The Blood of the Fifth Knight

by E. M. Powell

  Palmer complied. But he’d prove the King’s bastard wrong.

  Then his other arm sprang free.

  Geoffrey was right.

  Palmer’s knees folded under him like a newborn foal’s.

  ‘Steady. Steady.’ Henry took his weight as Geoffrey held his wounded shoulder.

  They lowered him to the ground as a terrible shaking took hold of him.

  ‘Don’t worry. That’ll pass.’ Geoffrey gave him a humourless smile. ‘I know my work well.’ But he pulled his own cloak from his shoulders and laid it over Palmer’s filthy, shuddering body.

  ‘We’ll get you moved to the infirmary as soon as possible.’ Henry laid his hand over Palmer’s uninjured one and squeezed it hard. ‘I’m sorry, my boy. I should never have doubted you.’

  ‘But I failed.’ Palmer’s words came through rattling teeth.

  ‘As did I, Palmer,’ said Geoffrey, grim and unsmiling. ‘I looked the wrong way too. So wrong, I was happy to put you to death.’

  ‘Neither of you has failed.’ Henry shook his head. ‘Your King lives.’ His glance went from one to another. ‘And that is all that matters.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘That woman is from common stock. I’ll wager she works for another. She is the key as to who that treacherous hound is.’

  Running footsteps came from outside.

  A breathless Hugo Stanton burst in through the door. ‘The servant Lucine. She was in the refectory but left in a great hurry. No one has seen her! She’s disappeared!’

  ‘God’s eyes!’ Henry shot to his feet. ‘She knows we’re onto her. She must be found!’

  Geoffrey rose too. ‘I will lead the search. She will not escape me.’

  ‘I’m coming too.’ Palmer tried to sit up.

  Henry stood in his way. ‘You’re in no state to do anything, Palmer.’ He nodded to his son. ‘Go, Geoffrey.’

  Geoffrey strode to the door, unsheathing his sword.

  Palmer’s body still wouldn’t respond. He cursed himself for a maid.

  ‘And Geoffrey?’ said Henry.

  The bishop paused.

  ‘Take her alive. Whether she goes by the name Lucine or Gwen, or any other, she will give up every one of her secrets.’

  Geoffrey nodded. ‘She will. I can promise you that.’

  ‘Before I have her executed.’ Henry’s voice tightened in fury. ‘Now go. Every minute she’s gone is a minute further from my grasp.’

  ‘Yes, your Grace.’

  And Geoffrey was gone.

  Gwen stole along the deserted corridor, heart knocking in her chest.

  Shouts and calls echoed through the building, along with the crash of doors and rapid footsteps.

  ‘Lucine! Show yourself !’

  ‘Has anyone seen the servant Lucine?’

  ‘Find the lady Rosamund’s servant!’

  They sought her.

  Fools. Her pursuers made so much noise, they helped her to know where they were. And she knew where she was. Raoul de Faye had trained her to work out the layout of any building she lived in. Which passages led to where. The entrances, the exits. Those overlooked. Those hidden. Like at Woodstock. Like here at Godstow.

  She slipped through the narrow side door into the deserted chapel. There were a number of ways in or out of there. Though no prayer times were due, she still swept her glance to make sure the pews didn’t hold anybody.

  Good. She hurried to conceal herself behind a pillar to listen out again.

  Horseshoes on stone. Even better. That meant the King’s men assembled to ride out. They’d assumed she’d fled this place. As people always expected.

  De Faye again: ‘Do the expected and expect to be found out. Always take the unexpected action.’

  Gwen wiped the sweat from her top lip. Well, she’d done nothing expected. Had succeeded in murdering Henry’s mistress under his own scarlet nose.

  The sound of the horses’ hooves came together in a regular pattern. They were setting off. And she couldn’t stay in here much longer. There would be further searches; she didn’t doubt it.

  Yet there were secret places that the nuns used in the old times of attack. Only they knew about them. And so did Gwen. She shouldn’t. But an ancient sister, her mind sharp with the past, but a dribbling know-nothing in the now, had shown her.

