeness told him of her joy. She would soon forget Henry, esteem de Faye as her living lord. Henry would be dead to her.
De Faye walked to the window to catch the last light of the day, the muted chorus of sleepy birds floating to him on the soft breeze. Their song reminded him of yet another task.
He needed to think about which troubadours to summon. He should choose the most skilful at the telling of tales, the most harmonious in song. The recounting of his deeds of bravery, of ingenuity for his lady, should make people wonder if their ears had heard correctly. Should make them gasp aloud in wonder that so great and noble a hero lived amongst them. A tale to overshadow even the tale of the great Yvain.
Such a song should have a swooping, majestic tune. De Faye would have many ideas by the time the troubadours came before him. Like the one that came to him now as he watched the sunset. Humming to himself, he stepped back into the darkening room.
He went to the recess in the wall and opened his chest of stones. His collection. His invisible, loyal army.
The troubadours would have to weave the tale of what he, de Faye, had achieved as tightly as he’d had to weave his plans.
He picked up his favourite stone, its roughness a reminder of its strength.
No, not weaving: building. Stone by stone, a careful construction of walls around those Henry loved.
Like the greatest builder of cathedrals, de Faye was building an unshakable edifice. Because he knew exactly where to place each stone. And the purpose it served.
De Faye allowed himself a long sigh of satisfaction.
And like the greatest of cathedral builders, he was magnificent.
A hammering on the locked gate roused Theodosia from her fretful doze, along with a flickering light.
One of Ordell’s men stood there, torch in hand, a familiar figure next to him.
‘My Lord Abbot.’ She stood up from the pile of straw at once, Tom s
tirring to rise with her. Matilde slept on.
‘Unlock the door,’ said Remigius to the man.
Oh, God be praised. They were being released. A miracle. Joan must have been true to her word. Or even more miraculous: Benedict had returned to her, waited for them outside. She went to pick up Matilde, but the Abbot held up a warning finger.
‘You are not coming out, missy. I am coming in.’
His sharp words pierced her joyful relief, and she let her daughter be.
He hobbled in through the open gate, a Bible tucked under one arm.
‘What’s going on, Mam?’
‘Hush, Tom.’ Theodosia stayed her son with an unsteady hand to his shoulder.
‘Stay close,’ said the Abbot to Ordell’s man. ‘There may be trouble.’
‘Yes, my Lord Abbot.’ The man put the torch into a holder at the side of the gate and moved a short distance back into the shadows.
The Abbot lifted his hand to Theodosia in a blessing.
Theodosia immediately joined her hands and bowed her head, grateful for this comfort but with her shoulders knotting at the Abbot’s mention of trouble.
‘Amen.’ His gaze roved over her, his upper lip beaded with sweat. ‘I see you at least possess the grace to allow God’s blessing.’
His unease only increased her own. ‘Yes, my Lord Abbot. I always ask God for help in times of distress. And this is indeed one of those times.’
‘You will have to do more than that.’ Remigius readjusted his hold on his Bible to take it in both hands. ‘You will have to make a full and frank confession.’
Theodosia raised her gaze to his. ‘Confession? Of course. I make it regularly but I will make another here if—’
‘Do you choose to mock the seriousness of the sacrament?’
His interruption made little sense. ‘I do not mock you, Abbot. I truly do not.’
‘Then let me be clear: you must make your confession for the death of Lady Ordell.’
He may as well have slapped her. She stared in disbelief at him.
His plump fingers tightened on his Bible. ‘And for the dark arts you have been practising.’
Theodosia could find no words.
‘Then you refuse?’ The Abbot’s face flushed dark, and sweat pebbled his brow.
‘Oh, no, I do not.’ She desperately sought her response. ‘It is only that I—I cannot make my confession to God for these dreadful sins because I have not committed them.’
Remigius drew a disgusted breath in through his teeth. ‘I thought as much. I said to Lord Ordell that you would not desist from your wickedness. That you would refuse to unburden your soul.’
‘Not for those terrible sins. For I swear to you, they are the sins of another.’ Mind whirling, she bowed her head once more, that he should at least know of her respect for the Church’s authority. ‘I understand that means I will remain here until my name and those of my children are cleared. But I cannot use a lie in the holy sacrament of Confession to secure our release. That would be further sin.’
The Abbot shook his head, tutting. ‘My visit here is not to enable your release, woman. The only purpose of my coming here is to try to stop your soul and those of your children from being damned to hell for all eternity. It is the imminent trial that will decide upon your innocence or guilt.’
Theodosia’s gaze shot to his. ‘A trial?’
‘Lord Ordell and I will convene a court. At which you will be tried.’ The Abbot jabbed his Bible at her for emphasis. ‘On the charges of heresy and sorcery.’
But Ordell’s trial, his judgment, would be driven by revenge. Not justice. She forced out a whisper. ‘The children too?’
‘Of course.’ Remigius’s mouth curled down, his face damp with a fresh sheen of contempt. ‘They also need to be examined.’
‘But they are—’
‘Under grave suspicion. As are you.’
The walls seemed to push closer. Theodosia fought her panic. ‘But should we not wait for my husband’s return, my lord? If he comes home to find his wife and children found guilty and imprisoned on a judgment that is not just, he will not rest.’ She pulled in a breath, aware of her rising tone to this man of God. ‘And he will appeal to the highest power. Even King Henry himself, if he has to.’
