The Blood of the Fifth Knight

by E. M. Powell

  A clattering came at the door.

  Geoffrey came back in.

  Then a small voice she knew well.

  ‘Mam!’

  ‘Quiet your noise like I told you, Tom Palmer.’ Enide Thatcher walked in, Matilde in her arms. Alf held Tom’s hand.

  Theodosia’s heart almost broke with what so easily could have been. And yet they had all been spared.

  Enide’s expression broke into a wide smile. ‘Eh, it’s good to see you back with us, Theodosia.’

  Tom broke from Alf’s hold to run to Theodosia’s side.

  ‘Gently, son.’ Benedict halted him with a quick hand.

  Enide put Matilde down next to her.

  Her daughter nuzzled into her, as quiet as Tom was noisy.

  All she could do was touch them, hold them, run her weak hands over their hair, their faces. Drink in the sight of them, the sound of them. She would not cry. She would not. But she did. She raised her gaze to Enide’s and saw tears standing in the older woman’s eyes too. ‘Thank you. With all my heart.’

  ‘Give over.’ Enide waved her thanks away. ‘I knew things wasn’t right. Benedict going, all sudden-like. When you two only have eyes for each other. That Ordell, accusing you of evil when I knew you were a quiet woman.’

  ‘A bit stuck-up, mind,’ said Alf.

  ‘Who asked you to talk?’ Enide glared at him. ‘But during that so-called trial, and you weren’t defending yourself for the sake of your children, I knew it stank.’ She shook her head. ‘I’ve never seen a more devoted mother. And then your husband rides in, looking like he’s at death’s door.’ She shook her head again. ‘We had to do something to get your younglings off that woman.’

  ‘Kicked me right in the hammer and nails, so she did,’ said Alf. ‘That’s how come she got the boy.’

  Enide glared at him again.

  ‘Sorry.’ Alf said no more.

  ‘And then the King’s representative coming.’ Enide bobbed a quick curtsey at Geoffrey, clearly hoping for fresh gossip.

  Benedict raised a hand. ‘All for another time. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like a bit of time alone with my wife.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Geoffrey. ‘And I need to go to Ordell’s solar. Stanton is going through what’s kept in there.’

  ‘And I’ll take these two and feed and water them,’ said Enide. ‘Benedict’s right. You need your rest.’

  They all left, with more noise as they did so.

  A blissful silence fell, with only the crackle of the hearth breaking it.

  Benedict’s dark gaze met hers again, troubled as she’d never seen it before.

  ‘What is the matter, my love?’ she said.

  ‘Theodosia, I’m so sorry. So very, very sorry. I shouldn’t have gone. I could have lost you all.’ His hands came over hers again, gentle and warming. ‘You and the children are everything to me. And I wasn’t there to protect you.’

  ‘But you were summoned by the King.’ Theodosia put a hand to his cheek, caressed it. ‘That is your duty.’

  ‘My duty is to you.’ His voice came fierce. ‘The children.’

  ‘And sometimes duty is sacrifice.’

  Benedict gave a wry smile. ‘You’re going to remind me about your sacrifices as a nun.’

  ‘No. About my Lord Becket. He laid his life down for me. As you have tried to do. And as I was trying to do for our children.’ She stroked his cheek. ‘Duty. Sacrifice. They are so similar. And so similar to love. You cannot be selfish when carrying out any of them.’

  ‘Theodosia, I know you’re trying to make me feel better. But I left—’

  ‘Now you must hush.’ She tapped him on the mouth with her fingertips. ‘You stepped forward to do your duty. You behaved with honour and without selfishness.’ She dropped her hand. ‘And if you had stayed here, you and I would have been murdered by the woman we call Joan. And our children would be dead or corrupted by evil.’

  Benedict took up her hand and kissed it tenderly. ‘Maybe you’re right.’

  ‘I am.’

  He smiled. ‘Faith, I can’t even best you when you’ve got half your senses.’

  ‘We best each other. Don’t we?’

  ‘We do.’ He kissed her hand again. ‘But I have one more thing that I must tell you.’ His gaze shifted to deep sadness. ‘I’m so sorry. It’s about your mother.’

  Chapter Thirty

  One month later

  Palmer walked the quiet cloisters at Godstow Nunnery, half a step behind Theodosia.

