E. M. Powell (34 page)

“Indeed I see,” said Fitzurse with a slow nod.

She’d done it. Theodosia took a rasping breath.

“I see,” continued Fitzurse, with a cold, suppressed smile, “that you have absolutely no idea what mission my knights and I are on.”

“What?” Theodosia’s gasp was echoed by her mother.

His look hardened. “You think it’s to keep you safe? You, my dear, can think again.”

CHAPTER 26

Palmer hitched his own bundle of newly bought clothing onto one shoulder as he went with Edward through the market. The rough woolen black jerkin and breeches, and white linen undershirt, hadn’t cost Edward much, for which Palmer was thankful. He hated to be in debt to anybody, let alone this superior monk. What’s more, Edward may well have handed over that woman’s coin as part of the payment. Palmer vowed to himself to repay the monk, no matter how long it might take.

Edward stopped before a stall hung with women’s clothing and gave them a displeased frown. “Why is it that women have such a desire to dress so brazenly?” he said.

Palmer looked at the items on offer. A couple of green skirts. An embroidered head cover. Yellow woolen stockings. Kirtles in red and orange. “They’re not brazen, Brother. They’re the usual choices for women.”

“Precisely.” Edward sniffed. “The usual choice to turn against nature and disport themselves as elaborately as possible. Present as an occasion of sin.”

“It’s not against nature,” said Palmer, annoyed by the monk’s ideas. “God creates color and finery wherever you look.”

“Such as?”

“Birds. Like peacocks. Colors far brighter and richer than anything we see here.”

“Yet which sex has the colors, Palmer? The male. The female is a modest brown, remember. She draws no attention to herself whatsoever.” He raised a finger to emphasize his point. “God’s message to us is consistent. It’s a shame that so many fools and ignorant lost souls refuse to listen to it. You have a lot to learn, my boy.”

The last time Palmer had been spoken to like this, his voice had been a lot higher. He itched to put the monk on the floor, but if they didn’t move on, they’d be here all day. “We need to press on with Th — Sister Theodosia’s clothing.”

Edward looked at the stall again and sighed. “If only we had time to get her a new habit made up. But our boat sails tonight. We’ll have to make do with something from here.”

Palmer looked around at nearby stalls. His eye lit upon a cream overdress, with a matching embroidered belt. Its fine hue reminded him of her pale, pure skin. Perfect. He nudged Edward. “What about that one?”

Edward followed the line of his pointed finger and frowned. “Have you gone mad, Palmer?”

Palmer dropped his hand. “Of course not. But if we can’t get her a habit, the least we can do is make sure she looks like the daughter of a king.”

“She
is
the daughter of a king,” said Edward sternly. “The daughter of the king of heaven, Jesus Christ himself. We will find her something that reflects that status. Now, come. There is nothing suitable here.”

Humiliation chewed at Palmer’s innards as he followed Edward. The monk had absolute control over this decision because he had the money. All he, Palmer, could do was follow like the penniless churl he was.

Edward stopped before a dank cave of a shop. “Ah. This is more like it.”

Palmer’s heart sank. A couple of drab, grayish kirtles hung from a hook.

A grimy woman came out from the gloom inside. “Help you, Brother?” she asked rudely.

“May I see that one, mistress?” Edward took the offered dress from the woman and held it up to examine it. “A good choice. It will keep the sister’s modesty.”

Palmer raised a hand to feel the quality. Made of the roughest cheap wool, it scraped under his touch. “I think we could find better.”

“I disagree. Remember, I am paying, not you. This will suit our purposes exactly. How much is it, goodwife?”

The woman looked surprised at such a quick decision and named a sum way over what the ugly thing was worth.

Edward didn’t question it, but counted out the correct amount from his coin purse.

The woman pocketed the money, wrapped the kirtle into a bundle, and secured it with some hairy string.

“Good day to you, mistress.” Edward took it from her and tucked it under one arm. “Let’s be on our way, Palmer.” As he walked off through the press of people, the crush parted like he had a mystical power.

“Come back again, Brother.” The woman’s call rang out as Edward walked away. She jingled the coins in her pocket and gave Palmer a bold stare as he went after Edward.

The old jealousy seethed within Palmer. The monk had status, money, while he, Palmer, his life in jeopardy countless times over these last weeks, had been cast aside like the lowest beggar. He had nothing to give Theodosia — everything would come from the monk.

