The Blood of the Fifth Knight

by E. M. Powell

  ‘Here, my sweet.’ Joan held out her arms for Matilde.

  Theodosia kissed her daughter’s hair, her soft cheeks, then handed her over to Joan.

  The guard locked the gate again.

  Tom kicked at it in fury.

  ‘Hey,’ said the guard. ‘Behave. Or you’ll find yourself back in there.’

  Tom ignored him and kicked again.

  ‘Tom,’ said Theodosia, a tight hold on her grief. ‘Do as you are asked. Now go with the guard. It would help things for me if you do.’

  He gave her a curious frown, then did as asked. She addressed the guard. ‘Please may I have a final word alone with my sister?’

  The guard shrugged. ‘Make it quick. I’ll be waiting over there with the boy.’ He walked off, Tom following him. His reluctant compliance made her tears spill over.

  Theodosia clung to the bars as Joan held her drowsing little daughter on one hip.

  ‘Oh, Theodosia.’ Joan’s distress showed in her face. ‘I’ll take care of them. I swear to you. And I haven’t done yet.’

  Theodosia fumbled in her belt punch for a handkerchief. Her fingers closed around the linen square she’d marked with her own blood.

  God be praised. She’d forgotten about it. A forlorn hope. But a hope nevertheless. She grasped through the bars for Joan’s hand. ‘You know the big tree in the forest clearing? The tall ash?’

  Joan nodded.

  Theodosia pushed the little bundle into Joan’s hand. ‘Please hang this on one of the branches.’

  ‘But what is it?’

  ‘Just do it. Please.’

  ‘I will. Anything.’ Joan took it, squeezing her hand back in return. ‘Theodosia, I will do everything I can to get justice for you.’ Her hand tightened. ‘But there is one more thing.’

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  ‘Will you have one more glass, Sir Benedict?’ The Abbess held up the jug of wine.

  ‘Please.’ Palmer yawned loud and long. ‘Then that’s me done.’

  ‘Sleep is the best tonic, Palmer.’ Henry joined him in another drink. ‘You’ll be a new man in the morning.’

  ‘Perhaps the morning after that.’ Geoffrey fed the scraps of their meal to his dog.

  A quiet knock came at the door.

  The Abbess raised her voice. ‘Come in.’

  The door opened to reveal a Godstow nun holding a rolled letter. She came to the Abbess’s side, and bowed respectfully. ‘For my Lord Bishop, Geoffrey. From the monastic posts.’

  The bishop held out his hand as his eyes went to the seal. ‘From the Abbot at Wattick?’

  Palmer looked up in surprise at the familiar name.

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ The nun handed it to him.

  ‘Any reply?’

  ‘No, my lord.’

  ‘Thank you, Sister,’ said the Abbess. ‘You may go.’

  As the sister left, Geoffrey held up the letter to Palmer. ‘I wrote to the Abbot of Wattick, asking for indulgences for your mother and sisters’ souls, remember?’

  ‘At my behest,’ said Henry.

  Palmer nodded. ‘Of course. I’m very grateful.’

  Geoffrey stifled a yawn of his own. ‘I’ll leave it until tomorrow. There’s no request for a response.’

  The Abbess tutted politely. ‘Messengers can get the wrong end of things. I have seen that before.’

  Geoffrey shrugged, yawning again. And met her disapproving eye. He unrolled the letter and began to read.

  ‘Wise words, Mother Dymphna,’ said Henry. ‘Hugo Stanton served as my messenger, the little swine. And he got hold of the wrong end of things. Did he not?’ Henry was back in full flow.

  Palmer finished his wine. He’d go abed now. He went to rise, but the colour leaving Geoffrey’s face halted him.

  The bishop’s hands tightened on the letter he held. ‘May God preserve us.’

  ‘What is it, man?’ Henry frowned.

  The tiredness left Palmer.

  ‘Listen.’ Geoffrey’s gaze swept over them all. ‘Just listen to what the Abbot says: “My Lord Bishop. I thank you for your generous payment for the indulgences for the Palmer family. The prayers are being said.” ’ Geoffrey paused, shaking his head.

  ‘And?’ demanded Henry, a breath before Palmer.

