by E. M. Powell
Old Lucine worked in there as usual, folding garments by the light of one small candle.
‘Lucine?’
She started and looked over at the door. ‘Oh, you did startle me, sir.’ She held up a robe of Rosamund’s. ‘I came in here as usual. I couldn’t think of what else to do.’ Her voice threatened to break into sobs.
‘I know what you mean. I think the lady Rosamund would be very grateful.’ Stanton forced a smile. ‘I didn’t sleep much last night. Could you fetch me a sup of wine?’
‘Of course, sir. I’ll bring it to you directly.’
‘Thank you, Lucine.’ Stanton returned to his room and watched the sky change colour, as he had so often in Rosamund’s arms. Impossible that he’d never do that again with her.
With a quick knock, Lucine entered with a jug of wine and a goblet, her face damp with recent tears. She placed the objects on a side table. ‘There you are, sir.’
Her eyes went to the window, where the gallows stood out in the new light. A fresh wave of sobs broke from her. ‘Terrible goings-on, sir. Terrible.’
Stanton brought an awkward hand to her arm. Old as his Nan, yet she wept like a little girl. ‘Try not to upset yourself, Lucine. At least Rosamund is getting justice.’
‘But my poor lady. A terrible end. And she’ll never escape the fires of hell, dying committing adultery. My poor lady.’ She stifled her sobs with a kerchief and left, her pattens loud on the floor.
Stanton poured out a large goblet of wine and drank deep. Lucine’s words brought more horrible imaginings. Rosamund, with the devil heaping red-hot coals on her fair flesh for all time. With a hard shudder, he refilled his cup and drank again.
Wait. Committing adultery? Rosamund wasn’t married. And he’d never told Lucine that Palmer was. So who did? He set his cup down and went to follow her to ask her.
Wait again. The tight-lipped Benedict Palmer had never spoken about his wife around here. And the King had ordered complete secrecy about Palmer and Theodosia’s marriage. Did that mean that Palmer had cracked under Geoffrey’s torture?
Ignoring the goblet, Stanton grabbed for the jug and drank again as the sweat took him over once more. If Palmer had started spewing his secrets to Geoffrey, what else had he said? Palmer knew all about him, Stanton and Rosamund. If any of it reached Henry’s ears, then he’d probably be a dead man too. Or at least one with no balls. He had to speak to Palmer, find out if he might be next for Geoffrey’s work on his body. If he was, he could leave here on a fast horse and never come back.
Stanton drained the jug. He’d wait until Geoffrey and Henry were safely at mass, then make for the slaughterhouse where they held Palmer. He knew he didn’t have long and took a huge risk approaching Geoffrey’s prisoner.
But he was at far bigger risk if the tale of him and Rosamund had got out.
Stanton had to know. While he still had time to escape.
Palmer pulled on the chains that held him with his good arm. Still nothing. The beam overhead had been built to hold beasts far heavier, far stronger than him. And he had little strength left. But he had to try, no matter how much his body hurt. And hurt it did, his long hours chained like this bringing a mix of suffocation and unstopping, growing pain through his body.
It would soon be over. But that gave him no comfort. The agony Geoffrey planned for him would be first. No mind. Far worse the agony of never seeing Theodosia and his children again. Going to his grave marked as a traitor. He held a desperate hope that she would never believe it, whatever anyone said. But Tom and Matilde were so young. They would have no truth of their own to keep strong. Just the word of their mother, while the rest of the world said their father had no honour. Only a price.
Faint voices came from outside. They were coming for him this early? He tried to raise his head, show he didn’t fear them. The muscles in his neck would scarce respond.
The door opened.
Hugo Stanton stood there, a jug in hand. What in the name of Christendom did he want?
‘Thank you,’ said Stanton to the unseen guards. ‘I will speak with Palmer in private.’
Stanton entered, closing the door behind him. He peered at Palmer in the gloom. ‘It’s me, Stanton.’
Palmer forced open his dried lips. ‘I know who you are.’ A rough croak. He found spittle to talk. ‘Has Geoffrey sent you on some fool’s errand?’
‘No. I swear.’ Stanton moved close to Palmer. His face lost all colour as his look went to Palmer’s bare chest, then back to his face, his wrongly shaped shoulder. ‘My God. What have they done to you?’