“The women will wonder where we’ve got to,” said Edward as Palmer joined him. “But I’m sure Sister Theodosia will forgive us when she sees our worthy replacement for her habit.”

Palmer doubted that a lot. The habit he’d shredded that first night at the back of the inn had been the finest quality.

Palmer bumped into someone, paused, as Edward walked on. “My pardon.”

“God bless you, sir,” said a young, tired-sounding voice.

Palmer looked down.

A starved-looking girl held out an armful of simple wooden crucifixes, hung from thin leather loops. Hope lit her dull eyes. “Buy one, sir? They’re from the Holy Land itself, made from pieces of the one true cross.”

And I’m John the Baptist.
He took in her rags, her filth. Nearly seventeen years since he’d been in the same state, begging for a crust, a brownish apple. Anything to try and feed his starving mother and sisters, anything to try and keep his dying father alive. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I have no money.”

The girl’s thin white fingers played over the little crosses as her face crumpled in disappointment. “Oh. I’m sorry to have troubled you, sir.”

A faint wail came from beneath her clothing. His heart lurched as a baby’s small head burrowed out and bumped against the girl’s chest in the vain hope she’d suckle it.

“Hush,” she begged it, distracted from Palmer.

A child with a child, living their lives starving on the dockside. That he had Edward’s deep purse. But the monk strode many yards ahead on his way back to the hostel.

“No trouble.” Palmer rummaged beneath his torn cloak and pulled out his dagger.

He wouldn’t have thought it possible, but her face whitened even more.

“Don’t fret,” he said. He held it out to her, handle first. “Take this for one of your crosses.”

She took it from him and examined it closely. “This is a fine weapon, sir.” She held it out to give it back to him. “It’s worth far more than what I’m selling.”

He pushed it to her. “I don’t think so. Aren’t your crosses made from the one true cross?”

Her mouth lifted in the trace of a smile, dried skin stretched across her peaked cheekbones. “Then God will bless you, sir.” She handed him a crucifix. “He truly, truly will.”

Palmer gave her a nod and set off on his way. If he stayed here one more moment, he’d give her his new clothes too. He looked at the crudely carved wooden cross in his hand.

Well, he could at least replace Theodosia’s cross. But it was the poorest of replacements, a reminder to her that she was a king’s daughter and he was a cotter’s son. He sighed and tucked the cheap trinket away in his pocket. He was fooling no one, not even himself.

Palmer picked up his pace at Edward’s wave and shout. At least he’d see her again soon.

♦ ♦ ♦

Fitzurse’s words shot through Theodosia. There was no mix-up, no error. She and Mama were still the quarry.

“Then what foul mission are you on, sir,” said Amélie, “that you would threaten the lives of the King’s real wife and his daughter?”

Fitzurse ran his fingers along the edge of his sword to test its sharpness.

“At least have the decency to give us a reason before you take our lives,” said Theodosia, desperate to waste time, to give Benedict and Edward a chance to return.

Fitzurse adjusted his sword in his grasp. “Very well. To carry out the wishes of the monarch, of course.”

Amélie’s mouth rounded in shock. “After all these years, Henry has changed his mind — ”

“Oh, spare me your ignorance.” He gave her a pitying look. “Not Henry, a useless windbag who couldn’t organize a group of privy cleaners. I mean Eleanor, the real monarch, who would burn in hell rather than see her four boys bastards. So she sent four knights to do the killing. Four in place of her four sons, and a fifth knight to be her champion.”

Theodosia met her mother’s stunned expression. The Queen, not the King. An unseen enemy who’d been hunting, circling, hiding her evil intent whilst bringing death to the righteous and poisoning the name of the good. The ground no longer felt solid beneath her feet as a worse fear took hold. “Then Benedict knows all this?”

“Palmer?” Fitzurse’s nostrils flared in disdain. “The dog knows nothing.”

The room steadied, but Theodosia still couldn’t speak.

“I recruited him for his skill with a sword,” continued Fitzurse. “He was stupid and greedy enough to follow the money, without asking any awkward questions. Or I thought he was. I need to deal with him once and for all.”

Then she would be the cause of Benedict’s death too. “You cannot.”

