E. M. Powell (16 page)

“Gilbert, I need your help or I’ll be here forever.” Benedict emerged from the storeroom, chin lowered in his task. Already clad in dark red woolen hose and knee-length black boots, the knight held the two edges of a brown woolen doublet that he strained to bring together across his linen-covered chest. “I don’t think this will go on.” He looked up, and his eyes lit on Theodosia.

“Looks quite the lady, doesn’t she?” said Gilbert, with clear satisfaction.

Benedict’s swift glance traveled down, then up, her body. “You could say that.”

His appraisal brought a flush to the exposed skin on her chest and neck. “Hopefully not for long.” She went to the counter and folded her skirt and chemise into a tight bundle, fighting down her shame.

Pants of effort came from Gilbert as he helped the knight with his clothing.

“We need your help, Lady Theodosia,” said Benedict.

“Do not mock me.” She knotted off her bundle with a furious twist. “It is not seemly, and certainly not at a time like this.”

Gilbert moved to one side of Benedict and pulled one edge of the doublet with both hands. “This is going to be a tight fit. I was close on your height when I was young, sir knight, but never as broad. Come on, pull hard. Sister, pray give us a hand.”

Leaving her tied bundle, Theodosia went over to them. She stopped in front of Benedict and tightened the laces of the doublet, working them up through the eyeholes with swift twists of her fingers.

“Don’t think I’d want this performance every time I got dressed.” Benedict held his chin up out of the way. “Give me chain mail and a surcoat any day.”

“Do not speak,” said Theodosia. “It makes it twice as hard to do this up, and we have little time.” She had to stand on tiptoe to reach the top two. When the ends were secure in a double knot, she stepped back as Gilbert loosed his hold with a long breath.

“Will I do?” Benedict screwed up his face as he shifted in discomfort in the tight doublet.

“I suppose so. But I am more accustomed to men concealed in the modesty of robes.”
Not parading every muscle.
She stepped to one side and bent over to put her shoes on. The unwanted flush was back — she’d cut her throat if she thought she could stop it.

“It’s the fashion, Sister,” said Gilbert. “Most folk would near kill for a well-cut shirt and hose.”

“Well, more fool them.” Shoes buckled, she straightened up.

A heavy brown wool, fur-trimmed cloak was now fastened across Benedict’s shoulders. He pulled a loose black velvet cap onto his head with gray-gloved hands. “Come, stand next to me.”

Theodosia picked up a mustard-colored woolen cloak and placed it over her shoulders, then moved to Benedict’s side. “What do you think?” he asked Gilbert.

The old man shook his head in disbelief. “Who’d have thought it? The whole town is looking for a knight and a ragged girl. No one is looking for a visiting townsman and his lady wife. Besides, it’s market day; the whole town is full of strangers.” He smiled. “Maybe not all as fine-looking, but certainly as well-dressed.”

“Then it’s time to go.” Benedict went and picked up the bundles of their old clothing.

Theodosia took hers from him, mouth dry. This was like being back in Canterbury again. Safe within walls, but forced to go out, to leave the peace of enclosure for a wild, dangerous world.

She followed Gilbert and Benedict to the door.

As the old tanner unlocked it, Benedict extended a hand. “Our most grateful thanks to you and your wife, sir. We owe you our lives.”

Gilbert shook his hand. “’Twas nowt. Anyone would have done the same.” He pulled the door open.

Bright winter sunlight flooded in, along with the sound of dozens of voices, of footsteps on the street. The voices and footsteps of people who sought her and Benedict, who would claim them for the huge prize in a heartbeat.

“Godspeed, my friends,” said Gilbert.

“May God keep you,” whispered Theodosia. “You’re a good, good man.”

Benedict stepped out into the street and looked up and down. “Come, my dear.” He crooked his free arm for Theodosia to take.

“Is that necessary?” she asked.

“It’s what real people do,” he said.

Theodosia stepped out and took his embrace, her bundle clutched in her other hand. The pale sunlight fell sharp on her eyes after so long indoors, and she scarce dared to breathe. Surely someone would guess, someone would shout? But no. Like Benedict had predicted they were invisible. They set off down the street with the same measured pace as the other market shoppers. Underfoot, rubbish cast aside by stallholders and shoppers crunched beneath her shoes and stirred against her skirts.