Palmer glanced down. Huge bruises from the pressing made most of his skin black. He could tell from the stiffness of his face that it probably wasn’t much better. ‘You didn’t answer me, Stanton.’
With a nervous glance at the door, Stanton dropped his tone low. ‘I’ve told the guards I’m here on Geoffrey’s orders. To try to persuade you to repent while he’s at Mass.’
‘Your real reason?’
‘I came to see if I could bring you a shred of comfort.’ He held up the jug with a hand that shook.
Palmer tried to laugh. ‘Faith, you’re a poor liar, Stanton. Get out of my sight.’
‘Please. I really have water.’ He held the jug to Palmer’s lips.
‘Then I thank you.’ Palmer opened his mouth as Stanton tipped the jug. The cold liquid slaked his aching thirst. He gulped it down to empty, aware it’d be his last.
Stanton took it away. That he had more to say showed plain in his face.
‘I’m innocent, Stanton.’ Palmer’s voice came stronger. ‘And I could do with help to escape from here.’
The young messenger flushed. ‘I wish I could, but you’re chained up, and there’s no key, and the guards—’
‘I jested about rescue, man.’
‘Oh.’
‘I’m grateful for the water, Stanton. Very grateful. Now tell me what you want here. And then go.’
‘I wanted to know if you told Geoffrey or—or the King about me and my—my lover.’ Stanton flushed deeper and his voice dropped to a fear-filled whisper. ‘I was with her the night she was killed.’
‘I haven’t told them. And I won’t.’
Stanton let out a long breath. ‘Then it’s my turn to thank you.’ His gaze roved over Palmer’s injuries again, and he gulped. ‘I couldn’t have kept quiet if Geoffrey had done all that to me. And when I heard he’d got the truth about your marriage from you, I thought he’d got everything.’
‘Geoffrey got nothing from me, Stanton. The King told him about Theodosia.’ Palmer forced a tight smile. ‘I kept our secret.’
Stanton frowned. ‘Then why did Lucine cry to me about Rosamund dying committing adultery?’
‘Lucine? Rosamund’s maid?’
Stanton nodded.
‘But how would a servant know—’ Palmer was back in his room at Godstow, listing in his head who might be trying to kill Rosamund. A servant. Listed. Then dismissed, his thoughts skipping on to Stanton. Then Geoffrey.
‘Are you all right?’ Stanton’s brow knotted in worry.
Palmer’s heart thudded. But not with pain.
Rosamund’s servant. ‘Old Lucine,’ she’d called her. Seen only by him at a distance at Woodstock, bundled up against the cold, shawl to her mouth. After the fire in the tower, Lucine’s face blackened with soot and ash, half-concealed by her uncovered grey hair as she hugged Rosamund in the smouldering darkness.
Henry’s shout at him last night: ‘Hiding in plain sight!’
Just like Palmer and Theodosia had done that day in Knaresborough.
‘Sir Benedict?’
The Godstow bells rang out, announcing the end of Mass. The sound of the footsteps of the people going about their business filtered through.
Palmer closed his eyes. Knaresborough. The sound of the bells, the church bells
on a clear, cold morning. Footfall on stone, as the murderers approached him and Theodosia. Wooden pattens on stone, worn by the woman who betrayed them.
Oh, you fool, Palmer.
‘Sir Benedict!’
Palmer opened his eyes to the frantic-looking messenger. ‘Stanton, describe Lucine to me. Now.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
‘You seem so peaky, Lucine.’ The Godstow sister spoke over the hum of muted voices in the busy refectory as she handed over a bowl of steaming pottage. ‘At least try a little. It’s nice and hot.’
Gwen Prudhomme took the bowl, forcing another tear to her eye. ‘God bless you, Sister.’
She walked over to a quiet table near the window, shoulders slumped. This grief-stricken business was wearing her out.
First, all the weeping and wailing when they’d told her the news of the little whore’s death. That were hard enough.
Gwen took a spoon of the pottage and tried not to wince. A pig’s knuckle would make a far better meal, but she had to show her gratitude to the sisters for this bland, vegetable-filled slop.
