The Blood of the Fifth Knight

by E. M. Powell

  Then she caught the unmistakable flash of gold of Matilde’s curls. No. Her heart contracted. Her children were here.

  Joan held her daughter as she had at the trial. Tom stood at her side, his small mouth agape as he saw his mother.

  ‘Pass me the bucket.’ Williamson addressed the guard and she felt her skirts move under their hands.

  Half-choking, she forced her chin down to see the reeve and his helper smear the cloth in thick tallow.

  The actions of the men caused the buzz of the crowd to rise in excitement. Those watching knew why the men did this.

  As did she. Black specks clouded her sight as she fought for air. She’d read of the burning of so many martyrs for Christ. And now it was her turn. Not for martyrdom, but condemned for sorcery, heresy. It mattered not. She did this for her children. But her fear threatened to overcome her, her heart beating in fast bursts, then slowing almost to a stop.

  The guard went to place a handful of the stinking grease on her face.

  She wrenched her head to one side, the rope gouging her skin.

  ‘No.’ Williamson stopped him. ‘Her lower body only. Makes the burn more controlled so she has time to think on her sins. Lord Ordell’s instructions.’ He gestured to another couple of guards. ‘She’s secure.’

  The men came forward onto the woodpile, moving bundles of sticks to stack against her lower legs.

  Her breath came faster still as her pulse pounded in her head. The sounds around her grew distant. Her own body and its last moments of life were all she could hear. Unbidden, her wrists, her legs, tore at the painful ties that held her, though she felt nothing, saw the crowded scene as if she observed a dream.

  Williamson uttered a few words to the men. She did not know what.

  Then they stepped from the pyre. The noise of the cruel assembly swelled in its anticipation. Fists punched the air, mouths opened to roar the punishment of God down on her.

  She stood knee deep in the cut wood. Its sweet smell told of home, a bright hearth. Benedict. Tom. Matilde. Her world of love, which she was leaving. A long cry surged within her, and she bit it back.

  No dream. She stood here in this place, with the evening sky turning a bright yellow behind gathering black clouds and a cold wind pushing at her sweated skin.

  This place. The last she would ever see. But that did not matter. Only her children mattered. She sought them again. There they were. The sight of them carved deep, deep into her heart. Her love for them, her grief at leaving them threatened to break it. But they still lived. That was all that mattered. Nothing else. And her dying prayers should be for them, to beg her God to release them from the evil that ensnared them. But she was so afraid now. So afraid of the agony, only minutes away now.

  ‘It is time.’ Ordell gestured to an unseen menial.

  With the loudest shouts yet, the crush of people drew back to reveal two guards carrying two brightly flaring torches each. They marched with great solemnity to the edge of the great pile of kindling and held their flares aloft.

  ‘Do it.’ Ordell’s order trembled with anticipation, then broke into a long roar. ‘Do it now!’

  The men thrust their torches deep into the woodpile. With an answering crackle and flare, the wood on the ground directly in front of Theodosia caught immediately. And began to spread.

  She kept her gaze on Tom, Matilde. Smoke rose up in tendrils through the stacks of branches and wreathed around her body. Her eyes watered hard, and she blinked hard to clear them, fearing that the onlookers would think she wept.

  ‘Oh, blessed Mother of God, help me.’ She forced her prayer out to shouts, abuse and whistles from faces contorted in hatred.

  ‘Has Satan deserted you?’

  ‘Too late to repent now!’

  ‘Stop taking the name of the Virgin, you whore!’

  She repeated her pleas over and over as the noise of the crowd and the hiss and the crackle of the branches increased.

  ‘Oh, blessed Mother of God, help—’ She coughed in a sudden spasm as the smoke thickened. A branch directly to her right snapped as it ignited and sent a couple of sparks to extend the reach of the flames.

  The bite of the flames was nearly upon her.

  A gust of wind blew a wave of prickling heat towards her. She tried to jerk away, but the bonds held fast. Her skin reddened, stung. She could not pray now; the words deserted her. She keened in wordless terror as she focused on her children again.

  Matilde wailed in fright at the noise, her arms stretched out in vain for Theodosia.

