The Blood of the Fifth Knight

by E. M. Powell

  A deep snort came from her right, followed by an agonised whinny. She climbed the few steps to the side to check. Ordell’s mount lay broken legged and expiring in the storm. Deep gashes oozed across its hindquarters where Joan had ruthlessly applied the whip.

  Nothing she could do would save the poor creature. And she could not see her son. Pushing soaked strands of hair from her face, she climbed on, bent low.

  Arriving at the top, she struggled to stay steady on her feet. Her leg muscles jumped and twitched from their cramped position. Up here, the wind had a dervish in it, screaming and howling as it tried to claw the clothes from her back.

  ‘Tom!’ The storm flung the sound back at her as she began to search through some of the taller rocks that edged the tarn. She looked over a lower one, and her stomach turned over. A drop of at least half a dozen heights of a man led straight to the expanse of black lake called Cloughbrook Tarn. She turned from her precarious perch. Then her hand exploded in fire.

  Joan stood high on a square-topped rock, Ordell’s horsewhip in one hand. ‘Mind where you’re going, sister.’ She held a struggling Tom tight against her.

  ‘Mam!’

  Theodosia’s heart soared, the agony from her cut hand mattering not. ‘Let my son go. Do you hear me?’

  ‘Or you’ll do what?’ Joan took a step back towards the drop.

  ‘No! Please don’t!’ Theodosia held her hands out.

  Joan raised the whip. ‘Step any nearer and I’ll send him over.’

  ‘I beg you, do not. I will do anything, you know I—’

  Joan screamed.

  Tom broke from her hold, scrambling to one side on his hands and knees.

  ‘He bit me! The little savage bit me to the bone!’ She swiped with the whip, but he ducked out of sight into a dark crevice. She took a step after him.

  ‘You will not!’ Theodosia ran at her, crashing into her with her full weight and pulling her down onto the soaked rock by her clothing.

  But she could hardly hold her, Joan was so much stronger.

  Joan kicked her hard, over and over, driving the breath from her. Her grip lessened, gave, as Joan yanked the whip around her neck and pulled tight.

  Theodosia let go, her hands to her throat as she fought for breath, the struggle for air more painful than her split palm.

  Joan stood up, jerking her up to her feet.

  Then a shout. ‘Let her go!’

  Benedict.

  ‘I said, let go of her.’

  ‘Or you’ll do what, Benedict Palmer?’

  Palmer cursed inside that the woman called Joan stood too far away along the line of wet, slippery rocks. The loop around Theodosia’s neck pulled tight. Vicious. He knew Joan could break her neck as easily as throttle her. He wouldn’t be quick enough to stop her. It’d taken three men to get him up on a horse to chase up here. And he couldn’t see Tom. ‘I’ll let you live.’

  ‘Fighting words.’ She shook the coughing, choking Theodosia hard. ‘For Henry’s lapdog.’

  ‘There’ll be no fight with you. Whoever you are.’ Palmer held up a hand. ‘You can go back to where you came from. If you let my wife go.’

  ‘Your wife is what I came for, you simpleton.’ Her dark eyes lit with contempt. ‘De Faye ordered me to do for you both with poison. It would’ve showed the same as the pestilence does. Then I would take your brats. No one wants orphans. An aunt, a willing woman, suits everyone very well.’

  The wind blasted needles of rain in a fresh howl.

  Joan shook her long, wet hair from her face. ‘We were going to use the boy to get Eleanor freed. But you had to go running off, spoiling things. Just when you shouldn’t. Never mind.’ She tightened her grip further on Theodosia’s neck. ‘The boy’s trussed up over there. Bleeding out. So who are you going to save?’

  His wife met his gaze. Her look told him Joan lied.

  He tensed for action. Four long strides would do it. Pray God, he could.

  ‘But I’m here, Pa!’ Tom scrambled out from his hiding place.

  Joan’s face changed.

  Theodosia kicked back hard on Joan’s shins and broke her grip.

  Palmer moved towards her. ‘You’ve lost.’ He threw out a hand.

  ‘And so have you.’ Joan flung herself off the rocks, pulling Theodosia with her.

  ‘Benedict!’ His wife’s falling scream meshed with the wind.

