The Blood of the Fifth Knight

by E. M. Powell

  She felt Ordell’s eyes on her as he addressed Joan. ‘Then stand out near the front so I can hear you, woman.’

  Joan did so.

  Theodosia ached to hold her children. To touch them. She caught the briefest of glances from Joan, saw the subtle adjustment of her hand on Matilde’s neck.

  Rage sparked through her, but she could not risk a word. She could not.

  Ordell went on. ‘Williamson, you went to check what the Abbot had seen. Please relate your findings.’

  ‘Of course, my lord.’ The reeve’s loud voice filled the room. ‘I went to where the Abbot had said. Saw a great, great many animals. Birds. All had been cut down by a mysterious source. All had been dead a couple of days at least. No sign of disease. No sign of injury.’

  Ordell nodded, his mouth a thin line. ‘Then we have to consider it the work of evil spirits. Who, of course, require an assistant to carry out their work.’

  ‘Beggin’ your pardon, my lord.’ Alf Thatcher raised a hand. ‘I seen summat like that too.’

  A long murmur met his words.

  Though she wanted to weep, Theodosia kept her composure. Yet more accusations. But she would not even be able to refute them. Joan had seen to that.

  ‘Oh?’ Ordell looked at Williamson, who shrugged. ‘Go on, Thatcher.’

  Alf snatched his hat off at a nudge from Enide. ‘I was out. Day before yesterday. Went to see how the saplings were doing. Me arm’s nearly better—’

  ‘Get to the point, man,’ said Ordell. ‘If there is one.’

  ‘Sorry, my lord.’ Alf glanced at his wife, who nodded. ‘Well, the birds and animals, all dead, like, were next to a cave. With water coming out. I had a look. It were all icy in there still. Big lump of it, though it were melting fast.’ He paused and got another dig from Enide’s elbow. ‘I’d say those creatures had hid in there when the snows and ice first came. Worst winter I can remember. And it were that bad these last months, they froze where they were.’

  Gasps and conjecture broke out as the Abbot raised his eyebrows and looked to Ordell.

  ‘I said, silence!’ Ordell’s shout cut all speech dead.

  Wracked with shame at her own suspicion of her neighbours, Theodosia could not meet poor Alf’s eye. Or Enide’s. They’d had the courage to come to her defence, but all for nothing. She could not even acknowledge their efforts.

  Two spots of pink appeared in Ordell’s grey cheeks as he addressed Alf. ‘Do you know of all the evil carried out? Do you? Should you, Alfred Thatcher, be sitting here in judgment, even though you have no idea of the extent of the sin?’

  Alf dropped his head. ‘No, my lord. I didn’t mean—’

  ‘Enough of your prating, man.’ Ordell focused back on Theodosia. ‘So with regard to the animals in the woods, found by our holy Abbot and examined by my trusted reeve, Matthew Williamson, and deemed to be the work of sorcery at your hand, what is your defence?’

  The silence was complete.

  She desperately longed to challenge him, to use Alf’s findings. But she could not. She swallowed hard. ‘I have no defence.’ Her words came clear. Definite. As if she meant them. Though she wanted to scream and scream the truth.

  Outraged mutters and gasps met her words.

  Ordell nodded and went on.

  Palmer kept his head lowered as he faced into the driving rain, his kerchief across the lower part of his face and his hat pulled low. It still didn’t help. The rain stung his face, his eyes, soaked through his clothes as they rode fast through unending thick woodland.

  Riding ahead, Stanton turned to him and Geoffrey, lowering his own face covering. ‘Do you want to stop for a rest?’ He raised his voice above the roar of the wind and rain battering the bare trees.

  ‘No.’ Palmer answered first. ‘We only have a couple of hours to go.’

  Stanton looked doubtful. ‘The horses tire. But if you say so.’

  ‘We do,’ came Geoffrey’s call. ‘The weather slows us enough as it is.’

  Stanton nodded and carried on.

  The squall of the wind in the trees took on a new quality. It no longer had the rise and fall of the gusts of the gale, but another steady, deeper sound that grew louder and louder.