  ‘Mam! Mam!’ Tom tried to push forward to her, but a lowered axe handle blocked him.

  She had lost them. They were hers no more. Worse, she had failed them. Failed them completely. Her tears finally broke through, searing her throat as she screamed. ‘Take them away!’ Her cry cut through the din. ‘Take them away! They should not see this!’

  A wave of noise, of hatred, broke back at her.

  The Abbot stepped forward, Bible in one hand, and a cross on a long handle raised in the other. ‘You have little time left to repent!’ His shout led to many more.

  A high new flame shot up, fanned by the breeze, closer still to her skirts. Her skin.

  Theodosia opened her mouth to call again but choked on a new billow of smoke and heat. Her throat narrowed, clogged with smoke and choking froth and grief.

  ‘Take them away.’ Her lips formed the silent words.

  Please.

  Palmer was home. Exhaustion had near had him off the horse a couple of times for the last few miles. But he was back. He recognised the fields, the low valleys, the dips in the land. Yet something was wrong. Though still only dusk, he couldn’t see a soul out and about.

  He urged his tired animal to a faster gallop as he neared their cottage on the edge of the village.

  He pulled up outside. ‘Theodosia!’ Something was very wrong. It stood closed. Dark. No smoke from the roof. ‘Theodosia? Tom?’ He gave his two-tone whistle. ‘Matilde!’ Still no sign of life.

  Same with Enide and Alf Thatcher’s.

  He urged his animal on again and crossed the bridge into Cloughbrook. The first of the rain broke from thick, black clouds that brought greater darkness.

  The street lay empty before him, save for the usual couple of thin dogs chained to a post outside the woodworker’s cottage.

  He slowed his horse to a quick trot. ‘Hello?’ His shout made the dogs bark loud and long.

  Still no one came to check the noise.

  Same everywhere. No smoke from any hearth, like a plague had broken out. Yet he caught the trace of it on the blustery wind. Then the half-heard sound of angry shouts, yells. It must be coming from Ordell’s manor. But why, he didn’t know. And he feared to know.

  ‘Get on!’ He kicked the animal hard to get a last sprint from it.

  The terrors he’d had on his long ride fell on him again. The woman who’d stolen his sister’s name had sharp wits. Sent by enemies who’d planned well. Who’d put her into his family. And he’d left them at her mercy.

  The smoke came stronger, and the noise ahead grew louder against the heavy rain as he rode up to Ordell’s manor, hooves loud on the packed cobbles. Something was going on in the pasture behind the tall barns. He cantered around the biggest grain store.

  And pulled up his animal before it trampled those at the back of the large, baying mob.

  God alive.

  In the middle of the open ground, a high pyre smoked hard in the wet—but with gathering flames. A slumped figure on top. A burning. A human burning. What possessed Ordell to do this?

  A man nearby turned at the sound of Palmer’s horse. The man’s mouth fell open. ‘God help us! It’s Palmer!’ His shout came loud, taken up by more as folk saw Palmer.

  Palmer steadied his mount as the shouts grew louder. He added his own. ‘Theod
osia!’ He looked this way, then that, in the shifting, clamouring throng for her as a blast of rain and wind made the smoke worse.

  Then a hoarse, thin scream cut through the noise. ‘Benedict!’

  His heart near stopped. It was Theodosia up there on that fire. His fists tightened and his tiredness fell away. He’d kill Ordell with his bare hands.

  ‘On!’ A brutal kick to his horse. It had to be.

  The animal shot forward, and people scattered before it, screaming and pushing to get out of the way.

  The wind surged again, and the smoke whipped away.

  Theodosia still screamed. But the flames hadn’t reached her. Not yet.

  ‘Stop him!’ Close to the pyre, a shouting Ordell sat astride a panicky horse, with a puce-faced Abbot lurching out of the way of its hooves.

  The press of people slowed Palmer’s horse.

  ‘I said, on!’ He fought his way through. He was almost there, almost at the clear space of ground next to the pyre.

  Theodosia screamed harder in the mayhem.

  ‘I’ve got you!’ The flames still hadn’t caught her. They would in minutes. Then his ears made out her words.

  ‘The children!’

