E. M. Powell (7 page)

“Forward,” said Fitzurse. He led off and the line of mounted horses fell in behind him, one after another. Palmer’s place was in the middle, with two before and two after, as if she were being guarded from harm instead of being delivered to it.

On the horse immediately in front, de Morville looked around. “We’ll soon be at my castle, Palmer.” He gave Palmer a hideous wink. “I’ll have to find you another maid to hold to your crotch.”

“That would be pleasure,” came the quick reply. “This one’s only work. But I thank you.”

Theodosia’s face burned at their base talk.

De Morville grinned. “She’s near the same color as you now. It’s not just her blushes, neither. A few days on horseback and the air has her fine skin as rough as a peasant’s.”

Palmer leaned over her shoulder to look at her face.

She stared resolutely ahead.

“Nah, de Morville. It’s only travel dirt. She’s still indoors-pale.” He settled back.

“Well, she’ll be paler. I have a cell ready for her, and it’s properly underground, not like at Canterbury. Sister, you’ll never see another soul. Or light. Or anything at all. Ever.” He smiled, his gapped teeth green-tinged and revolting.

Her insides turned over.

“See how I look after her, Palmer, and yet she gives me no thanks?”

“I’m sure that will come in time, de Morville,” came the deep-voiced reply behind her. “As lord of Knaresborough,  you’re due it.”

“Time is something she’ll have plenty of.” De Morville faced forward again with a coarse laugh.

Theodosia clutched at the saddle pommel for support as de Morville’s words sank into her soul.
Take me, dear Lord. Take me. Before this horror comes to pass.

No. She had started to pray for her own death. She clutched still harder at the saddle pommel to contain her anguish, her disbelief.

Satan was surely close by.

CHAPTER 5

“It wobbles like a whore’s titty. That it may taste as good!”

Seated with the other knights in Knaresborough Castle’s great hall, Palmer joined in the roar of laughter at de Tracy’s loud jest.

Dressed in red-and-yellow livery, the sewer and his two grooms carried the quivering blancmange before them on a wide platter. They took careful steps as they made their way from the screened-off kitchen door toward the top table on the raised stone platform.

“Are your whore’s teats usually striped, de Tracy?” Palmer raised his full goblet to the red-bearded knight sat to his right, to more roars and hoots.

The servers climbed the steps to the raised stone platform. At the center of the long table, de Morville sat in his place as lord of Knaresborough, Fitzurse to his right. The servers placed the huge domed pudding before de Morville, and he nodded, then raised his hands and applauded. At his signal, a group of four minstrels struck up in the gallery set high in the wall at the opposite end of the hall.

Along with de Tracy and le Bret up the table beyond Fitzurse, Palmer joined in with the applause. The pudding, with its layers of white, pink, and yellow topped off with a nub of rich pale green, made his mouth water, full as he was.

Though the feast had been for the five knights only, Palmer had never eaten so well in his life. Broiled venison, each thick steak coated in rich gravy and sweetened with cinnamon. Wine-stewed mutton, the tender meat and its yellowed fat melted into the savory sauce. Roasted chicken stuffed with eggs, lard, and spices, its skin crispy and glistening fresh from the spit. Fluffy white bread, the first he’d tasted, easy to chew as a cloud compared with the tough rye bread he was used to. Spiced hot fruits cooked in honey. He stifled a hiccup.

The sewer used a curved spoon to divide the pudding up with swift, neat movements while his assistants laid fresh trenchers and spoons before each of the knights.

Palmer caught the slight tremor in the hand of the younger server and smiled inside. He’d hated this duty as a squire, waiting on lords and knights, carving fine meat with all noble eyes on him, while getting only the scraps and leavings to eat. Worse had been the ladies, many old enough to be his mam, who’d run their glance over him as he bent to serve them. He’d had more than one whisper about his strong fingers and his well-filled breeches.