  A place to hide, then flee from here later, unseen. She gave a tight smile. The unexpected. The hoof beats grew fainter. She could move soon.

  She looked forward to telling de Faye of her success, of the good news. Rosamund dead as ordered. She would collect the huge payment promised by him. Like the reward she so nearly had her hands on in Knaresborough. Until Palmer had got in the way. Like he nearly had again, the cur. But she’d still done it. And nearly taken him down as she did so.

  Oh, she’d been so close. And such a pleasing way for him to go. Handsome he might be. But nobody hanged well. By the end, those dark eyes would’ve bulged like a frog’s, and his handsome face would’ve swollen to the size and colour of a blown-up pig’s bladder. But he lived, curse him.

  All fell quiet now.

  She moved off with quiet steps, headed for the wooden confessional that had a false back, a space behind it in which she could hide.

  Passing before the candlelit side altar immediately before, she stopped. She’d seen the fabulous object that rested on it many times during Mass. The jewelled gold frame that held the blood of Thomas Becket. Worth a fortune. And what had her dealings with Palmer robbed her of ? Her life’s work, that’s what. And condemned her to becoming the workhorse of the Manser family. The despised, penniless servant of a Jew.

  Gwen stepped close, drawn by the glow of the huge stones and precious metal.

  Well, her old wealth might be lost. But look at what she had found. She picked up the frame and eased the vial of blood from it, tucking the jewelled object into her belt pouch. She held the small glass container up to the candlelight and caught the deep glow of its contents. She shuddered. Blood belonged in veins, where it had use. The nuns could keep it, horrible thing that it was. She placed the vial on top of the altar and started for her hiding place.

  The weight of the frame in her belt pouch sent a prickle of delight through her. This would be her very own miracle, good Christian woman that she was. Her reward from the Martyr himself. The Martyr whom she’d heard de Faye curse often for Henry’s victory over the rebellion.

  She halted.

  What a trophy to bring back to de Faye: the blood from the skull of Thomas Becket himself. He would be sure to grant her even more riches.

  Gwen turned back to the altar and scooped the vial into her pouch too.

  Then she hurried over to the confessional.

  Palmer lay on the bed in the infirmary at Godstow, propped up with a number of hard straw-filled pillows, poultices on his damaged shoulder, chest and stomach. He had clean breeches on clean skin. He should be grateful. That was what he kept telling himself as he woke and slept through the day, then woke again to receive mouthfuls of pottage fed to him by an infirmary sister, sips of small beer.

  The tall Abbess Dymphna came into the long, narrow room, carrying a wooden basin. Her gaze sought him out. After a quick word with one of the sisters, she walked down to him.

  ‘Sir Benedict.’ She gave him a nod of approval. ‘You appear closer to godly.’

  ‘I would’ve done it myself.’

  Dymphna placed the basin on the end of the bed. ‘You were in no fit state to change yourself or wash yourself. Not with that shoulder.’

  ‘I don’t usually have women to clean and feed me.’

  ‘You mean nuns?’ She gave him a broad grin. ‘A loss of power is a terrible thing for a man, Sir Benedict. But I could not tell the swollen bruising from the filth plastered on your skin.’ Another firm nod. ‘It had to be done. And when I’d cleared it?’ Sh
e tutted. ‘God between us and all harm. The bishop nearly killed you.’

  Palmer glanced down at the poultices covering his heavily marked chest and stomach. ‘He wasn’t far off.’

  ‘The comfrey should have started its work.’ She rolled her sleeves back to free her wrists and hands. ‘I will check when I change the poultices.’ She removed the damp linen from his skin, putting it to one side of the basin as she judged his wounds.

  ‘The swelling is less.’ She gave another firm nod. ‘Good. Now I have to see to that shoulder.’

  ‘You mean put it back in?’

  Yet another nod.

  ‘I was afraid you did.’

  Dymphna bent forward to ease him upright. She handed him a length of leather, scarred with dozens of teeth marks. He placed it in his mouth.