  ‘No!’ Palmer charged forward to see the splash of breaking water as both women hit the dark surface. ‘Theodosia!’

  ‘Mam?’

  ‘Hurry, son.’ Palmer grabbed Tom and set off downhill as fast as he dared on the stark, slippery slopes. The tarn—he had to get to the tarn. But he’d be too late. She couldn’t swim. She couldn’t bloody swim.

  The storm howled on and on.

  The water smacked Theodosia in the face and chest, hard as wood. Then exploded around her in a freezing, choking mass.

  Joan’s grip still held her, pulled her down, down as they sank together. Then, with a rough push, she left her to sink into darkness. Cold. A great weight on Theodosia’s chest that she knew could have no release as she sank further. She readied for death, for her lungs to give, for water to rush in, claim her. Her greatest fear. But better, far better than the flames. And they were safe—they were all safe. Benedict. Matilde. Tom.

  If God was good, and He was, they would all be together again. The pain in her chest. Oh, God the pain. One day. Not today. Benedict’s warm embrace. The feel of her children’s soft skin, their little voices. Tom’s voice, Tom’s voice. Telling her of the day he fell in the pond. And swam.

  ‘Pa taught me. Flap your arms like a bird. Kick like you stride the meadow.’

  She kicked with one numbing leg, then the other. Gritted her teeth to keep the air in her chest. She stopped sinking. She forced her deadened arms out. Moved them up. Down. Her chest tightened like it would burst. Yet she rose. She rose in the black water, rose to where the dim light above pierced the darkness. Her heart thudded faster, so fast it hurt too. She would have to take a breath. She couldn’t. She kicked harder, faster, pulled her arms through the cold, dead weight of the water.

  Then her head broke free into the noise and clamour of the storm. Her breath rushed from her, yet she gasped, panted, as she tried to pull it in again and again. She moved her legs, her arms, splashing and struggling to stay afloat as the cold gripped her harder than ever. She had to make for the shore. Quickly. She knew what the bitter cold of water did, how it would kill her almost as fast as drowning would.

  She scanned right, left, searching for the closest rocks that edged the tarn.

  Then she saw the purposeful movement across the surface.

  Joan, swimming as strongly and smoothly as she had the day she pulled Tom from the water.

  Theodosia kicked hard, pulled her clumsy arms through the water to follow. The storm raked rain across the surface of the tarn, sent roaring gusts of wind.

  Joan would never hear her, not in this noise and with her own splashing strokes and kicks. The same way she’d swum across the pond to save Tom. Saved him only to use him as a chattel in a deadly fight for power, as she schemed to take Matilde for her own.

  Fury drove Theodosia faster. She could not let this woman get away.

  Joan reached the water’s edge and pulled herself out onto a low-lying rock. She stood up to scan the surface of the tarn.

  Theodosia slowed her clumsy movements and sank her face low in the numbing water as best she could, praying the dark and the weather would hide her.

  The storm sent a renewed blast of wind and rain across the tarn, stirring the surface even more, sheeting the surface with rain.

  A good enough disturbance.

  Joan turned and headed away.

  Theodosia set off with renewed speed, uncaring now of her splashes. She ha
d to catch up with Joan before she disappeared into the night. Her progress through the freezing tarn grew harder. Her tired limbs lost most of their feeling. Harder still. Her breath came in noisy, shallow gasps.

  But the shore came closer. Closer.

  And then she had one hand on the firmness of the rock. Then the other. Though she could scarce feel it under her numbed palms, she no longer had to keep herself afloat. She’d done it. Chest heaving, she pulled herself from the water. She stood up on shaking legs, their strength gone. From her arms too.

  Joan had formidable power. She’d shown that as they fought above the tarn.

  Theodosia needed a weapon if she were to stand a chance. She scanned the ground. A few old branches lay around but were from the stunted trees that grew up here. Too small, thin. Better would be one of the sharp hunks of rock that had broken over the winters.

  Picking one up, Theodosia measured the weight of it in her hand. She had no idea if it would be enough for her purposes, for her forming plan to succeed. And she did not know if she would be skilled enough, strong enough. And Benedict had Tom and Matilde safe with him. She could just drop this stone, go to them. Go to them all . . .

