E. M. Powell (27 page)

Yet she had no choice but to thread through the dreadful throng, to try and catch sight of Brother Edward, or he of her.

While the din was bad enough, the chaos and disorder were worse. She stepped through suspicious-looking puddles, slick and brown with clumps that squelched under her feet. A gap-toothed man, dressed in foul rags and reeking of ale, staggered into her and bumped her hard.

“Sorry, dolly.” He leered openly at her.

Amélie shuddered inside, drew her cloak tighter round her, and hurried on. She detested these lay clothes. Without her wimple and veil, her head felt chilly beneath the simple linen wrap. The cloak was a nuisance, slipping this way and that. Worst of all, she felt exposed, nay, almost naked, without her sacred black habit.

She craned her neck and looked to see if she could catch sight of Brother Edward. Nothing, only hordes of strangers. She took a deep breath but stopped it, revolted by the smells of fish and frying bacon that overwhelmed the fresh dawn air.

Amélie set her mouth to avoid its turndown in disappointment. She would have to remain here until the church opened its doors. That would give her a refuge in which to wait. The thought that Edward might not come, that she might be amongst these hardened folk as night fell again, panicked her to the core.

“Mistress.”

A powerful hand landed on her shoulder.

She turned with a suppressed cry.

A tall man stood before her, shrouded in a dark brown cowl and cloak.

As she parted her lips to challenge his rudeness, he brought both hands to his hood and lowered it to his shoulders.

She could have wept with relief. “Brother Edward. Oh, thank the Lord.”

“Sister Amélie.” His green eyes shone with his success at finding her. “God be praised for your safe arrival.”

“The years have hardly changed you, Brother,” she said, permitting herself a smile of chaste welcome.

“If only that were the case, Sister. I don’t move as fast as I did. And it’s well I have my tonsure, as I’m sure I’m half bald.”

She eyed his thick black hair with its few silver threads. “Oh, do not belittle yourself so, not with such a fine head of hair for a man.”

“Let me take your bag.” Edward gave the nearby crowds a quick perusal. “We are completely anonymous here, which gladdens my soul. I have arranged a couple of rooms. Saint Michael’s has a fine maison-dieu where we can await our sailing to France. It’s this way.” As they made their way out of the market, he paused by a woman selling a hot milky drink. “Two, please.” He handed over a small coin for two steaming cupfuls.

Amélie held up a finger to him as he proffered one. “It does not have alcohol?”

He shook his head. “Honey only. I wouldn’t insult you with such baseness, Sister. I remember your virtues well.”

“Bless you, Brother.” She took the steaming cup and sipped with relish at its wholesomeness.

“I hope it revives you a little,” he said.

“Indeed it does,” she said. “The journey with the monastery post horses was swift, for which I was grateful. But I feel my bones are rattled to pieces, as well as my dignity.” The delicious warmth spread through her limbs. “Are you still planning for us to sail the night after next?”

“Our passages are booked.” He cast her an inquiring glance and lowered his voice. “Have you had any word of Laeticia?”

“No. I do not know anything more than your letter.” Her voice trembled. “Who knows what may have befallen her by now at the hands of those terrible knights? Robbed of her virtue, her chastity. Carried off by death without a proper confession.” She trembled harder. “Her soul might be crying out to me now from hell, but I cannot hear her.”

He raised a hand in sympathy. “Sister Amélie, you cannot torture yourself with such grave fears.”

“But without a confession — ”

“If she has departed this world, her soul will be receiving its eternal reward in heaven, united with our beloved Thomas.” Edward took her empty cup from her and returned it to the stallholder. “I have been her confessor for many years, and have offered up absolution every day for her since we lost her.”

Amélie let out a long breath. “Oh, God be praised for you and your care, Brother.”

“Now you need to come with me so you can rest at the hostel. You must recover your strength for the journey to France.”

She fell into step beside Edward as they left the market to join a busy street. “It will be hard to rest while I do not know my daughter’s fate.”

“Then if you cannot rest, use the time to pray.”

Her voice cracked. “But what should I pray for? I am so afraid for her.”

His green eyes softened in sympathy. “Pray for her deliverance,” he said. “If God is good, that will mean her safe return to you.”