  Geoffrey went on, his strong voice unsteady. ‘ “It is a comfort that someone should show interest after so long. Anna Palmer, and her daughters Alice, Margaret, Anne and Joan perished in the pestilence of ’57.” ’

  Palmer’s world stopped. He could find no words.

  Henry was silenced.

  ‘Dear Jesus.’ The Abbess’s hand went to her mouth.

  Geoffrey held a hand up. ‘There is more. “I should also add that yours is not the only recent enquiry. Not twelve months since, a tall nobleman, quite advanced in years, with a silvered beard, visited the graveyard in our village. He asked all about the family, viewed the grave. He said a prayer over it, then picked up a little stone from it, said it was his way of remembering.” ’

  Palmer looked at Henry.

  ‘De Faye.’ The King whispered.

  Palmer scrambled to his unsteady feet, knocking over his chair. ‘Then who is that woman? The one who claims my blood?’ He brought his hands to his head. ‘Who? With my children? With Theodosia?’

  ‘Geoffrey. You go. Go there. Find out.’ Henry’s words fell over each other.

  ‘At once, your Grace.’ Geoffrey stood up too. ‘Palmer, tell me the roads. Now.’

  ‘I’m coming with you.’

  Geoffrey frowned. ‘Are you mad? A ride like that could kill you.’

  ‘I’ll take my chances,’ said Palmer.

  ‘Listen to him, Palmer,’ said Henry.

  ‘I can’t, your Grace,’ said Palmer. ‘I have to go. And, your Grace, we need Hugo Stanton too.’

  ‘For what?’ asked Geoffrey.

  Palmer was already moving to the door. ‘He knows the route better than anyone. He can get us there the fastest.’

  ‘Then take him!’ came Henry’s shout. ‘Just go!’

  Palmer flung the door open, Geoffrey hastening behind him.

  Yes, Stanton could get them there the fastest. His heart thudded. But to find what?

  ‘One more thing?’ repeated Theodosia. ‘What is it?’

  ‘About your justice.’ Joan’s grip tightened on Theodosia’s hand, hard, as hard as the shift in her tone. ‘Your justice will be to burn, as you’ll burn in hell for what you’ve done.’

  Theodosia squirmed at the tightness of her hold. ‘Joan? I do not understand what—’

  ‘What don’t you understand, Sister Theodosia?’

  A terrible realisation stole over Theodosia, robbing her of breath. Of speech. Joan knew who she was. Who she really was.

  ‘Because it’s very simple.’ Joan’s dark gaze—her tears disappeared—bored right into hers. ‘For the murder of the Queen’s men. For causing the failure of the rightful ruler to seize power. For your very existence and that of your two whelps.’

  Theodosia opened her lips to call for the guard.

  ‘No.’ Joan bent Theodosia’s fingers back, and she stifled her cry.

  ‘I have your children.’ Joan’s tone came low, vicious, as she put her face close to Theodosia’s. ‘Their lives now depend on you as never before. One word out of place, and I will deal with them. Do you hear me?’

  The quiet Matilde slept only inches away. Tom, a dozen strides farther. Yet Theodosia could do nothing. Nothing. Her stomach turned over in shock. Revulsion.

  ‘I said, do you hear me?’

  ‘I do. But Joan, I am begging you for mercy. Your own flesh and blood—’

  Now Theodosia thought her fingers would break. She bit back a scream.

  ‘Benedict Palmer is no blood of mine,’ s
aid Joan. ‘And neither are these two. So it’s all very simple. You die. They live. Understand?’

  ‘I swear to you I will do anything,’ whispered Theodosia. ‘Anything. Just please do not hurt them.’ Her own fingers were about to yield. She cared not.

  ‘Oh, they’re far too valuable to hurt.’ Joan suddenly released her. ‘For now. Your son will be the leverage to get our Queen from prison. And sweet little Matilde will be my plaything. I will teach her well, Theodosia. She will be raised as my very own.’

  Theodosia gripped the bars. ‘Benedict will be coming back soon. He’ll stop this. All of this.’

  Joan smiled. ‘Benedict is also being taken care of, my dear. But don’t worry: you’ll be together in the afterlife soon. And remember, the whole village already thinks you are a liar and mad with it. If you try to say anything, no one will believe you. And I shall get to hear of it. You wouldn’t like the consequences.’ She kissed Matilde’s curls and walked off, calling for Tom.