  She put one knee up on the edge of the bed, propped it under his arm. ‘Now, don’t worry, Sir Benedict. I have plenty strength for this. I even got a cow’s leg back in once.’ She grasped his arm. Moved it up.

  Stifling a yell, Palmer bit down on the leather, adding his marks. Then she moved his limb to one side, her fingers probing, pushing. He bit harder, keeping his silence.

  She moved it to the other. Palmer gave a strangled oath, threw his head back against the pain.

  Pushed, pulled. ‘Almost have it.’

  Then with a click, it was in.

  ‘There.’ Dymphna stood back.

  He spat the leather from his mouth. ‘The bitch!’

  Her heavy eyebrows went up. ‘That’s my thanks?’

  ‘No!’ He shot to his feet. ‘Outside there!’

  Dusk left little light. But a slight robed figure stole from the walls, headed for the nearby woods.

  ‘She waited, forcurse her. Hid.’ He grabbed for his boots. ‘She let them all go first.’

  ‘You go.’ Dymphna thrust a set of clothes to him. ‘I’ll tell the King. She can’t get away.’

  Lord Nicholas Ordell securely bolted the door to his solar against any unwanted eyes. Exhausted though he was from lack of sleep and yet more hours with the Abbot, he still had a task to perform.

  The many bags of coins left by Williamson sat on the floor next to a large locked chest.

  Ordell moved over to it and knelt before it. Pulling the chain hung around his neck out from under his clothes, he freed the key it held and unlocked the chest. He lifted out the board he used for counting and laid it beside the chest.

  As it had done so many times in the last two years, his spirit panged. So pitiful a hoard compared to what it had been. Williamson’s latest collection of payments would only increase it by a little. Even with the excessive amounts that were being leveraged from the people of Cloughbrook.

  It still had to be counted and checked. He trusted Williamson, but only up to a point. As one could trust anyone. It might give him a modicum of comfort. His jaw set. But it would take him a great deal longer now that he did it alone. Cecily used to help him count them out, though he would always add up the amounts. She could not be relied upon to give an accurate figure.

  He opened the first bag and laid the coins out in short, neat rows on the counting board, putting each one down with a clear snap.

  His gaze kept returning to the meagre amounts in the chest below.

  Cecily’s fault. She who had urged him to support Queen Eleanor’s rebellion.

  ‘Nicholas,’ she’d say. ‘King Henry ordered the death of the great Archbishop Thomas Becket. We owe it to his sainthood to rise up against his enemies.’

  Sainthood or no, the opportunity for great wealth proved irresistible. So he had contributed vast amounts towards it, confident of the greatest returns.

  Why had he listened to her? The rebellion had gone sour. In the cruellest of twists, the fates had decided that Becket fought on the side of Henry after all. Ordell would never recoup the vast amounts, no matter how hard he taxed his lazy people. And it would be years, if ever, before he filled his coffers again.

  Cecily had paid for her misguided advice. He would administer his displeasure on her every time they counted up their depleted fortunes. But he should never, ever have followed the advice of a woman. He should have remembered it would be riven with flaws. And now Cecily was dead. Dead in a further cruel twist: cut down by evil at a shrine to Becket.

  The final amount only angered him further. He tipped the coins into the chest and slammed the lid.

  Once he’d locked it again, he went to his reading desk, palming his tiredness from his eyes.

  Only one comfort remained to him in this sorry shambles: he had found the sorceress. His diligent reading revealed more and more about how these creatures operated. He would carry on for an hour tonight. No matter how much his exhaustion called him to his rest.

  He took his seat before the next lengthy document that awaited him and began to read.

  Many, many passages on dreams and visions. These did not help him.

  Then finally, a section that held words that jumped to his sight from the page. ‘Evil spirits. Noctiluca, a witch-ruler of the night.’

  He craned right to the page, eager for what he would find.

  A terrible rage overtook him as he went through it line by line. Yes, it mentioned wicked assemblies that took place in the dead of night. Yes, it mentioned witches feasting their fill with the chopped-up bodies of infants.

  But the scribe claimed all such claims untrue. Finished with the line: ‘It is only poor old women and the most simple-minded kinds of men who enter into these beliefs.’