Oh, how she’d wept, when she’d wanted to cheer. She’d finally done it. Not that she hadn’t tried. That stormy night. Climbing in through that window from the room next door, clutching at the wet ivy. No mean feat at her age. Bad luck the little madam woke at the wrong time.
‘How are you this morning, Lucine?’
Another sister, pausing as she walked past. All sad looks and a shrivelled mouth.
‘Bearing up, Sister. Thank you.’
‘God bless you.’
Gone again.
Gwen took another spoon, chewed at a piece of cabbage. Then the worst luck of all: Sir Benedict bloody Palmer reappears. Summoned by the King, no less. It could’ve been a disaster. But she steadied her nerve, kept out of his way. Not that it mattered. When you were an old scrubber, no one glanced at you twice. Especially not a young man.
‘To build you up.’ Another of the sisters, apron over her habit, placed a cup of creamy milk in front of her.
That was more like it. ‘Thank you, Sister. I’ll try a few sups.’
‘Make sure you do.’
Tipping her head back to drink, she looked out the window. Saw men working on the gallows that waited for Palmer. Like the Bishop of Lincoln’s noose waited for his neck.
Gwen thrilled inside. It had turned into a disaster, all right. But not for her. She went back to her pottage.
That leopard had been a good try. She’d had to think fast that day. But she’d seen the fierce animal lots of times, watched how the gates worked. Talked to the old rattle-pate who cried every day about how it had ate his son. It should’ve ate Rosamund. And Palmer. Or at least the bits that kept them alive.
She took another mouthful of milk. And just like the failure with the attack in Rosamund’s bedroom, the fire in the tower should not have failed. Drugging the guards was easy. They liked her regular, private treats of stolen wine. They trusted her. She held in a smirk as she put down her cup. Fools.
With them out cold on the floor, the fire she’d set went up beautifully. She’d gone to a dark corner of the courtyard where she could watch. Her wish to smirk faded. Then out staggers Palmer, ringing that bell and waking the whole place and running in there like a simpleton.
Oh, how she’d prayed for that excuse for a rope to snap and Rosamund’s neck with it. But no. And then Palmer keeps his neck in one piece too. Gwen held in a snort as she took up another spoonful of pottage.
The men at the gallows slowly pulled up a sack of grain to test the rope.
Not long now. Gwen took another spoonful.
But it had turned out nicely in the end. Rosamund’s own sighing and pining for Palmer had given Gwen her idea, her clever, clever plan.
Palmer had tucked into the drugged wine she’d left for him, like the hogs of guards had. She’d gone to fetch Rosamund to his bed.
When she’d opened the door, Rosamund had still been whoring with Hugo Stanton. Usually, he had a young man’s quickness and would be done and gone. Never mind. Stanton wouldn’t have noticed if Gwen had entered and danced a carole—he was that intent on his work. She’d just waited outside until they’d finished. And off he’d trotted, from Rosamund’s room to his own, a dopey grin on his stupid face. Gwen had entered, knocking softly.
‘My lady?’
‘Hell’s teeth. What is it now, Lucine?’ Rosamund lay in bed, her face pink and sweated from her squiring from Stanton. ‘I’m tired now. I want to sleep.’
Oh, she’d sleep all right. Gwen put on a bright grin, kept her voice hushed. ‘I’m sorry, my lady. But you’ll never guess who sought me out.’
‘No, I won’t.’ Rosamund yawned. ‘I can’t be bothered with your dull stories now. Tell me in the morning.’
Gwen kept her grin. ‘I think you will be bothered, my lady.’ She brought her hands together in delight. ‘Sir Benedict Palmer asked me if you would come to his chamber.’
The silly little fish bit.
Rosamund sat bolt upright. ‘Finally! I knew he could not continue to resist me. Quick—my fur cloak.’ She giggled. ‘Think of his reaction when he finds me naked beneath it.’
Gwen hurried to act, her hands shaking as she helped Rosamund to fasten it up.
‘Why, Lucine.’ Rosamund raised her perfect arcs of brows. ‘I believe you are as excited as I. Your hands tremble so.’
‘Only a little worried, my lady. What if you are caught?’
‘I am sure you will cover for me.’ A frown clouded her look. ‘Oh. I just remembered.’ A blush crept in her cheeks. ‘I should probably wash. Hugo and I have . . . dallied.’