Lines of shops and stalls stretched on either side along the street. A shoemaker’s, with the scent of leather on the air and the steady blow of his hammer on the awl. Candle stalls, with rows of fine beeswax tapers hanging high out of reach, and piles of smelly tallow lights in baskets at the front. Dried flowers and lavender at one, the scent not as pure as fresh blooms, but still welcome sweetness from the displayed posies. A heavy-armed woman stood holding out handfuls, others arranged in her apron pocket. “Sweet your air! Sweet your air!”

Theodosia breathed more easily as they made their way along. It was so easy, so simple. It was working.
Praise God.
“Now tell me. Where are we going?”

“It’s not a place — ” He broke off. “Forcurse it.” His gloved hand tightened on her wrist.

“What are you doing?” She tried to shake him off.

He propelled her to look at a stall hung with dozens of woven straw bonnets.

The stallholder was busy with two young women who were making each other shriek with laughter by pulling faces as they tried hats for size.

“Explain yourself,” she hissed.

He put down his bundle of clothing and picked up a ribboned hat. Bringing it close to both their faces, he said, “Keep your back to the street. Gilbert’s wife is on her way back.”

“Then we should say good-bye to her, thank her.”

Benedict’s dark eyes bored into hers. “For what, precisely? She brings the knights with her.”

“No.” Her whole body tensed to run.

Benedict’s hand went to her shoulder. “Invisible, remember?” he murmured.

Shouts came from behind her. She wanted to turn, every inch of her screamed to face the terror, to know when a sword would let fly at Benedict, when hands would grab her. She clutched her roll of clothing tight in both hands.

He kept his gaze locked on hers. “Now, let’s see.” His voice was normal, steady. He lined up the straw hat and placed it on her head at a deep angle, arranging the ribbons under her chin. “Perhaps?” He bent his head to one side. To a casual observer, he perused his wife’s new bonnet.

The shouts grew louder, more voices joined. The stallholder and the girls stopped their banter and stared up the street at the source of the noise.

Benedict glanced around. “They’re almost level.”

Metal spurs tramped hard, and the familiar rap of wooden pattens echoed with them. Voices raised in question, encouragement, conjecture echoed round her.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw them pass. Feet away. The knights and guards with swords ready. Fitzurse, his face purposeful and eager. Gwendolyn, her skirts held high to allow her swift steps. The woman’s gaze flicked across her and Benedict, but no recognition sparked there. It was clear she eyed the whole crowd, the better to check that everyone noted her passing. High color showed in her cheeks as she strode along.

The color of triumph, triumph that she’d get the huge reward. Theodosia had to bite back a cry of anger, had to clutch her bundle not to fly at the woman for her betrayal.

“They’ll be at Gilbert’s in a few minutes.” Benedict’s voice was only for her again. “When I put the hat down, we go.”

A horrified realization swept over her. “What will Fitzurse do to him?” she whispered.

“We can’t help him,” said Benedict. “We have to move on.”

“But we cannot just abandon him.” She cast a furious look up the road as the search party moved along. “Not when he has been betrayed by his own wife, the sinful — ”

“It’s the rules of war. He’d understand.”

“Well, I do not follow such rules and I have no such comprehension. He did not abandon us, so we should not abandon him.” She set her shoulders. “He is a furrier, not a knight. I am not moving. We have to try.”

Benedict swore softly. “Then I’ll go. If I’m not back in a few minutes, you have to leave this place.”

“I want to come with you.”

He swore again. “Theodosia, you have to calm yourself. Gilbert was appalled by Becket’s murder. He’s a good man who wants to do good. Your rushing right back into Fitzurse’s clutches won’t help him any. Stay here and look after these.” As he thrust his bundle of clothes at her, an odd half smile flickered on his lips for a moment. He said something as he walked off.

She stared after him.
Foolhardy?
What did that mean?

♦ ♦ ♦

Alone in his storeroom, Gilbert folded away the pelts that had saved the anchoress’s life, his breath unsteady in his chest with the effort. Well, unsteady with excitement too: he’d had such a time of it.

He went back out into the shop and wondered if he should reopen. Probably, even though it was getting late on. Gwen would have something to say if he didn’t.

Pity she hadn’t been there to help the knight and the sister on their way. She was taking an awfully long time to get the food. Not that he’d even try to criticize her for it. Some things weren’t worth the trouble.

He went to open the wooden shutters. The door crashed open and sent him staggering to one side.

A huge knight with a scarred face burst in, sword at the ready. He pointed it at Gilbert. “Where are they?”

Gilbert raised his hands. “I’m sorry, sir knight. I-I don’t know who you mean.”