CHAPTER 20

Theodosia began the second of the glorious mysteries, the regular rhythm of her rosary bringing comfort and peace to her soul. The weak light of the winter dawn showed Benedict asleep beside her, his breath measured and even. Soothed by her prayers, her heart softened for the sleeping knight. She should pray for him next, with his soul so far away from the protection of the church. He needed to realize the wrongness of his ways.

A low murmur came from outside. In this inhospitable place? Prayer abandoned, she strained to listen. The wind moaned from the hilltop fort like a disturbed spirit, as if the ancients questioned her and Benedict’s presence. Was that the sound? An abrupt bleat made her start, then almost laugh aloud. Of course. The sheep that roamed outside. She settled back into her sacred call to Mary.

There it was again. A voice. Male. Definitely. Kept low. A whinny of recognition from Harcos. Dear God. Fitzurse.
Oh, Mother Ursula. What did he do to you?

She grabbed for Benedict, put her mouth close to his ear. “Wake up, wake up. Fitzurse has found us.”

He shook off sleep in an instant. “Are you sure?” he whispered.

“Harcos knows his master,” she whispered back. “Listen.”

The muted sounds repeated, along with the low rumble that could only be le Bret.

She tightened her grip. They were stuck here, like beasts at slaughter. The door, wedged shut as it was, would open with a few hard pushes.

“The roof.” Benedict’s lips formed the words against her temple.

“How?”

“Thatch. I’ll cut through and get you out. Then run. Make for the fort. It’s the only cover.”

A stifled cough from outside brought them both to their feet.

Benedict stretched to the sagging fibers of the roof. Loose pieces snapped off onto Theodosia’s face and shoulders as he cut furiously and quietly with his dagger.

The door squealed, sealed for now against whoever gave it a cautious push.

“They’re coming in, Benedict.”

“Almost there.”

Another protest from the door’s damp wood.

Benedict hauled at the thatch as he slashed harder. It came away in a shower of dust and dried, dead insects. A circle of pale dawn sky appeared above them.

“Palmer. I know you’re in there.” Fitzurse’s voice. “You make more noise than a herd of swine. You know what I want. Come out if you know what’s good for you.”

“Quickly.” Benedict crouched to form a step with his hands.

Theodosia raised her right foot onto them and grasped his shoulders. She looked into his dark eyes, ashamed at her earlier anger. “You save me again.” It sounded so weak.

“Go.” He boosted her up.

Her upper body squeezed through the gap in the thatch. She looked down. Their two horses grazed on. Le Bret and Fitzurse crouched before the door. Le Bret’s spiky-haired head crammed against it to listen for sounds within. Fitzurse had his sword drawn and ready. All it would take was for one of them to glance up. Pushing steadily with her arms, she eased herself out. She beckoned to Benedict.

He gestured for her to run.

“I’ll count to three, Palmer.” Fitzurse’s voice, so clear in the open air.

She nodded, her heart torn. She slid across the roof to the side opposite the waiting knights, terrified the small snaps and rustles she made would be heard.

“One.”

The thatch moved beneath as Benedict tried to jump up. But there was no one to help him.

She got to the edge. The ground was double her height below. Rough rocks poked through the thin layer of grass. What if she landed wrong? Broke her leg? Fitzurse and his sword would be on her in a moment.

“Two.”

The thatch bounced again. She looked back. Benedict’s hands clawed for purchase at the opening, then fell back. Theodosia focused back on the ground. She had to do this. If she failed, his selfless bravery would’ve been in vain. She launched herself off. The ground came up to meet her. Sharp stone stung her outstretched hands, and fire shot up one knee. She scrambled to her feet and set off toward the fort at a run, a complaint from her knee with every stride.

An oath came from Benedict.

She glanced over her shoulder, and her heart leapt. Benedict had levered himself up through the roof, his chest and shoulders clear.

“Three!”

She slowed. He had to make it.

He was out. He threw himself across the roof and rolled off.

Le Bret’s roar of murderous intent echoed across the barren slopes as Benedict hit the ground.

The crash of the door was followed by another shout, this time of surprise.

Benedict rose and sprinted toward her.

Fitzurse appeared round the side of the shelter. “They’re here, le Bret!”