  He scanned the fray. Caught sight of Joan with them, standing near Ordell. ‘Stop that woman!’

  Then a large hand grabbed at his ankle, pulling him off his horse.

  Palmer hit the ground on his good shoulder, kicked out at whoever had hold of him. His boot met the kneecap of Ordell’s reeve.

  Williamson fell with a shout and a curse. Two guards pushed in after him, axes at the ready.

  Palmer jumped to his feet and drew his sword to more yells and screams.

  ‘Look who’s here.’ The reeve got to his feet as the men raised their axes but halted.

  ‘Get him!’ shouted Ordell.

  They ducked back as Palmer swept his sword in a poor arc, his bad arm a curse. He raised his voice. ‘I mean no harm!’ He held the blade ready. ‘But you must release my wife! Now! ’ His arm gave him little strength. The blade wavered. Strength that faded. He knew it, and he saw Williamson know it.

  ‘Forcurse it.’ He stepped back farther, glimpsed the nearest figure from the corner of his eye.

  Remigius.

  He was on him in a few fast steps, sword at the Abbot’s fat neck.

  Folk surged away from him in a panic.

  ‘Help me, Ordell!’ shouted Remigius, flinging his cross and Bible into the mud. ‘Palmer’s gone mad!’

  ‘Free my wife! Now.’ Palmer dug the blade deeper into the clergyman’s blubber. ‘Or you’ll see how mad.’

  Remigius gurgled with terror in response.

  ‘If you kill the holy Abbot, then you’ll be next on the fire, Palmer!’ said Ordell. ‘Along with your sorceress wife.’

  ‘Sorceress? What empty head has said she’s that?’ Palmer pressured the Abbot’s neck again.

  ‘Ordell!’ The Abbot’s face mottled red and purple from heat and fear. ‘Just give him what he wants. Or your soul’s going to hell too! Hell! Do you hear me?’

  Shocked calls met the Abbot’s yell.

  Ordell’s mouth snapped into a thin line. ‘Take her down. For now.’

  With an oath, Williamson mounted the pyre with his men, pushing the burning branches apart with their axe heads, to more shouts and catcalls.

  ‘Benedict!’ Theodosia’s voice rasped hoarse. ‘The children!’

  Palmer looked back.

  And met Joan’s stare as she took slow steps away from Ordell into the crush, Matilde in her arms and a struggling Tom in her grasp.

  ‘Stop her!’ Palmer didn’t dare let go of Remigius. Not till Theodosia was safe.

  No one heeded.

  He took a desperate glance back. Williamson was cutting Theodosia free in the thick smoke and flames that still had hold of the kindling.

  ‘Unhand me, Palmer!’ Remigius wriggled in his grasp.

  ‘Shut up.’ Palmer searched the press of watchers again.

  Joan made her steady way through the pushing, yelling surge of people, appearing and disappearing as it moved around her.

  Cursing, he checked again. Still Theodosia wasn’t free.

  ‘Leave me, Benedict!’ Her scream tore through him as her eyes met his.

  She judged it right.

  Palmer sent the Abbot over into the mud to a new wave of bellows. But he couldn’t see Joan. Not anymore.

  Sword aloft, he made for the part of the crowd where he’d last seen her.

  Folk screamed and jostled to get out of his way. But he had no path to get through.

  He caught the flash of Matilde’s hair through the press of people. ‘Somebody get my younglings!’

  ‘Apprehend that man!’ Ordell’s furious order from behind him rose above every sound.

  Then a new clamour broke out ahead. The throng shifted.

  Enide Thatcher held a crying Matilde. Alf crouched over, held up by another man.

  ‘Benedict, she’s still got Tom!’ shouted Enide. ‘There!’

  And Joan was in his sights, making her way back towards the fire. No steady walk. She pushed, shoved, with a tight hold on his son. But why come back?

  Palmer saw.

  Joan made for Ordell. And his horse.

  Ordell flung a pointed finger at him. ‘You’re for the flames too, Palmer!’

  He filled his lungs as best he could as he tried to run to Ordell too. ‘My lord! Save yourself !’