“Don’t be such a donkey, Gilbert.”

The familiar voice cut him to the quick. “Gwen?”

His wife strode in, along with a tall knight who had the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. Sir Reginald Fitzurse. It had to be, from Sir Palmer’s description. Gilbert looked from him to Gwen, appalled. “What have you done?” he asked.

“I’ve done what you should have done,” she said. “I’ve told the knights who we have here.” She dug him hard on the arm. “The reward?”

Gilbert’s strength disappeared from his limbs, and he sagged against the counter. “I have nothing to say.”

Gwen pointed a triumphant finger at the storeroom. “In there.”

Fitzurse nodded to the big knight, who yanked open the door.

He peered in, but his voice rumbled in surprise. “Empty.”

Fitzurse grasped Gwen’s arm. “If you have been lying to me — ”

“No!” She was shriller than ever. “I left them here.”

Fitzurse loosed his hold on her. He leveled his sword at Gilbert’s face, unblinking eyes like sapphire as he looked along the blade. “Where. Are. They.”

Gilbert waited for the terror, but he felt none. Only a wave of calm. “Gone from here.” His heart beat fast, then slow, in his chest, but he cared not.

Gwen flew at him, slapping at his face. “You idiot! Tell them! Tell them so I can have my money!”

Gilbert shook his head. His chest suddenly had no air. Funny, that.

Fitzurse transferred his gaze to Gwen. “I will give your husband a count of ten, then I will chop his fingers off.”

“Wait.” Gwen ceased her onslaught. “The woman. In the street.” She turned to Fitzurse. “I saw a woman. In a dress. Exactly the same as mine: chestnut, with a yellow shawl. Down this street. I thought nothing at the time. But it was made special for me.” She wheeled back to Gilbert. “They’re wearing our clothes, aren’t they? Tell Sir Fitzurse. Where are they gone?”

Gilbert watched her expression change to surprise as he sank to the floor. The stone was cold against his cheek, but so very, very soft.

Gwen’s shrieks, Fitzurse’s threats, all faded together until there was only silence.

“Dad-dad?”

He moved his eyes to the door. There stood his Isobel, in her primrose-yellow linen frock. She waved her special wave, her little fingers making a twinkling star. He scrambled up and ran to her, his old limbs moving as they had as a young man.

“Izzie!” He grabbed her and swung her into his arms.

Her hands went tight around his neck, and he buried his nose in her soft, sweet curls.

“Gilbert?”

He looked up at the sound of the young woman’s voice. One he had not heard in a long, long time.

Framed in the light, waiting at the door, was Catherine.

“It’s time to come home, love,” she said.

♦ ♦ ♦

Palmer retraced his recent path, every sense alert for a call he’d been seen.

The furrier’s house and shop came into view. A noisy crowd surged around it, all the shops and stalls abandoned as people tried to see inside.

Near to Palmer, a couple of cooked-meat stalls stood empty. Beneath the metal cooking griddles, bright orange embers glowed and sputtered from drips of melted fat. Maybe he could set a fire, cause a distraction.

Hat low over his face, he moved to the back of the crowd, careful to keep out of the line of sight of the shop.

Rumor and opinion about what might be happening in there buzzed around him.

“I saw a sword behind the counter earlier, I swear on my mother’s life,” said a fat man.

A horse-toothed woman jabbered to a group of two or three others. “That knight, the one that killed de Morville, I’ll wager he’s killed in these parts before. Jane’s cousin said the man who murdered her husband had black hair.” They shrieked.

“I’ll bet Gwen charges them to search the house,” said a large man who held a tankard of ale, much to the mirth of his friends.

Palmer wanted to shout at them, pummel some sense into their heads. A man could be being tortured, killed in there, and they cared not a whit. He craned his neck to catch a glimpse, catch the slightest sound.

Nothing. The crowd filled the place with their noise.

Desperation began to take hold. If he were to act, he’d have to do so blind. And in full view of all here.

Should he be recognized, Fitzurse’s order would have him torn to shreds by the crowd’s bare hands. “
A crown for every piece of him.
” It would be only a matter of minutes before Theodosia was found. Then Fitzurse would have her to torture to death at his leisure. The nightmare of her smooth, delicate skin, roasting and melting like the meat on the griddles nearby, flashed before him. But unlike the animals cooked on there, Theodosia would still be alive. He couldn’t do it. Whatever Fitzurse might do to Gilbert, it would be swift. Fitzurse needed his information urgently.