  Palmer glimpsed a wide stretch of grey through the thick trees. Of course. A river. In full flood.

  Stanton slowed his horse, and Palmer and Geoffrey did the same.

  They came out of the forest’s shelter onto a wide, steep riverbank. Below them, the fast-flowing river moved in a loud rumble.

  Stanton scanned the foaming waters.

  ‘Well?’ Palmer demanded. ‘What are you waiting for?’

  The messenger turned a worried face to him.

  ‘I’m sorry, my lords,’ said Stanton. ‘We can’t cross here. We need to turn around.’

  ‘Can’t cross?’ Palmer tore his kerchief down. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘There is a ford.’ Stanton’s look didn’t alter. ‘But the water’s gone too deep.’

  Palmer let go a string of oaths, bested by Geoffrey as the wind whipped a new heavy burst of rain across the water.

  Stanton went on. ‘There’s a stone bridge about ten miles downriver, I had to use that way once. It should still be in place.’

  ‘Ten miles?’ Palmer swore again. ‘By the time we ride that and then double back, we’ll lose near a whole day!’

  ‘Palmer’s right. Wait where you are.’ Geoffrey dismounted.

  Wait? Palmer held his restless animal in check. As if he had a choice. Getting back on his horse here would be too difficult. Palmer could only watch like a useless poltroon as the King’s son climbed down the sloping bank, sword in hand.

  Geoffrey waded in. The water surged around his knees as he took a couple of steps. Then to his thighs as he took another. A third had him pulled off his feet and into the water with a shout.

  ‘My lord!’ Stanton jumped from his horse and slid down the muddy bank.

  ‘Hell’s teeth!’ Geoffrey rolled over twice, pulled by the current. He stuck his sword into the mud and hauled himself upright.

  ‘Take this!’ Stanton held one end of his cloak and threw it out to him.

  Palmer’s animal jigged beneath him as he cursed his own helplessness.

  Geoffrey waded out with unsteady steps as the loud water struck him hard and fast, using his sword as an anchor as well as Stanton’s pull on his cloak.

  Both men climbed back up, the soaked Geoffrey shaking his head. ‘We’d never get across there. We’re going to have to take the longer route.’

  ‘No,’ said Palmer. ‘It’ll waste too much time.’

  ‘We need to get there in one piece, man.’ Geoffrey went to remount.

  ‘I just need to get there.’ Palmer clicked to his animal.

  ‘Palmer. Don’t you dare.’ Geoffrey swung himself into the saddle.

  Palmer ignored him, urging his animal to the roaring river, sitting well back against the cantle as he brought the horse down the slippery, muddy bank. His horse stopped dead at the edge, snorting and blowing at the fast water under its nose.

  ‘Palmer!’ Geoffrey’s shout echoed down to him. ‘Stop!’

  ‘Come on!’ Palmer kicked hard with both legs.

  One large hoof stepped into the strong flow. Then another.

  ‘I’ll not see you kill yourself !’

  Clods of earth rolled past.

  Palmer glanced around.

  Geoffrey forced his own animal down, hand outstretched, ready to grab Palmer’s reins.

  ‘On!’ Palmer gave the hardest kick he could muster. His horse surged forward into the water.

  The powerful animal kept its balance, stepped ahead through the foaming, deepening water that rose to its shoulders and the top of Palmer’s legs. Palmer guessed the submerged ford beneath had a regular
enough surface that the animal felt sure of its feet.

  ‘Get on.’

  ‘Palmer!’ Geoffrey’s roar came half-heard over the river, the rain, the wind.

  Then with a sudden movement, the horse beneath him was afloat.

  Forcurse it, the ford must be gone.

  He thrust the reins from his hands, grabbed handfuls of mane. If he held them, the horse could easily drown from a pulled-down head. He’d seen that too many times. He slid off to the left of the horse’s neck into the churning water. The cold had him gasp hard as his mount.

  ‘By God’s Mother, Palmer!’ Fainter again.

  The animal could make no fight against the noisy current, was swept along with it, snorting, its eye rolling close to Palmer’s face as he clung on.