He took a scoop of pudding and put it on his trencher. The serving lad refilled his goblet as he did so. Palmer helped himself to another mouthful of wine, then tried some of the pudding. Sweet, smooth, creamy, with flavors he didn’t even recognize.

“An excellent end to an excellent meal,” said Fitzurse, helping himself. He raised his eyebrows as he tasted it. “You have the finest of saffron in there, de Morville.”

The finest of saffron.
Palmer noted it to himself. He would have to have this in his own dishes when he had his own great hall. He scooped another mouthful and peered at the brightly colored contents of his spoon to see what it looked like.

Fitzurse cleared his throat. “The yellow layer, Palmer. The taste, man. The scent.”

Now they all roared their laughter at Palmer. Heat rose in his face.

“Fire too hot for you, boy?” De Tracy grinned at him, face shiny with drink.

Palmer showed the knight his middle finger and took another deep draught of wine. He wasn’t bothered at the ribbing. Once he had his fortune, he’d employ flocks of servants, same as de Morville. They’d know all about the best herbs. He drank again. The best wine.

“Speaking of fires,” said Fitzurse, “I must compliment you on a magnificent hearth, de Morville. The stone is very fine.”

Palmer looked at the stone fireplace set into the wall halfway down the great room. A man could stand up in it, save for the huge logs that burned in it and sent out waves of heat that warmed the vast space of the hall. He’d have one of those too.

“Is that your motto?” continued Fitzurse. “’Ipsa quidem pretium virtus sibi.’ — Virtue is indeed its own reward?”

Palmer squinted down the hall, sight blurry from wine. There were letters carved in the mantel, but he couldn’t read them in a thousand years. He’d have to pay a clerk too.

“Not mine.” De Morville belched. “Brought it back from one of my campaigns. Some monastery we burnt down in Castile.”

Fitzurse nodded. “Well collected.”

Palmer drained his beaker again. He wouldn’t want an old one, especially not with writing on it. And definitely not church writing. He thought of that nun, that Theodosia, and how she’d nearly foiled him. Well, she hadn’t. She was off in de Morville’s dungeon now, and good riddance. No, he’d buy a new one, have it done specially. He couldn’t wait.

“Clear this.” De Morville didn’t bother to turn round to address the servers who waited for orders, backs to the wall, arms folded behind them.

The men reacted as one to their lord’s demand and set to clearing the dishes and spoons scattered across the stained white linen tablecloth.

“Refill all these goblets before you go,” said de Morville to the sewer, “and leave the jugs of drink.”

The two grooms left for the kitchens with stacked plates and dishes. The sewer topped up every drink as ordered, folded the cloth, and gathered it into his arms.

“Now get out. All of you,” said de Morville. “I’ll call if we need anything.”

“Yes, my lord.” The man gave a low bow, and the minstrels drew their tune to a quick, final piping note. They clattered from the gallery as the sewer hurried away to the kitchens.

“Gentlemen, a toast.” Fitzurse rose from his seat, full pewter goblet in hand. “Raise your glasses to our success in the first stage of our mission.”

“I’ll drink to that.” De Morville hit his vessel against Fitzurse’s.

“I’ll drink to owt,” said de Tracy.

A silent le Bret grasped his drink to join the toast, his goblet like a youngling’s in his huge hand.

Palmer raised his own goblet and joined in, adding to the warm fuzziness of the numberless glassfuls he’d drunk.

Fitzurse sat down again. “You have all played a valiant part in our success so far. I’m sure you’ll be tested more before we’re done.”

A rumble of agreement came from the other knights.

“And when will we be done?” said Palmer.

“When I say so,” said Fitzurse with a thin smile.

“And what does our king say?”

The company went silent, the crackle from the fire the only sound.

“I beg your pardon?” said Fitzurse.