‘Palmer would petition his Grace, eh?’ The Abbot’s eyes rounded in his fleshy face. ‘I doubt that very much. We will not be postponing for such a preposterous reason. Your trial will take place once Lord Ordell and I have arranged and conducted the funeral and burial of his wife with all ceremony and mourning.’
‘Which will be a time of great sorrow, and I will pray for him with all my heart. But the funerary rites will be completed in a short couple of days. There are surely many questions to be answered before the truth is established.’ Her words came fast. Too fast. But she did not care. ‘My husband’s sister said she would endeavour to find those answers. You must allow her more—’
‘Enough.’ His order cut her off. ‘Joan Palmer will have only that time.’
Hours. Mere hours. It would not be enough.
‘There will be judgment. And if you are found guilty, there will be no prison.’ He gave a sombre nod. ‘For the punishment for sorcery is death by the flames. It must be so.’
The room had no air, turned darker around her. ‘No. No! You cannot.’ Death. By the flames. ‘Not my children. Not them. They should not be part of this!’ Man of God or not, she stepped towards him, hands flung up to beseech him.
Paling at her approach, the Abbot raised his Bible and held it between them as he staggered back from her. ‘Enough, I said.’
‘Forgive me, my Lord Abbot, I mean no harm.’ Theodosia fell to her knees, clutched at his robe. ‘But they have done nothing. Nothing!’
‘Unhand me, woman.’ The Abbot tugged at his clothing. ‘I need to take my leave. My work here is done.’
‘Not yet, my Lord Abbot. Please.’ She clung on. ‘You must grant mercy to them!’
His sweated face contorted in fear. ‘I said, let go, vile creature!’ He clawed at her coif, wrenching it from her head.
‘For them. If only for them. You must. I care not for myself.’
‘Get off him, woman!’ came the guard’s shout.
‘Begone!’ Remigius grabbed her by the hair, twisting it hard as he fought for his own balance.
Theodosia did not care. She kept her hold. ‘Please! In God’s name!’
‘Let go of my Mam!’ Tom launched himself at the Abbot.
‘Guard! They’ve been possessed! Help me!’
The gate crashed open, and a hand pulled her off Remigius, her hair ripping out by its roots as he did so.
Remigius grabbed at the gate for support to lurch out as the guard sent her spinning in a blow and kicked out at Tom.
The gate slammed shut, and the guard locked it again.
‘Lord Ordell will hear of this.’ The Abbot’s furious, breathless face showed through the bars in the torchlight. ‘You could not keep your wrongness hidden for more than five minutes.’
He limped off with the guard, their voices fading with the light.
‘Mam?’ Tom put his small hand over hers.
‘I am fine, Tom.’ Trembling without cease in horror, Theodosia pulled him to her and carried him over to Matilde. ‘I am fine.’
‘Then why are you shaking?’
Theodosia had no words for her son. She pressed him and Matilde tight against her.
All would be well. Benedict’s words when he left. She’d hoped, trusted with all her heart it would be.
Now it was not, in ways so terrible she had not even imagined them.
Theodosia held her children, covered their little heads in kisses, tried to regain her composure. ‘I am fine.’ And started to pray. Benedict had to return. He had to.
If he d
id not, then their only hope rested with Joan. And she only had a couple of days to find the truth. An impossibly small number of hours.
And if she did not, Ordell would be waiting with his terrible justice.
Chapter Twenty-One
Palmer no longer felt separate wounds. Instead, the world was pain and he lay in it. Each breath an effort that began and ended in agony. And yet gave him little air. He’d lost count of the number of stones Geoffrey had put on his chest.
The latest was placed on his head, crushing it so hard that his blood roared, pounded in his ears, made his eyes push from their sockets.
He forced a blink. No. No stone on his head. His mind played tricks on his slowly crushed body. He didn’t know if he had lain here for a day or a year. But the pain in his head pounded real, the weight of the stones forcing his blood to torment his own body.
Geoffrey came and went, adding yet another weight, asking the same questions over and over.
Who are you? Who sent you? How did you get the King’s trust? Who are you working for?
The shouted questions echoed in his head. Geoffrey must be back.
Palmer blinked again. No. He lay here alone. A clicking noise had his heavily thumping heart labour faster, harder. Rats would be seeking him as he lay here. The pain in his head thudded more. He bit down hard against it. His jaws wouldn’t shut. He knew why. The clicks were not rats, but his own teeth chattering together. Yet his limbs couldn’t feel the cold, had taken on the deadness of frostbite. Couldn’t feel his clothes either, though they were wet and soaked against his body. Wet with his own stinking wastes that his pressed body hadn’t been able to hold, adding shame to his pain.
Geoffrey had smiled. ‘I do believe you’re frightened, Palmer.’
And still he’d said nothing. He’d kept his mind on Theodosia. Her grey eyes. Pale skin. Her soft murmur of a voice that answered him in love. Tom. A yelling bruiser who had grabbed his heart the minute he’d had sight of him. Matilde. So quiet. So small. Bringing him a new joy. He hadn’t betrayed them. They were still safe.
A new pain sparked through his deadened legs. Cramp. Sudden, vicious spasms.