  The spring, so late in coming, had finally taken hold. The morning sun had strength and heat that he could scarce remember. The cloister garden had broken out in new, fresh leaf, like it hurried to catch up after the freezing winter just gone.

  Theodosia prayed quietly, using her string of Pater Noster beads. The children were being cared for by two of the nuns, allowing Theodosia her time alone.

  For today was the day of minding for the soul of Sister Amélie Bertrand. For Theodosia’s mother. The prayers that marked one month since her death.

  Ahead, Henry prayed too. Loudly. A king’s virtue had to be noted. No doubt.

  Palmer knew Theodosia had been heartbroken at missing her mother’s funeral. But she had been too weak after her injury from Joan. He’d not been much better. And they’d both agreed they could not, would not leave the children out of their sight. Not when so many questions had remained about de Faye’s reach.

  A door opened onto the cloisters, admitting a sombre Geoffrey.

  Henry halted. ‘You have news, Geoffrey?’

  His son nodded.

  ‘Then let us take a seat over here.’ Henry gestured to a couple of stone benches in the sunlight. ‘Theodosia, Benedict. You must join us.’

  Palmer led Theodosia into the bright garden and sat next to her on one sun-warmed bench, Geoffrey and the King on the other.

  ‘We are private?’ asked Henry.

  ‘Yes,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Abbess Dymphna has made sure.’

  ‘Good,’ said Henry. ‘You used Hugo Stanton as well?’

  ‘I did,’ said Geoffrey. ‘He is a skilled rider, swift and direct.’

  Palmer couldn’t resist. ‘And he’s learned to keep secrets?’

  ‘He’s like a whipped puppy,’ said Geoffrey. ‘He’ll never put a foot out of place again.’

  Henry nodded. ‘Then tell us what you have found.’

  Geoffrey held a number of letters. ‘It seems that an odd series of events took place in Knaresborough. During the rebellion. The local moneylender and his family were charged with the murder of a child. They met their end at the stake.’

  Palmer felt the colour leave his face. His gaze met Theodosia’s, her mask of horror a reflection of his own.

  Even Henry had paled. ‘I know your story, Palmer. Geoffrey, I fear what you are about to say next.’

  Geoffrey shook his head. ‘The main witness to their so-called evil-doing was Gwen Prudhomme.’ His voice dropped in disgust. ‘She had become their servant. Disappeared straight after their death. Never seen again.’

  Palmer’s own fists tightened as Henry’s colour rose again. Frighteningly quickly. As did the King’s rage.

  ‘The bloody woman! Damn her eyes! Damn them.’ He got to his feet to pace. ‘I have no quarrel with the Jews! None! They lend money, keep it going from one to another. So much gets surrendered to me.’ He gave a long, low growl of disgust and flung himself on the bench once more. ‘So that is how you were found.’ He shook his head, brought his hand across his face. ‘God’s eyes.’

  Theodosia’s hands were locked together so tight that Palmer thought her knuckles might break. ‘Those poor, poor people. That we would have been the cause of such an end . . .’ She trailed off.

  Geoffrey snorted. ‘Not you, sister. Or Palmer. Or his Grace. Remember
at whose door these sins lie.’ He tapped the letters onto one palm. ‘We have also made another terrible discovery at the port of Southampton. The unexplained, brutal murder of an old monk who kept the Maison Dieu.’

  ‘Brother Paulus,’ whispered Theodosia. ‘He knew much of our story. It was Brother Paulus, was it not?’

  Geoffrey nodded somberly. ‘That is the name I was told.’

  ‘What happened to him?’ asked Theodosia.

  ‘The city guard found him in the boarding house. His skin flayed from his body. And his tongue cut out.’

  ‘Dear God.’ Theodosia put her face in her hands as Palmer’s stomach turned over.

  Even Henry looked as if the wind had been driven from him. ‘Then they tortured him to find out what he knew about you and what happened in Southampton.’ He tipped his head back, blew out a long breath. ‘So they could put every piece together.’

  ‘They were hunting us down,’ said Palmer. ‘And we didn’t even know it.’ He met Henry’s gaze. ‘It wasn’t enough that we hid ourselves. Led our quiet lives.’