  He didn’t care. So long as it stayed afloat. If the horse went under, so would he. It gained distance across the foaming river. But slowly. Too slowly.

  Palmer clung to the mane with numbing hands, did his best to kick too. Weed-choked water slapped his face, filled his mouth. His injured arm had little strength. Only one hand held him on.

  The animal’s breathing laboured, snorting harder, blowing. The horse was tiring. So was he.

  It gave a hard, sudden shake of its head, near sending Palmer off. He forced himself to hold on.

  The opposite bank neared. They might make it.

  Another sudden lurch. Then another. Its heart could be going.

  But its head stayed up.

  Then another.

  The horse’s front hooves were striking the bottom.

  He only had seconds. Palmer hauled on the mane, slid his body over the horse’s back while he still floated. On dry land, he’d be useless.

  His clamped on with his knees as all four hooves no longer floated.

  The animal surged ahead, panicked by the water and making for the steep bank as fast as it could.

  It staggered hard, heading for a fall.

  ‘On!’ Palmer struck it hard with the flat of his hand.

  The new shock of his shout and his strike gave the horse its legs. It broke from the water and scrabbled up the bank, Palmer clinging on. As it paused at the top, Palmer grabbed for the reins with his good hand, brought the animal back under his control.

  He shuddered hard. But he’d done it.

  He looked back across the water.

  Stanton’s mouth hung open. Geoffrey shook his head.

  ‘You’re a madman! You know that, don’t you?’

  Palmer had no breath for a shout in return. He raised his hand in salute and kicked his horse on into the trees.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  ‘I have no defence.’ The only answer Theodosia could give as Lord Ordell presented charge after charge to the packed court.

  The dead toad. The mutilated dead birds. His own dead wife, with her heart found beneath the children’s bed.

  ‘I have no defence.’

  Her exhausted mind and body, plagued by thirst and lack of sleep, threatened to cave in, to let the truth out. She could not allow it.

  ‘And yet you are a married woman, are you not?’ came Ordell’s newest question.

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ She tried to swallow through parched lips.

  ‘Then where is your husband, pray? Where is Benedict Palmer to speak on your behalf ?’

  ‘I know not, my lord.’

  ‘But you said he had gone to visit family graves?’

  Theodosia desperately sought for words that would not inflame Joan. ‘I know not where he is at this moment, your lordship.’ She swallowed again. ‘He may be returning.’

  ‘I think that highly unlikely,’ said Ordell. ‘His own sister told me he disappeared under mysterious circumstances. Went out with you and never came back. Into those same woods where so much death has been found.’ He let his words sink in to everyone present. ‘I fear there may be other evil discoveries to be made.’

  Of course Joan had planted further evil into his head. The idea that she would harm her adored husband tore at Theodosia’s heart, but she merely gave a tight whisper. ‘I have no defence, my lord.’

  Many people crossed themselves, as they stared at her with fear.

  ‘Here, hold on. My lord.’ Enide’s certain tone sounded out.

  Theodosia looked over.

  Enide’s hands rested on her wide hips.

  ‘Enide, don’t,’ said Alf.

  She shook her husband off. ‘Theodosia Palmer has always been that close with her husband. Fact, it’d near make you sick sometimes. She wouldn’t hurt the man. And look at her. She’s a slip of a thing, and he could wrestle an ox.’ She gave Theodosia a questioning stare.

  Theodosia could say nothing as Enide carried on. ‘It’s not right, summat’s not—’

  ‘Hold your noise, Enide Thatcher!’ Ordell stopped her with a yelled command. ‘This is not a cattle market or a gathering for a mystery play. It is not a place for idle prattle and chitchat, for fools to lean on fences and swap stories to entertain other fools. No!’ His gaze swept the silent assembly, back and forth. ‘It is a trial, with all the solemn weight and authority vested in myself and the Abbot. Do I make myself clear?’

  No one dared respond.

  ‘Good.’ Ordell’s nostrils flared as he took in a long breath. ‘Now, Lord Abbot Remigius, you have an item about which you wish to question Theodosia Palmer?’