  ‘I need no saving from the evils of sorc—’ Ordell’s shout was cut short by a shrill cry of pain.

  Joan stood at his side, Tom held fast and fighting, her other hand a blur as she drove a knife into Ordell’s leg while nearby folk screamed in panic.

  ‘Williamson!’ The muddy Abbot’s eyes bulged.

  ‘With you, my lord!’ Williamson freed his hold on Theodosia.

  Joan stabbed the yelling Ordell’s leg again and again.

  Now Palmer broke free of the crowd, Williamson clambering down the unsteady pile of wood. The reeve fell.

  Theodosia was faster, lighter.

  In a huge gust of wind, part of the low-burning wood broke into high flames.

  Theodosia stumbled free with a cry, but the reeve and the other guards couldn’t pass through.

  Ordell’s horse shied at the heat, and the lord came off, crashing flat on his back.

  Chest searing, Palmer had to reach them. Too late.

  Joan brought her knife down into and through the lord’s eye, swift and hard. He was dead before Palmer took his next stride.

  People fled in panic, sure they’d be next.

  Grabbing at the horse’s trailing reins, Joan looked over her shoulder and met Palmer’s eye.

  ‘You she-devil!’

  In rapid moves, she climbed astride the animal, a fighting Tom firm in her grasp.

  ‘Let him be!’ Theodosia ran towards them too.

  Palmer made the last few steps, his hand grasping only at the horse’s smooth coat as Joan kicked the animal hard. It took off, sending him staggering back with a shout.

  Then a touch he knew in his very soul.

  ‘Benedict.’

  His Theodosia.

  ‘Save him! You have to save him! She is not your sis—’

  ‘Quick, Palmer!’ One of the older villagers held his own mount.

  ‘I know.’ With gritted teeth, Palmer tried to raise both arms to pull himself up into the saddle.

  Theodosia grabbed for him. ‘You’re hurt.’ She pulled him back. ‘I am not.’

  ‘Get me help, I’ll—’

  ‘No time.’ She mounted, looked down at him. ‘Our son.’

  He nodded up at her.

  She kicked the animal into a fast start and galloped after Joan.

>   Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The open moors turned purple and black in the streaming, deepening twilight as Theodosia urged the horse on. Her years since she’d ridden mattered not. Her body remembered this. The animal’s neck steamed from his long journey, and his breath came in tired snorts. She could not see Joan. See her son.

  She had to keep her faith. God had saved Matilde, brought Benedict back to her. Saved her from the flames. And yet Tom was taken from her, a sword of sorrow waiting to pierce her heart for all time. Tears lumped again in her throat and she swallowed them down.

  No tears, Theodosia: faith.

  She raised her head high to scan the horizon, the wind buffeting sheets of cold rain into her face. The moors climbed steeply, and the muddy roadway had become a little-worn track of stones and grass clumps.

  Theodosia squinted into the failing light. Movement. There. Heading for the high rocks surrounding Cloughbrook Tarn. Freezing droplets drove against her face as she kicked her horse into higher speed.

  Her heart surged with hope. Tom, I’m coming for you. Hold on. She gripped the reins hard across her palms, trying to still her roaring pulse.

  The ground rose steeply in a sharp climb. She had to slow for the horse’s sake as well as her own. If the animal fell, she could be killed.

  The clatter of stones and a distinct whinny came from above them. Against the roiling darkness of the sky, she could make out a number of blacker, unmoving silhouettes. The rocks above Cloughbrook Tarn. She dared to hope. That wild place led nowhere and had only one way back down. And she was on that path.

  The horse responded to another couple of hard kicks and made great purchase on the loose footing.

  A few rocks bounced past. Then, above the noise of the storm, the crack of a whip and a horse squealed in pain.

  ‘Get up, damn you!’

  Theodosia’s insides coiled. Joan’s voice. But nothing from Tom.

  Her horse slid too, protesting in fright at the steep, unsteady going.

  Being mounted no longer gave an advantage. Theodosia slid from the horse’s back. She could follow more quickly on foot.

  As she climbed upwards from rock to rock, the hilltop became more and more exposed. Rain slashed in sheets against her face, and the wind howled as if it had a voice of its own.