  Theodosia slid down the bars, her stomach retching in shock, in disbelief.

  Her children. She’d given away her children. To one she trusted. Believed in. Yet this woman calling herself Joan Palmer lived a lie. A monstrous, evil lie.

  Her children.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Joan stoked the wretched little fire in the wretched Palmer cottage. Soon she’d be gone from here, back in her rightful place as Lady Adela, sharing the riches of the victorious Queen. Soon. She couldn’t wait.

  The sulky little beggar of a boy gave her a filthy look. ‘When’s my pa coming?’

  Joan ignored him and picked up a few pieces of firewood to place on the miserable flame. He’d find the end of anyone’s patience. Just like his nuisance of a father and bluster-bag of a grandfather.

  ‘Ta?’ Matilde handed her a small stick.

  ‘And ta to you.’ Joan placed it on the fire and pulled the little girl onto her lap. She hummed a tickling tune into her soft, small neck.

  Matilde giggled.

  Joan giggled back at her, sang again.

  Everything was going so well. She’d gone straight to Ordell and the Abbot. Confirmed that she had persuaded Theodosia to confess in order to save her soul and her children. He’d actually almost looked at her with respect. Not quite. He thought her far too lowly for him to offer her that. But she’d given him what he wanted: his revenge against evil. The Abbot had ogled her with many of his lust-laden leers even as he praised her holiness. In another world, she’d castrate him and hand her work back to him. But not here. She’d soon be leaving.

  Joan carried on her soft little song, over and over. Everything was going so, so well. Raoul de Faye would be so proud of her, his favourite pupil. How much she had learned from him.

  And how much she had already known.

  ‘My name is Joan Palmer. My mother was Anna Palmer. I have three sisters—or rather had, until they died in last winter’s pestilence: Anne, Margaret and Alice. All of us younger than my brother, Benedict, who is three—’

  ‘Four.’ The rap comes from Raoul de Faye, the Queen’s uncle. He looks at me with his fierce, hooded eyes, his gaze like a hungry hawk.

  I nod in acknowledgment of my mistake, then open my mouth to carry on.

  De Faye brings his stick across my knuckles, and I wince and stifle a shriek. Sucking hard on my own flesh, I meet his eye.

  ‘Adela. You are not stupid,’ he says, calm and measured. ‘You are careless. That is not the same thing.’

  I drop my hand. ‘I will remember everything when I am amongst them.’

  Another slash with the cane, this time at my face. I jerk away, but he catches me on the back swipe. My skin smarts and tears come to my eyes.

  ‘No. You will be perfect before you are amongst them. Palmer is not an educated man, but he has wit and resource. His wife is learned, and as we have seen, she has far too clever a mind. To pass them, you must be completely convincing.’

  Despite the pain, I level my gaze with his. ‘I have said, I will be convincing.’

  This time it’s his hand, the flat of it hard on my other cheek.

  ‘There you go again. Pride, arrogance. You must learn to contain it.’ De Faye shakes his head as he looks at me. ‘I chose you for your appearance. You are dark haired, dark eyed, just like Palmer. You’re near enough the right age. Which is?’

  ‘Nineteen.’ I shoot back. ‘I will be twenty in the autumn.’

  ‘Better.’ He steps towards me. ‘And flatten your vowels. Roughen your tone. You cannot sound more than you are.’ He raises his hand again, and I flinch. But he pats my cheek. ‘And of course you are beautiful, Adela, like Palmer is handsome. You cannot change that, and neither would I want you to.’

  I smile at him, at his face, which has known over sixty winters. I know what’s coming next. I shall have to service him, service him in the way that means I will not conceive a child. I don’t care. I can’t see him while he does it, and he has the girth and vigour of a younger man. I turn my back and his hands come at my skirts, practised and steady. Only his quickened breath gives him away. He takes me like the worst sort of harlot, and I love it.