Fitzurse gave her a pitying look. “Of course I can. You don’t need to worry — the pair of you are first.”

“But we’ve never done the Queen any harm, never claimed our rightful place.” Amélie’s voice trembled. “Never would. Can’t she leave us in peace?”

“Believe me, you’d have been dealt with long ago had she known of your existence,” said Fitzurse.

“Then who told her?” said Theodosia, anger pushing aside her fear. “Who betrayed us?”

“Becket’s strife with Henry meant a lot of things were said in the heat of the moment.” Fitzurse gave his usual smile, which showed his teeth but left his blue eyes glacial pools. “My Eleanor, my queen, told me all about it as we lay abed together.”

Two livid spots of color appeared in Amélie’s cheeks. “It seems she gets you to do her bidding in more ways than one. You are cuckolding a king, sir.”

Fitzurse shrugged. “It won’t be for long. The whole country is against Henry, thanks to the murder of Becket in his name. My queen has plenty more surprises waiting for him. By the time she’s finished, Henry will lose his head and I will take my rightful place beside her.” He brought his sword to Amélie’s neck.

Not Mama, not like this.
“Fitzurse, stop, I beg you!”

Amélie choked out a terrified sob. “I love you with all my heart, my darling girl.”

His smile again. “I’m going to name this blade Slayer of the Brides of Christ. First Polesworth, now the pair of you.”

Polesworth. The servant Wilfreda. Her eye.

Fitzurse drew his sword back, but Theodosia ducked for the bucket next to her in the corner.

He went into his final, murderous swing.

She shot to her feet, flung the amber lye into Fitzurse’s face.

His strike tilted up, missed Amélie. He staggered, swept his free hand across his eyes, his face. “Oil?” Then he screamed. The sword flew from his grasp and bounced away on the floor. He pitched to his knees, still screaming, a high-pitched sound from hell itself. “My eyes, my eyes!” His hands covered them, but the skin around them blistered red, as from fire.

Theodosia gestured frantically, silently, to her mother to follow her to the door, but Fitzurse blocked Amélie’s path.

He wrenched his hands from his face. Both eyes were blister-filled sockets, watery blood a thick stream from them, skin loose from his nose and mouth. He lashed out with his arms, wild, vicious swipes. “I’ll get you, you bitches, I’ll get you.”

“Run, Mama!”

His hand caught the hem of her mother’s dress as she tried to get past.

“No!”

He yanked Amélie to the ground with a powerful pull, hands groping at her, tearing at her clothes. “I’ll snap your neck.”

“God help me!”

Another loud rip.

His hands clawed for her throat. Another scream from Mama.

Theodosia grabbed the sword from the floor and grasped it with shaking hands, hardly able to lift its weight. “Fitzurse.”

Still on his knees, he turned his hideous visage toward the sound of her call.

Theodosia thrust forward, drove it into his stomach, her own rebelling as his innards caved in. She held it firm as he froze, her mother scrambling away with a cry of horror.

An unbearable choking sound formed in his throat. “You bloody, bloody whore.” His hands went to the blade. The keen steel sliced first one palm, then the other, as he tried to wrench it free. “Roasting alive’s too good for you.” Then he went rigid, head flung back, and he fell to the floor at her feet.

She couldn’t hold his dead weight. The handle slipped from her sweat-coated palms.

“Oh, Mama. What have I done?” Theodosia’s breath came in uncontrollable gasps.

Amélie hastened over to her and gathered her into her arms. “Oh, my blessed, my blessed.” She clung to Theodosia like she’d never let go. “I thought we were done for.”

A loud knock came from the door.

Both started and held each other’s petrified gaze.

Amélie found her voice first. “Who is it?”

“It is I, Edward, with Sir Palmer. You need to unlock the door.”

“A moment, Brother,” said Amélie, “and we’ll let you in. But be warned. Something terrible has happened.”

CHAPTER 27

“What in God’s name has taken place here?” Edward’s horrified question stopped him short in the half-open doorway.

Behind the monk, Palmer craned to look over Edward’s shoulder to the room beyond. The unmistakable meaty, iron-tinged smell of fresh blood met his nostrils. Terror prickled through him. “Edward, what’s happened?”

“See for yourself.” The monk stepped into the room with Palmer close behind. “God in heaven,” continued Edward. “It’s Fitzurse.”