  And leave the woman who called herself Joan Palmer free to roam this world, with children as her favourite prey? Theodosia’s resolve hardened like the rock she held. She had to try.

  She set off in the direction she’d seen Joan take, shuddering now with cold. Only one passable route presented itself through the piled rocks.

  And Benedict and the whole village would be out searching for Joan. She might be captured even before Theodosia caught up with her. But she might not. Theodosia forced her pace faster. She had to catch up.

  Then she saw her.

  Dark clothes and dark hair as Joan threaded her way through the soaking rocks.

  Theodosia found a new energy. She moved after her with fast, careful steps. Then the path through took a sharp right. She could not see her.

  Theodosia stepped after her. And drew in a sharp breath.

  The rock rose sheer in front of Joan. She was trapped.

  Theodosia raised her weapon in a hand clumsy with cold.

  Joan turned to retrace her steps. And saw Theodosia.

  ‘I order you stop,’ said Theodosia. ‘In the name of King Henry.’

  Joan caught back a laugh. ‘By my eyes. The little mouse can float.’ She stepped towards Theodosia.

  ‘I ordered you to stop.’

  Joan carried on. ‘I’ll have that stone from you.’ She raised a hand.

  ‘I said, stop.’ Theodosia took a step back. Faked a stumble.

  And Joan rushed her, grabbing the stone from her grasp as she clutched a handful of Theodosia’s hair.

  ‘You see, little mouse?’ Her voice hissed in Theodosia’s ear. ‘You’re just not cut out for this.’ She brought the stone down in a heavy swipe.

  Theodosia wrenched her head to one side. The murderous blow glanced off, but her head rang and her sight blurred. She squirmed within Joan’s grasp as the woman drew her hand back for another strike. Theodosia’s hand closed on the real prize she sought. The knife she knew Joan kept in her belt.

  She yanked it free and swiped it at Joan’s neck. Too shallow. She slashed again.

  Joan ducked back with a scream. Lost her grip on the rock. She grabbed Theodosia’s wrist, managed to force it down. But her grasp was badly angled. ‘Clever.’ Her dark eyes were inches from Theodosia’s face. ‘But you can’t use it. You won’t. You told me so yourself when I asked you.’

  ‘I said I could not.’ Theodosia pressed the blade to Joan’s chest. ‘But you asked me about my children. And I did not answer.’

  Joan read her intent. Her eyes widened.

  Theodosia rammed the blade home.

  Joan’s mouth opened. No sound came out as she collapsed onto the ground.

  Theodosia hunkered down and pulled the knife free, watched as the patch of sticky blood spread across Joan’s chest. The blow to her head reached the pit of her stomach, sending waves of sickness, shaking through her. She forced out her words through chattering teeth. ‘You asked me if I would use this if my children were in jeopardy.’ She held up the blade. ‘And now you have your answer.’

  Bloodied spittle flowed from Joan’s mouth. ‘You’ll go to hell, Sister Theodosia Bertrand.’

  Theodosia kept her wavering gaze locked on Joan’s. ‘Not Sister Theodosia Bertrand. I am Theodosia Palmer. Mother of Thomas and Matilde Palmer. And I will see you there.’

  Joan’s limbs twitched. She opened her lips to form words. None came. The light went from her eyes.

  And all strength left Theodosia.

  The ground came up to meet her.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Theodosia opened heavy lids to a brilliant light, so bright it caused her pounding head to hammer more. With a soft moan, she closed them again.

  ‘She’s awake.’ Benedict’s deep voice. ‘I saw her stir.’

  ‘Are you not holding false hope?’ Another voice. Male. One she did not know. ‘It’s been almost two days.’

  ‘Benedict?’ She could only manage a whisper as she forced her eyes open once more.

  ‘I’m here.’ Benedict’s warm, big hand held hers, his dark eyes shadowed with his concern. ‘I’m here, my love.’

  She tried to sit up. Could not. ‘And the children? Where are the children?’

  Benedict stayed her with his hand. ‘Hush. They’re safe. Perfectly safe.’

  Oh, God be praised. She tried to swallow. ‘The light. It hurts.’

  ‘Geoffrey, close the shutters.’ Benedict did not take his gaze from her.

  Heavy footsteps sounded on a wooden floor, followed by the creak and crack of panels being moved. A merciful shade fell across the room.

