by E. M. Powell
No complaint either from the visiting noblemen she seduced, all sweat and panting flesh at night, with no thought for a wife or anyone else as she cried out her pretend passion to them. Then watching a man’s face the next day as she told him she had been a virgin and would be telling her father of the rape she had suffered, would be telling the man’s wife of exactly what he had made her do in bed, though it was really she who had suggested the depravity. Watching him beg and plead for her mercy. Her silence.
It quite took her time up.
She would be put to needlework, to music, all preparing her for a life of virtue in the dreaded nunnery that awaited her. Yet all the time she would be thinking of ways to find another victim, someone whom she could take and snap like her songbird’s bones.
Until the fateful night at her father’s home, when a strange assembly arrived.
From my usual hiding place above my father’s hall, I watch the group of visitors take their seats with him. Odd that the servants have been granted a day’s rest.
I have not seen any of these men before in all my seventeen years. Four knights and this noble with the broad frame and silver, trimmed beard threaded through with brown. My father is very respectful to him, this man he calls Raoul de Faye. He must be very important. The four knights are an odd collection. The one who appears to be their leader is called Sir Reginald Fitzurse. He has a cold, handsome face, with skin as fine as porcelain and the bluest eyes I have ever seen. Even de Faye is respectful to him. The other three are odious: a small knight, hair foul with grease and rotten teeth. A loud, red-bearded windbag. A huge clumsy oaf with a hideously scarred face. De Morville, de Tracy, le Bret. The names mean nothing to me.
Listening to them talk on and on, I am bored almost to sleep. Rebellion. The King. The Queen. My father says little, only agrees with everyone else. Useless. Then words that have me wide awake. The Archbishop of Canterbury. How he knows something. How they could get it out of him. How they could take his tongue, slit his testicles. The warmth floods through me, hotter than ever. But I also want to scream in frustration. What they talk about, what they plan: that’s what I want to do, what I love to do. And my family are planning to ship me off to a nunnery. Yes, I would have opportunities there. I would work my way to a position where I could use my power exactly as I pleased. But I would never have the wonderful, limitless possibilities of which these men speak. I ball my fists in frustration.
As they bid each other good night, I know what I will do. I will prove myself to them. I consider which one I will use. Not the oaf or the shouter. I shudder. Nor the greasy one. Even my stern stomach rebels.
Raoul de Faye or Reginald Fitzurse? I watch as they file out. Fitzurse’s chin sets in a tilt that for a second I recognise. He and I are kindred spirits. I will enjoy besting him.
His chamber is dimly lit as I enter. I wear a thin shift with nothing underneath. His breathing is regular, calm. Sleeping. I slide into bed next to him.
‘Good sir?’ I whisper. My hand goes to touch his naked chest, but he is still fully clothed. Then his hand locks around my wrist, fast as a striking snake.
‘What are you doing, girl?’
I begin to stutter my usual tale, desiring him, wanting him. Then I freeze as cold steel comes to my throat.
‘You are a poor spy.’ He props himself up on one elbow, gazing down at me. ‘Now, before I slit your throat, tell me who sent you. I will make it quick as a mercy to you. Otherwise, I shall sever your speech, then carve you piece by piece as you lie with me, unable to make a sound.’ His voice is smooth as a lover’s.
The room spins. What have I got myself into?
He presses the blade deeper. He frowns. Lightly. ‘Or perhaps I will just do it anyway.’
I gasp. ‘Wait. Stop. I am no spy. No one has sent me. I saw you and I desired you—’
The blade begins its slice. I know my flesh is on the point of yield. ‘I planned to seduce you, then blackmail you.’
The blade pauses. ‘For how much?’ He sounds bored.
I look into those piercing blue eyes and know I cannot lie. It would be pointless. ‘Nothing. Only to have the power to destroy you.’ I swallow. ‘Snap you.’
‘Oh?’ Interest tinges his voice.
‘If you let me live, I shall tell you everything. Everything.’
He does and I do, starting with my songbird.