Theodosia turned and ran up the steep hillside, Benedict’s rapid steps behind her.

“Keep going.” He caught her up and grabbed her hand.

“We’re done for. We can’t outpace horses.”

He stumbled on a loose rock. “They won’t use them to chase us on this. Too risky.”

“You’re on a fool’s errand, Palmer!” said Fitzurse.

“Not as foolish as yours, Fitzurse.”

Tendrils of mist draped around the fort’s forbidding silhouette as they raced toward it. With fast, shallow breaths, they neared the top of the slope. Then the ground fell away beneath them in a great dry moat, three times the height of a man and twice as wide. The other side rose even higher.

Theodosia glanced behind her, Benedict too. Their pursuers closed the gap with every purposeful step.

“What do we do?” she said.

“We slide.” He yanked her down with him as she screamed, flat on her back. Wet with dew, the grassy sides were like oil. Bumped and jarred by stones, she landed, winded, at the bottom of the huge ditch.

Benedict splashed beside her into a slime-filled puddle. He got to his feet at once and pulled her with him in a swift movement. “We have to climb. Now.” He propelled her to the final slope.

Close up against it, she could see it rose to ten times Benedict’s height, topped off with the high stone wall.

“A section of the wall’s collapsed.” He pointed. “Make for that.” He bent to grab her around the hips and boosted her up to give her a start.

She grasped at the coarse long grass with both hands. It held her weight. Just. She reached for another one. It barely held.

Benedict was already past her. He climbed with swift movements, hand over hand, never letting the grass bear his weight for more than a second.

With gritted teeth, she tried to follow suit. But her arms wouldn’t do it. She pushed with both feet. Better. Another handful. And another.

“Hurry, Theodosia.”

She tipped her head back.

Benedict stood atop the fort’s wall, hands on both hips, breathing hard. The mist had closed in; he looked like he stood in a cloud.

A thump and splash sounded beneath her, then another.

Le Bret and Fitzurse had made it to the bottom of the ditch.

Dear God, she couldn’t fall now. She grabbed another slippery handful. Stronger-looking heather bloomed to her left. She took hold of the sharp little branches.

“Not that!”

Benedict’s cry came too late. The plant’s delicate roots lifted right into her hand.

She slipped with a scream and slid back down the slick moat side. Somehow she halted. She looked down past her skirt.

Le Bret was closest. He stretched to his fullest height to grab for her ankle.

“Use your sword, man.” Fitzurse.

A shadow flicked over her, and a grunt of pain came from le Bret. The rock that struck him dropped to the ground with a soggy
thud
into the wet ground.

Another rock flew past her head and clipped Fitzurse’s sword.

“Thank you, Palmer, it needs sharpening. It’s blunted from that Abbess. She was a tough old bird.”

He’s killed Ursula.
Grief and rage flooded Theodosia’s arms with fresh strength, and she clambered on. As she neared the dry stone wall at the top, Benedict leaned down to her from the gap.

“I’ve got you.”

He hauled her up beside him, and she stood up. Her legs shook from fear and effort and would hardly support her. The driving mist cloyed her face, dampened her hair.

“Where can we go?” She scanned the fort top, but all it consisted of was the dry stone wall and a smooth green circle of grass inside it.

“I’ll hold them off.” Benedict didn’t take his eyes off le Bret and Fitzurse far below. He bent to pick up another couple of black and gray rocks from the fallen area of the wall.

She gasped. “They’re climbing up here.”

Benedict flung a rock down, and it caught le Bret on the shoulder.

“You’re dead, Palmer.”

“Go along the wall to the other side,” Benedict said to her. “Stay on the top, it’s quicker than cutting across the middle.” He threw another stone, this time at Fitzurse.

But the element of surprise was lost. The knight swiveled to one side, and it bounced past him without harm.

Benedict continued his rapid orders. “Once you’re as far across as you can go, climb down and double back for the horses. Take Quercus. And go.”

“I’m not leaving you.” Theodosia grabbed at a stone and cast it down at le Bret. Her aim was true and caught him on the arm, but had no effect.

“My, my,” said Fitzurse. “Throwing pebbles, Sister? How unbecoming.”

Le Bret grunted with laughter as he made swift progress.