  ‘Better?’ Benedict asked.

  ‘Mm.’ Her racing head calmed as she came to. She lay on a cushioned bed, fine covers over her. A fire in a wide hearth burned warm, sending smoke up to a high ceiling. One she recognised. She frowned. ‘Why am I in Lord Ordell’s hall? What has been happening? What—’

  ‘Slow down.’ Benedict’s firm hand stopped her.

  ‘You need to heed your husband.’ The owner of the strange voice came into view. A powerfully built knight with red hair and a deep frown. ‘You suffered a hard knock to your head. And you were half frozen when we found you.’

  ‘Theodosia, this is Geoffrey, Bishop of Lincoln.’ Benedict nodded at him. ‘Henry’s bastard son.’

  ‘Your half-brother,’ said the stranger.

  Theodosia’s mind struggled to make sense of what they told her. Henry’s sons were traitors, were they not? She gave Benedict a questioning look as the words escaped her.

  Benedict shook his head as if she had spoken her words plainly to him. ‘Henry’s faithful son. The only one.’ He let go of her hand to prop a couple of extra cushions behind her back, raising her further.

  ‘Henry sent me,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Along with your husband. And Hugo Stanton.’ He gave the bare suggestion of a smile. ‘But of course your husband beat us to it on our journey back here. Even with one working arm.’

  ‘A spy worked at the King’s palace.’ Benedict poured a goblet of water from the jug that rested on a table next to her. ‘Here. Have some of this. It’ll help.’

  He held it to her lips.

  She had not realised how much her body wanted it. She took a few sips, then several deep mouthfuls. She licked her lips gratefully. Her head cleared more. ‘Then is his Grace hurt? Is he—’

  ‘Hush again,’ said Benedict.

  ‘His Grace is safe and well,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Though things could have been very different.’

  ‘Very.’ Benedict’s face became as sombre as the bishop’s. ‘The spy was placed there by the Queen’s uncle, Raoul de Faye.’


  ‘Just as the woman calling herself your sister was here.’ Theodosia blinked slowly as her memory became sharper. Ordell. His slaying. The pyre. The terror. ‘To poison you and me, Benedict. Then take our children.’ A hard knot of tears stung her throat.

  ‘But Henry called me away,’ said Benedict.

  ‘That zealot Ordell had already started whipping people up with his own fevered imaginings of sorcery,’ said Geoffrey. ‘And Joan saw that. She changed her plans to kill you, Theodosia, to do it in another way. One that would not land suspicion on her.’

  ‘And why did his Grace call you away, husband?’ Theodosia asked.

  ‘Someone had tried to kill Rosamund Clifford. His mistress.’

  ‘Then you saved her too?’ Theodosia questioned further.

  Benedict’s dark glower matched Geoffrey’s. ‘No.’ His mouth set in a line.

  ‘Oh. That is terrible.’ Theodosia saw how much the failure had cost her husband. ‘And who was this man that performed such a foul deed?’

  Benedict shook his head. ‘No man. A woman.’ His gaze met Theodosia’s. ‘One we know. Gwendolyn Prudhomme.’

  Theodosia gasped. ‘From Knaresborough? But how?’

  ‘She had orders to deal with me as well as Rosamund. I’ll tell you everything when you’re stronger,’ said Benedict. ‘But she’s no more. I promise you that.’

  Geoffrey folded his arms with squared shoulders. ‘The Queen’s rebellion reached into every corner of the kingdom. De Faye is as efficient as he is ruthless. His Grace is making sure that no spy remains as a threat. He is being thorough. Very thorough. There is much to be uncovered. And you need to rest.’

  ‘I need to see the children.’ Theodosia looked at Benedict. ‘I will have no rest until I do.’

  ‘For a few minutes,’ said Benedict.

  ‘Very well.’ Geoffrey went to the door.

  Theodosia’s gaze went to the comfort of the hearth. Then to one corner. ‘Oh.’ She smiled. ‘The shrine to Saint Thomas Becket. It has been put back.’

  ‘Abbot Remigius did that.’ Benedict snorted in disgust. ‘He hasn’t stopped doing penance since he realised he’d been taken in by the King’s enemies. I think he’s lost most of his belly in fasting already.’