When I finish, he gives me a long stare before nodding. ‘We need to speak to de Faye.’
‘There. All finished. Now let’s get our food.’ Joan set Matilde down on the floor and kissed her.
Funny how it all came down to her. The knights’ dispatching of Becket had been a disaster. De Faye’s rebellion had failed. The Queen languished in Henry’s prison. Only she, Lady Adela, was succeeding. And such success she would have with Matilde. She smiled down at the child as she finished preparing the food. ‘All for my very own, aren’t you? Just like my little birdie.’
Matilde smiled back. ‘Birdie.’
Oh, she would be a wonderful pupil. As soon as her work as Joan Palmer ended here, she could start on Matilde’s training.
‘Should we pray for Mam to get free?’
Joan met Tom’s unsmiling gaze, annoyed at her happy thoughts being interrupted.
‘What business is it of yours?’ She spooned a measure of pottage into a bowl and thrust it at him. ‘Eat that. And then bed.’
Tom kept his eyes on her. ‘Mam always says to ask Saint Thomas Becket for help if you’re in trouble.’
‘Shut up and eat your food. Do you hear me?’
She got another sulky look. But the boy did as ordered. A wise decision. If he’d refused her, she would have slapped him hard.
Joan watched him silently eat his food, without so much as a word of thanks to her. The arrogant little braggart reminded her far too much of what she had heard of Henry. And his whining on about Becket: just like his irritatingly pious mother.
The only reason he was still alive was to secure Eleanor’s freedom. Once Henry released her, he would be disposed of.
Joan sincerely hoped de Faye would let her have the honour. And the pleasure.
The three horses clattered to an exhausted, mud-splattered halt in the yard of an inn that Palmer vaguely recognised from his previous journey from Cloughbrook to Woodstock. Without Stanton’s sure guiding, this ride would be taking many times longer.
Geoffrey and Stanton dismounted first, as muddy as the animals.
Covered in the journey’s dirt, Palmer clambered down too, his injured body refusing to move at his companions’ speed.
‘I’ll get the fresh mounts.’ Stanton hurried to the door.
‘And tell them to prepare us food.’ Geoffrey halted him.
‘To eat while we ride.’ Palmer wiped the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.
Stanton hesitated.
‘Go,’ came Palmer’s curt order.
The younger man obeyed it.
‘Palmer, you have to stop to rest.’ Geoffrey wore his familiar scowl. ‘You won’t make it otherwise.’
‘No mind.’ Palmer walked over to a stone horse trough as a couple of grooms came out of the inn and took the sweating, spent horses.
Geoffrey joined him as he scooped up handfuls of cold water and sluiced his face and neck. ‘Palmer, Stanton and I have a chance at carrying on.’
‘And you think I don’t?’ He rubbed his face hard as if to grind the cold water in and keep sleep at bay.
‘No, I don’t. Not in your state.’
The door opened again, and Stanton came out. ‘The new horses are being brought round.’
The lively clatter of unseen hooves came in answer to his call.
Geoffrey went on. ‘I will do what needs to be done. I promise you that. You can catch us up.’
‘I want to get my hands on the woman who
would snake her way into my family to do them God knows what harm by pretending to be of my blood.’ Palmer let the wet drip down under his collar as he faced Geoffrey. ‘My family. My hands.’
‘That I can understand. But you’re no good to your wife and children if you’re dead, Palmer.’
‘And if they’re dead I might as well be too.’ He pushed past the King’s son and limped towards his new horse. Another fast, fine animal, thanks to Stanton’s work for the King. He took hold of the reins and went to mount. He couldn’t.
Geoffrey caught him up. ‘You’re a stubborn bugger, you know that?’ But he locked his fingers together and crouched low. ‘Come on. I’ll boost you up.’
Palmer managed to scramble on with Geoffrey’s help.
Stanton had already mounted. ‘The next leg is about six hours.’
Geoffrey went to his own animal.