  ‘I’ve had thoughts on that,’ said Henry. ‘Geoffrey?’

  ‘The other thing I have discovered,’ said Geoffrey, ‘concerns Lord Ordell.’

  ‘Another working for the rebellion?’ Palmer asked.

  Theodosia took his hand. Despite the warmth of the sun, she felt icy cold.

  ‘Not in the way you might think,’ said Geoffrey. ‘He supported the rebellion. But only at its height. He had lent the rebels a huge amount of money to raise their forces. Which he clearly expected to get back. And of course never did. I spent a long time going through his records, reckoning up his wealth.’ His scowl deepened. ‘He was recouping it by putting the burden on his own tenants. The Crown saw almost nothing of the sums he raised.’

  Palmer sat bolt upright. His glance told him Theodosia understood too.

  ‘Do you mean we all went hungry to pay what we owed for nothing?’ Her eyes flashed with her anger. ‘That people were beggared because of the failed rebellion?’

  ‘That is what we have found,’ said Henry. ‘A disgrace. An affront to nobility. Yet another untruth carried out in my name.’ He looked from Palmer to Theodosia. ‘Which is why I want you to take over the estate. Your knighthood will be public, Palmer.’

  ‘Your Grace, I—’

  ‘I don’t need to hear a speech about your misgivings, boy. Too much has gone wrong in my kingdom. Those who should be loyal have not been. I need to regroup. Rebuild.’ He scowled. ‘Make sure that my wife stays under lock and key.’ He sucked in a breath. ‘I need people I can trust. God have mercy on me, I need that. Sir Benedict.’

  ‘Your Grace.’ Palmer bowed.

  The cloister door opened again, and Abbess Dymphna emerged. ‘It is time for prayers, your Grace.’ She folded her hands and waited.

  Henry rose, signalling that everyone should do so. ‘And now we go to pray for the soul of Sister Amélie. A gentle, noble soul.’

  ‘There is one thing that continues to plague me,’ said Theodosia.

  ‘What is that?’ queried Henry.

  ‘The Book of Hours that Mama gave me.’ Her gaze went from one to another. ‘I gave it to Joan to hide. I do not know what she did with it. I have spent much time these last weeks searching for it. But I cannot find it.’

  ‘We can search again,’ said Palmer. ‘And we’ll find it.’

  ‘And if we cannot?’ asked Theodosia.

  Henry patted her arm. ‘It can cause no further harm to what has already been caused.’

  Palmer caught Geoffrey’s gaze, noting the bishop’s held the same misgivings as his.

  ‘I’ll help you, Palmer,’ was all he said.

  Henry raised his voice. ‘We shall join you now for prayers, Mother Dymphna.’

  The Abbess nodded and extended a hand to show them the way.

  Raoul de Faye could bear no more bad news.

  Failure. After failure. After failure. He hurled the latest letter from him, sent the open chest containing the others crashing over, spilling them across the floor.

  His army of ghosts and shadows were only smoke, disappearing into thin air and leaving him alone and defeated.

  His gaze went to Eleanor’s picture, and a band of agony wrapped around his chest. His heart might stop, but he cared not. Life without his lady meant nothing.

  A great sob escaped him. His heart. There could still be hope.

  He stumbled before Eleanor’s looming likeness, tears flowing freely. ‘My love. All is not lost. The great Yvain lived on without his heart, leaving it with his lady, his body carrying on by the miracle of his love. As I have with you. His body lived in hope of reuniting with his heart, while hope gave him the means of a new kind of heart.’

  ‘Yvain was a faithful lover. Not a thief, stealing his love’s heart for dishonourable means.’

  De Faye sank to his knees, tears streaming down his face, as Yvain had humbled himself. ‘I am yours. Yours. I will die without your love.’

  ‘You are unmanned and unmanly. You have achieved nothing. I am still imprisoned. Cause all the storm you like. Call down the rain, the wind. No one will ever know your name. No troubadour will have it on his lips, as you shall never be on mine.’

  De Faye broke into howls of grief, of shame. Above him, around him, over him, the hundreds of bright fleurs-de-lis stared down at him like hard, bright, accusing eyes. Eyes that saw what he had done and judged him for it.

  He was no Yvain. No courtly lover. No hero.