Gwen shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t worry, my lady. I don’t think Sir Benedict would care. He was very forceful in his demands that you come to him now.’
Desire lit the whore’s eyes. ‘Forceful? Oh, Lucine.’ She gripped Gwen’s hand tightly.
‘Come.’
Gwen picked an onion skin from her teeth. Some folk might say Rosamund followed her like a lamb to the slaughter. They’d obviously never tried to get a skittish lamb to do as it was told. As for Rosamund? Well, she’d slunk through the corridors with her, more like a dog at her heel, obedient as anything.
Gwen opened the door, ushered her in. Watched Rosamund’s quick steps to Palmer’s bedside, unfastening her robe as she did so, letting it slide to the floor as she knelt beside him.
Then a dirty oath, followed by her accusing frown at Gwen.
‘He’s fast asleep, Lucine. How could he?’
Gwen tutted. ‘Then try a kiss, my lady. That’ll wake him. And once he sees you waiting for him, there’ll be no stopping him.’ Her hand went to the thin leather strap in the pouch at her belt.
Rosamund stifled a giggle. ‘You’re very wicked, Lucine.’
‘Mm-hmm.’
And the silly trollop had done exactly as Gwen had said.
Rosamund had never heard her coming. The King’s mistress had whispered filthy longings to the unconscious Palmer as she lowered her mouth to his. The last words she ever spoke.
Gwen finished the cup of milk in a long draw. She wasn’t very strong, Rosamund. She’d thrashed about a bit as the strap had closed around her neck, cutting off her screams.
But Gwen had held her grasp, held it tight, tight, tight. She’d lost so much, thanks to the sleeping cur in the bed. And she’d fetched, carried, wiped, mopped, sponged and cleaned for the ungrateful girl who only thought with her cunny. She turned over her palms. Still a bit of a weal, but that couldn’t be helped. Not that anyone would notice. Which was just how she liked it.
A young lay sister came up to her, ready to take her bowl and cup. ‘I’m sorry. I thought you were finished.’ The maid nodded to her bowl.
Gwen smiled. ‘I’m not quite done, pet.’ But nearly. Nearly.
/> The girl returned her smile. Then stared past Gwen out the window. ‘I wonder what the excitement is about now?’
Gwen turned to look. And caught her breath.
Hugo Stanton babbled fast and quiet with the men around the gallows.
The one in charge blew a short whistle through his fingers.
The rest downed tools.
Gwen’s hands tightened. The sack of grain swung uselessly in the morning breeze as the man in charge hurried with Stanton to the main building.
Gwen scrambled to her feet with a loud scrape of her pattens.
‘Are you alright, Lucine?’
‘On second thoughts, I’m done.’ She made for the door, careless of her noise. Something had gone very wrong. It was time she left.
‘Open that door! Now!’
Palmer knew the approaching voice. Geoffrey.
He stood as straight as he could. Stanton’s message to Henry that Lucine was Gwendolyn Prudhomme, the woman who had betrayed him and Theodosia, might have fallen on deaf ears.
Or worse, Palmer was wrong again. But he’d shout that evil woman’s name, what she’d done, over and over. Even if it brought his last action.
The door burst open.
Geoffrey stood there, breathing hard, a coiled rope in his hand.
Palmer opened his mouth to call out.
Then Henry pushed past Geoffrey. ‘Help me get Palmer down. Quickly.’ He moved to Palmer’s side.
Henry knew. He knew. But the words broke from Palmer anyway. ‘Gwen Prudhomme, your Grace. Gwen, the woman from Knaresborough. The one who went to—’
‘I know, my boy. I know. Hurry, Geoffrey.’ Henry put an arm around Palmer’s waist to take his weight as Geoffrey reached up to unshackle his arms. ‘The order is out to capture her.’
Geoffrey unlocked Palmer’s good arm first.
‘Put that around my shoulder,’ said Henry.
‘I’ll be fine, your Grace.’ Palmer winced as he lowered his twisted muscles.
‘Do as you’re told.’ Geoffrey worked to unlock Palmer’s injured arm. ‘Your legs won’t hold you. Not after all this time.’