Palmer scanned the sky. Day was closing in, with heavy rain clouds sitting on the horizon. ‘How many in total until we’re there, Stanton?’
‘Another day. Maybe more.’
Palmer’s guts turned over. Still an eternity. ‘Then we need to ride faster.’
With a hard kick to his horse’s sides, he was off.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Theodosia knelt on the damp floor in her prison beneath Lord Ordell’s manor and started her fierce, whispered pleas again. Praying alone in the dark of the undercroft, she could be back as an anchoress in her cell in Canterbury Cathedral.
‘Hail, star of the sea, nurturing Mother of God.’
But unlike then, she had so much more to lose, a loss worse than her own life. Her children. And with Tom and Matilde gone, all she had was prayer. Prayer to Mary, a mother. Over and over. Another mother could understand her agony, her terror.
She had freed her children. Given them a chance at life.
Theodosia’s own life for theirs. She feared the threat of the flames, feared it to the depths of her soul. But she would burn every day until the end of time if her children were spared, were safe. That had been her consolation as she’d handed them over to the woman calling herself Joan Palmer.
But her consolation was a hideous lie, built on many other lies. How many, she did not know.
‘Your son will be the leverage to get our Queen from prison.’
Joan’s words. ‘Our Queen.’
The forces of evil that she and Benedict had fought against so strongly. That they had defeated once. That had threatened to overwhelm them all again, with the rebellion poised for victory. On that sweltering July day when the King did penance on the streets of Canterbury for the murder of Thomas Becket.
Yet her prayers were answered. The same words she prayed now. ‘Our evil, sweet Virgin, do thou dispel.’
Evil had been dispelled. The joyous news that Saint Thomas Becket himself had stretched down from heaven and pushed the world Henry’s way. The news two months later of Eleanor’s defeat. That came when Theodosia lay in the agonies of childbirth, and God had blessed her with the miraculous joy of Matilde to join her brother. And now evil was pushing back, stronger than ever, clawing its way back by consuming her children.
‘And sweet little Matilde will be my plaything. I will teach her well, Theodosia. She will be raised as my very own.’
Tom. To be traded. If they let him live. And Matilde. Her little girl. Just starting to talk. Her little heart trusting of the world. Of gentleness. Of kindness. To be corrupted, schooled into foul depravity when she had no choice, no knowledge of what she did.
It was too much. Too much.
Theodosia crushed her arms to her stomach as the pain of her anguish tore through her worse than any birth pang. She ground out her plea to Mary. ‘Show thyself to be a mother!’
The faint echo of male voices and the flicker of light showed at the bars.
They were coming for her.
She had condemned her children, failed them as their mother. And now she would be condemned.
They were coming for her.
Four tall guards escorted Theodosia up the stone spiral staircase that led to the hall in Lord Ordell’s manor. Though each man stood so much taller, she noted their firm grip on their axes, the constant sidelong glances from one. They feared her. Such was the madness surrounding her.
Reaching the top of the stairs, the short passageway lit with sunlight from the open doors of the hall.
Theodosia’s sight flashed with red and white lights. She squinted hard, trying to see, her eyes so used to the dark.
The excited buzz of many, many voices sounded from the hall. As they marched her in to the high-ceilinged room, the sound rose with gasps and conjecture.
A wave of stale air met her from the crowds packed in here. A roped-off aisle across the stone floor kept the watchers back. Blinking hard, she could make out accusing faces, fingers pointed in accusation.
‘Look at her, the filthy creature!’
‘Stand back. She might curse you.’
‘God help us. She’s among us.’
A crucifix waved in the air.
She stared resolutely ahead as she progressed along the hall, still flanked by the guards. She knew her appearance, dishevelled and dirty from her time in the undercroft, reinforced the beliefs about her sinfulness.
Some voices came familiar from the queue at the well. Others from prayers in church, from working in the fields. Still others had the unfamiliar tones of complete strangers. People had travelled from far and wide to see this.
‘Halt there,’ came the order from one of the guards.