  He had failed his lady.

  As the mourners filed into the chapel at Godstow, Palmer caught his breath in surprise.

  Before, it had been simple and plain. Now it held a costly tomb in front of the altar. Hung with silks and covered in patterns of carved roses, dozens of cream candles burned around it. No resting place of a nun, but that of Rosamund Clifford, with the stone flowers a permanent reminder of her name.

  He expected a reaction from Theodosia. But nothing came. She prayed with devotion, with many quiet tears for the mother she had lost. Lost so many years before.

  Like Palmer’s own mother. Like his sisters. Like Joan. The real Joan, a child who had never done anyone any harm. His own heart opened to his God, asking that He be merciful to those he’d lost.

  And his eyes kept going to the tomb.

  Like poor Rosamund, God help her. Not much more than a child either, caught up in things she couldn’t hope to understand.

  The service finished, and all rose as Henry did.

  Theodosia bowed as he passed down the aisle, as did Palmer.

  ‘I would like to wait awhile,’ she murmured quietly to him.

  Henry nodded.

  Palmer turned to her as silence fell on the chapel.

  ‘You appear angry, my love,’ she said.

  ‘That’s because I am,’ he said.

  ‘At what?’

  ‘At Henry. For this tomb to a lie. At myself, for being the reason a tomb is here at all.’ He swallowed hard. ‘I should’ve saved her. I should’ve saved Rosamund Clifford.’

  ‘You did what you could,’ said Theodosia. ‘And that is all any of us can ever do.’ She gave him a small smile. ‘And the tomb is here because I suggested to Henry that it should be.’

  ‘You did?’ Palmer gaped at her. ‘Whatever for? She was the King’s mistress, an adulteress—’

  ‘Oh, you are sounding just like Geoffrey.’ She put a hand on his arm and smiled again. ‘I suggested it, because she should have something to mark her presence on this earth. You and I, we are so lucky. We have our children. We will live on through them. That poor girl, pushed onto my aging father. Brought into harm’s way, through her youth and beauty, by men who sought only to use her.’ She shook her head, her gaze full of sadness now. ‘She should not be forgotten, the fair Rosamund. She des
erved more. As every woman does.’ Her mouth set firm. Brave.

  Palmer leaned forward and drew her to him. ‘I’ve missed you,’ he murmured against her soft cheek. ‘More than a knave like me has words for.’

  ‘As I have missed you. And God has brought you back to me.’ Theodosia tipped her head back to look at him. ‘We fought evil again,’ she whispered to him. ‘And we won.’

  Palmer offered up his silent prayer as he held her to him.

  Please God that we have.

  Historical Note

  The Blood of the Fifth Knight is a work of fiction, but many of the characters and events in it are based on fact.

  King Henry II did his public penance on the streets of Canterbury on 12 July 1174 for the murder of Archbishop Thomas Becket in 1170, a murder for which the King had been blamed. The historical accounts of Henry’s progress through the streets and his scourging at the shrine are vivid. One can only imagine the impact on those watching at the time. For early medieval people, only God could judge a king, yet Henry allowed his all-too-human flesh to be scourged from his shoulders.

  The other divine figure of whom the spectators were acutely aware was, of course, Saint Thomas Becket, who had been canonised with remarkable speed by 1173. The devotion to Becket was immense. An astonishing 100,000 people came to pray and visit Canterbury Cathedral in 1171 alone. People cited miracles immediately after his death. The attributed miracles mounted up, and in ten years, there were a total of 703 recorded.

  As Henry performed his penance, his grasp on the throne was extremely perilous. A rebellion of Henry’s wife, Eleanor of Aquitaine, their sons and King Louis VII of France was on the cusp of victory. But Henry’s bastard son, Geoffrey, seasoned fighter and Bishop of Lincoln, had achieved, along with others, decisive wins. The news was brought to Henry the very next day after his overnight prayers in Canterbury at Becket’s shrine. It was the most fortunate timing. Saint Thomas Becket was deemed to have sided with Henry, and the psychological impact of this shift was immense. With belief in Becket’s miracle and Henry’s forces gaining the upper hand, the rebellion failed. By September 1174, Henry had imprisoned Eleanor, though he was lenient with the rest of his family, and they remained free.