  Ordell’s fists clenched. Him? Simple-minded?

  He would burn this nonsense, this nonsense written by . . .

  The late hour meant he had to check. Ordell froze. John of Salisbury. The man had been a secretary to Thomas Becket.

  Ordell grabbed his knife and slashed it through the mocking words. Again and again until the thing lay in unreadable ruins before him.

  He would not be mocked. The evil was real. It had robbed him of his manhood. It had come to his home, borne by the female vessel of a sorceress.

  With a hard sweep of his arm, Ordell sent the shredded remains of the lies scattering to the floor.

  Theodosia Palmer would be punished.

  Whatever Becket’s lackey said.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Palmer ran. Ran from Godstow again. This time, he did the chasing. Not fled as the one being chased. This time, his speed was less. Much less. Every breath in drew new stabs from his damaged chest and stomach muscles. His aching legs had little strength. His wounded shoulder no longer dragged a useless arm but could still make very little movement.

  He couldn’t see any sign of Gwen. All he’d had was that brief glimpse from the infirmary. He headed in the direction he’d seen her scurry. Away from the river. Towards the cover of the nearby thick woods.

  He pushed one aching stride after another, silently cursing his slow, clumsy body.

  Even if he had his full strength, she’d already made a good start. And she had the cover of the day’s end, every minute meaning he could see less. In his present state, he might never make the distance between them.

  He had to try. He’d had no time to alert anyone else. The Abbess would’ve gone to Henry. Not much help. The best of the men had left with Geoffrey. With, he’d guessed, the best of the horses. Maybe all the horses.

  Palmer put his good hand to his throbbing ribs, his wind a painful whistle.

  By the time Geoffrey and the others returned, it’d be too late. Especially if Gwen had a means of outside help. Which she surely must. She’d be long gone.

  That couldn’t happen. She had to pay. And she had to tell who was helping her.

  He entered the woods, the going slower than ever in the bad light and with no clear path.

  He thought he saw something. He squinted hard. Saw it again. A s
hadow against shadows. Movement. Then the flash of pale flesh as she turned her head to the side. Peering. Checking. Then ahead again. Her speed stayed steady. Careful. Silent. She mustn’t have seen him.

  Palmer’s wounds bothered him less now, his anger urging him onwards. He’d close on her in minutes. His gaze locked on her as the woods deepened. If he lost where she went, it’d be very hard, too hard, to find her again.

  A tree root hooked his boot. He staggered hard to his bad side, tried to get his injured arm to save him. Too late. He crashed uselessly into a large bush.

  Gwen turned fully. She’d heard him. Then saw him.

  She was off, running through the woods, uncaring of noise now.

  Palmer shoved himself upright. And he was running again too. ‘Stop where you are!’ The shout seared his chest even more. He didn’t care. This woman had betrayed him for the promise of money. Had people killed. Had tried to have him killed. She had to be caught. The pain didn’t matter.

  He gained on her. Gained on her more. His chest went tight, as if about to break open.

  She glanced back. Tried to speed up.

  Palmer closed in on her. A couple of strides. His good hand closed on her cloak.

  But she shook it off with a shriek. And carried on.

  He flung it to one side. Kept going. He was nearly done. His battered body couldn’t take it. He pushed himself on in one last effort.

  Then he had her. Had her by one bony arm.

  Gwen gave a loud shriek. ‘Get off me!’ She kicked out at him with her sharp pattens, landed blows on his pounding shoulder with her fist.

  Palmer tightened his grip on her. ‘You’re done, Gwendolyn Prudhomme.’ His words came ragged with acid spittle. ‘Done. You hear me?’

  ‘You should be done!’ With her long teeth bared in rage, she pulled out of him, near breaking his hold.

  Faith, his limbs were like water. He could hardly keep his hand on her. ‘You’re coming back with me. The King wants a word with you.’ He dragged her along as she shrieked again.

  ‘Shut up.’ If he had his strength, he’d quieten her. But he couldn’t, not one-handed like this.