  Remigius nodded. ‘Indeed I do.’ He reached beneath his robes and produced a small, folded object.

  She recognised it at once. He held the linen square from her cell. So Joan had brought that to them too. It wasn’t hanging from the tree, a last desperate message that might have brought help to her and the children.

  With great ceremony, the Abbot unrolled it to reveal her message, picked out in her own blood. He read it aloud for those who could not read or see it from where they stood. ‘It says, “Send help.” Did you produce this, Theodosia Palmer?’

  ‘Yes, my Lord Abbot, I did.’

  ‘For what purpose?’

  ‘I thought it would summon my husband back.’

  ‘Your husband?’

  ‘Yes.’ Theodosia dug her fingernails into her palms. An incomplete truth. Not a lie. To summon Hugo Stanton would be a way of getting word to Benedict.

  The Abbot curled his mouth so tightly that his lips completely disappeared. He unrolled the linen to its fullest extent.

  A wave of outrage broke, with screams, shrieks, prayers. And calls for her end.

  For picked out on the linen, another word in blood.

  ‘ “Satan,” ’ said the Abbot solemnly. ‘ “Send help, Satan”—your husband, you call him.’

  Theodosia caught Joan’s direct gaze and knew who had done this, who had added weight to the case against her so that there could be no reprieve. And she could say nothing. Nothing.

  ‘Quiet.’ Lord Ordell’s order silenced the room once more. ‘People of Cloughbrook, the Abbot and I have shouldered the responsibility of removing this evil from your midst. We have delved into many accounts of sorcery to make sure that we know how to best remove it.’ He drew a palm across his sweated forehead. ‘We could imprison this wretched woman. Take her to hang. But it would not be enough. The good people of Berkley had a sorceress in their midst. They thought it would be enough that she had died and that her evil would have died with her. But no.’

  Ordell scanned the room to total silence.

  He continued. ‘They put her wretched corpse in a stag’s skin, sewed it up tightly. Put it in a stone coffin and weighted that down with lead and iron.’ He held up a manuscript with hands that trembled. ‘Brought the coffin to a church, that it would be protected within its holy walls. And yet . . .’

  He paused again.

  Stifled sobs of terror broke from many present.

  ‘Ye
t still devils broke in.’ Ordell shook the manuscript. ‘And bore her off on the spiked back of a flying black horse.’

  The sobs turned to shrieks and cries and prayers.

  The Abbot clutched his Bible.

  ‘There can only be one judgment to end the hold of the sorceress on this place.’ Ordell raised his voice over the rising din. ‘A judgment that ensures there is nothing left for devils to collect. For even Satan cannot carry off ashes. Theodosia Palmer, I sentence you to death by burning.’

  ‘Let’s take her now!’ An angry shout from a man.

  Then another and another.

  Then people were pushing, shoving, screaming.

  The guards closed around Theodosia again. Keeping her safe. So they could roast her alive.

  ‘Stand close against the stake.’ Williamson’s hot breath sounded close against Theodosia’s left ear. She tried to comply but could not get her footing on the unstable pile of bundles of sticks beneath her feet.

  Every soul who had attended her trial gathered in this pasture behind the barns at Lord Ordell’s manor, pointing, calling.

  With an oath the reeve pulled her hard against the rough wooden stake, jarring her neck.

  An eager Lord Ordell sat astride his horse, and the Abbot stood on the ground next to him.

  Another guard pinned Theodosia’s arms around the post and pulled her wrists close together. He passed three lengths of thin twine around them.

  The guard secured her hands with a tight knot as she desperately scanned the faces of the watchers for her children, praying they were not here. Tom and Matilde already faced an unspeakable fate at the hands of the woman calling herself Joan Palmer. For them to witness their own mother’s horrific death would be a further terrible wound for their hearts, their minds.

  The unsmiling reeve passed a thick strand of coarse rope across the front of her throat. ‘Thread it through the hole in the post,’ he said to the guard. ‘It’s behind her neck.’

  The man acted on Williamson’s order and the rope tightened in a rough collar. Now she could no longer turn her head. Her breath rasped loud and rapid in her own ears.