She did so. The guards stepped away from her sides, leaving her alone on a square section of the floor. Lord Ordell’s high table rested on its dais a short distance in front of her. A heavily embroidered white linen cloth covered the tabletop, and a tall crucifix rested upon it. Two high-backed chairs, carved with winged creatures, sat behind the table.
Her gaze sought out the chapel to the right that she knew held the shrine to Saint Thomas Becket; she was desperate for his strength, his courage as she stood here exposed and judged. It stood empty. Someone had removed it. Her spirit shrank. She was truly alone.
One of the guards rapped the long handle of his axe on the stone floor to a chorus of small shrieks and exclamations.
‘Pray, silence for Lord Nicholas Ordell and the Lord Abbot Remigius.’
The noise settled.
Behind the dais came the sound of a door opening.
Theodosia looked over, unable to stop herself.
Enide and Alf Thatcher stood in her line of sight. Enide’s large arms were folded as though she already knew of Theodosia’s guilt. Even Alf appeared pensive.
Beyond them, Lord Ordell and the Abbot came through the door. The black-bearded reeve, Matthew Williamson, followed them. They proceeded to the dais, Lord Ordell with an armful of manuscripts and the Abbot with a large Bible. Both men were dressed for full authority. Ordell wore layers of scarlet silken tunics under an embroidered robe fastened with carved gold clasps. Abbot Remigius’s robes were midnight black from the roots of iris, held in place with the red of ox-blood leather belts.
Theodosia swallowed hard. Their contrast to her rags could not be more apparent. She brought her hands together and straightened her back, to at least appear dignified.
The men of authority took their seats as Williamson stood to one side before the dais.
Now that he was closer to her, Theodosia could see that the lord’s grey hair was plastered unwashed to his slight head, and his skin had a greyish hue. The Abbot, by contrast, appeared completely hale. He placed the Bible squarely on the table in front of him and folded his hands upon it. He took in the room with a sweep of his gaze but did not meet Theodosia’s.
Ordell laid out his collection of manuscripts with great deliberation but with many changes and swapping over, muttering to himself
.
A barely perceptible shifting broke out across the room.
Ordell raised his gaze in irritation. ‘Silence!’ His voice had a new, sharpened quality. ‘Anyone who does not keep silence I will have removed.’
The Abbot nodded sagely as people responded.
Finally, Ordell concluded ordering his papers. ‘The Lord Abbot Remigius and I have convened this court to try this woman, Theodosia Palmer, on charges of sorcery and heresy. It is an authority vested in me by the King, his Grace Henry, and in the Abbot by our Lord God Almighty. We have a duty to keep watch over all the souls for which we are responsible and to take any action that is necessary. Justice will be done.’ His gaze locked on hers. ‘Do you understand?’
‘Yes, my lord.’ Dry with thirst and lack of sleep from her ceaseless prayer, her voice came faint. Defeated.
‘And you will have your chance to speak,’ added the Abbot. ‘But only when spoken to.’
Ordell drew a parchment towards him. ‘We have firstly the issue of the discovery of a number of dead animals in the woods outside Cloughbrook.’
‘Discovered by me.’ The Abbot nodded hard, sending his chins wagging. ‘On the day I escorted Joan Palmer though the woods. My horse was spooked, which is when I came across them.’
‘Couldn’t ride a bloody donkey, him,’ came an audible whisper.
Enide? Theodosia could not be sure.
Ordell looked up in naked fury at the ripple of subdued mirth, and the Abbot’s face creased in a frown. ‘I said, silence!’
The noise subsided at Ordell’s shout. He stared at the assembly. ‘And we need Joan Palmer as a witness too. Where is she?’
‘Here, my lord.’ Joan stepped from behind a couple of large stout farmers to a muted chorus of mutters and whispers and everyone’s stare.
Theodosia’s heart almost stopped. Joan held a content Matilde on her hip, and Tom stood next to her, his brow creased in uncertainty.
He drew breath to speak, but Theodosia quickly brought her finger to her lips, and he kept his silence.