  Joan put a pot on the fire and added water and a few handfuls of oats. Another poor man’s supper. Not for long. Soon, she would be free to feast like a royal. Not like the previous few months, where she’d had to deprive herself to appear like one who was starved near to death. She stirred the pot, the flakes of grain still dry and floating and swirling through the water. Her cloak slipped from her shoulders. Her scarred skin. Her mouth lifted in a little smile. The night she’d arrived, when her top had slipped and Palmer and Theodosia had seen it. If only they’d known it was marked from the Queen’s uncle. They wouldn’t have been half so sympathetic.

  She was quite proud of her quick thinking—that the scars resulted from being attacked as she’d travelled. It had helped her story with the nuns that she made sure found her as well. Nuns. She shuddered. That had been her noble family’s plan for her. A spare daughter. Earmarked for the nunnery. All holy women, and praying women, and devout women, and healing women, and women, women, women. She’d been horrified. She liked men. In her own special way.

  Matilde patted Joan’s face. ‘Song?’

  ‘Of course. A song for my little songbird.’ Joan hummed again.

  She had a songbird once, a little thing, all twittering and bright feathers. Until the day she reached into the cage and put her fingers around its throat. Just to see what would happen, then squeezing, gently, surely and without stopping. Before long, it stopped its frantic fluttering and lay still. She placed it carefully on the bottom of the cage and went out.

  Oh, the fuss when it was found. Before an audience of servants, how she cried and shrieked and wailed. They all believed her, tried to take her in their arms and comfort her. And such pretty weeping as she asked to bury it. She even made a little coffin, lined with spring flowers. Then she lifted the little corpse, lighter in death than life and as stiff as if it had been stuffed. It was cold and felt different. Its claws weren’t neat any more, but stuck out like dried twigs. Into its coffin it went, and she buried it under a tree, in a little copse away from the house.

  The water steamed properly now, and the pottage had started to form and thicken.

  Joan handed Matilde a handful of grasses. ‘And we pop this in the pot.’

  Matilde dropped it in.

  ‘Pop!’ Joan held her hand back from the water. ‘Careful. It’s hot. Very hot.’ She handed her another.

  And just like the grains in water, her songbird changed.

  It fascinated her. She’d chosen a quiet burial place because she wanted to dig it up again, wanted to see what it would look like. So she did. She’d scrape away the earth and reveal its little shape. First, it didn’t change. Then it went softer. Its eye went runny; then liquid seeped from under its tail feather
s, its head. It stank. The feathers loosened, got stickier with more wet.

  As she would lift it out, the flesh would slide around under her hands. It sprouted worms, white, wriggling, tiny, that fed off the reeking, rotting flesh. She liked those worms. They lived in the dark, ate decay, and still they thrived. After a few months, her bird was all gone, with just its bones left. She liked those too. She collected them up and would sit late at night, snapping each one into as many small pieces as she could. It made her feel sick and warm inside to pretend those breaking bones were still covered in flesh and feathers.

  She handed Matilde a few herbs.

  ‘Mam doesn’t let Matilde near the hot things.’

  Joan glanced over at Tom. ‘I’m not your Mam. Thank the Lord.’ She helped Matilde again.

  Truth be told, she liked hurting things. She liked the squirm of muscle, flesh, skin, fur under her hands. She liked the noises the hurt thing made, combinations of pain and fear and surprise. She’d practised with lots of animals. No one misses animals, not the ones that run about. The day with her new baby brother was too good to resist. He slept alone, swaddled tight in his cradle. Her heart pounded, the excitement of the risk of being caught making her heavy inside. A pin, straight into his ear. The liquid that came out looked like what had come from the rotting bird. His shrieks echoed through the whole place. And nobody ever knew.

  Joan stirred the pot, watching the bubbles start to rise.

  ‘Oh, see,’ said Matilde.

  ‘I see, I see.’ Joan moved the pot to one side so that it would simmer for a while to finish cooking and not burn. She picked up a comb to see to Matilde’s curls. She clicked softly. They were in such a state after the child’s time locked up at the manor.

  And nobody ever knew when she learned how to make people squirm. No pins. Just fear. Make grown men, twice her size, panic for their fate. That made for even more fun. The pleasantest of games. She would flirt, use her dark hair, her dark eyes, look so coy, so harmless. So desirable. Then once she hooked them with their lust, the rest came easily.

  Joan gently pulled the comb through Matilde’s golden curls, a section at a time. Oh, how sweetly obedient this little girl was. Sitting so patiently without complaint.