“My apologies, my lord. I meant only, do we know what His Grace has said about Archbishop Becket? We were supposed to arrest him, now he’s dead, and instead we have this nun — ”

“My, my, Sir Palmer is a curious soul.” Fitzurse exchanged glances with de Morville. He looked again at Palmer. “Yes, Becket is dead, devil take him for the traitor he was. The anchoress, who is also involved in treachery, is safely locked away.” His voice hardened. “Now, are you impertinent enough to further question me and my actions, or have you finished?”

In spite of the fire, the hair rose on the back of Palmer’s neck. With Fitzurse’s blue gaze still fixed on him, he heard the unmistakable clink of someone loosen a sword from its sheath. “Sorry, my lord, sorry.” Palmer plastered a wide grin on his face and held his glass aloft. “The Knaresborough wine is far too good. It loosens my tongue and makes it wag like a fool.”

“Don’t need wine for that, Palmer,” said le Bret.

Laughter broke the tension.

To Palmer’s relief, Fitzurse joined in, then looked in his goblet. “I’ve run dry again, de Morville.”

As de Morville reached for a jug and filled Fitzurse’s vessel, Palmer steadied his breathing. Forcurse the drink, it had pushed him to try and find out when he’d get his payment. Worse, it had made him prate out the questions he’d had since the murder in Canterbury. But he shouldn’t bother with them. Fitzurse was in charge, and Fitzurse held the purse strings. Asking questions wouldn’t bring Palmer his money any sooner. He had to remember that.

♦ ♦ ♦

The darkness pressed against and around Theodosia, seemed to suck the air from her prison and make it hard to breathe. She opened her eyes as wide as she could, as if such action would let in some light. But the blackness remained impenetrable, with tiny flashes of light the cruel invention of her own mind.

The dank stone and soggy straw on which she sat chilled her to constant shivering. Her feet had lost all sensation, and damp crawled through her skirts to soak her skin. A rusted iron collar fastened tight around her neck, so heavy she could hardly keep her head up, and chafing her neck raw with every slight movement.

A thick chain attached the collar to a stout column of wood embedded in the filthy cobbled floor. That had been her last sight as de Morville’s guards had walked out, before they slammed the door shut and cut her vision as sure as if they’d pierced her eyes. Trying to rise to her feet to explore her surroundings by feel, she’d found the chain was too short and she could at best kneel.

Trapped on the floor, she had tried to rejoice in the torment of complete darkness, embrace it in prayer.
A dungeon is the same as a cell. It is a solitary place, far from temptations. I can serve God in its harshness. I can be private with Him in here and see His bright face more clearly.

She’d called to God for hours in this foul place, with its stale, dank air and sour stench of rotting straw. But He hadn’t come. She’d been cast into the darkness like the Bible had warned all sinners would.

She swallowed down the hard lump of misery in her throat as she adjusted her position on the floor, back and shoulders knotted in pain. She was still alone in here, alone for when those terrible men came for her, and come for her they would. It could be in a minute, it could be in days. But all she could do was wait, was listen out, for those metal boots on stone, for the bang at the door, for the swords, the knives.

Her chest heaved as she fought for air. She had to bring her mind elsewhere, take it away from this place. Otherwise she would lose her reason. She fumbled with numb fingers for her crucifix, tucked into the top of her woolen undergarments.

The familiar embellished metal was warm from her flesh, as it had been from Mama’s skin the day she’d hung it round her neck. Mama’s parting gift as she’d left her daughter, left Canterbury.
Mama.
Her noble, holy mama.

The murdering knights sought her too. Fitzurse’s questions to Becket in the cathedral.
I can’t find the anchoress, I can’t find her mother. But you will tell me.

But Becket did not tell them, and they killed him. Now they would get her, Theodosia, to tell them. She would bring death to Mama’s door as surely as she had to her lord Thomas’s. Hot tears ran down her cheeks and splashed onto her clasped hands. How could she do that to Mama?

Not Mama. Brother Edward had admonished her in confession. Sister Amélie. Not to be spoken of. Ever.

She scrubbed at her face with her fingers, gulped the tears back. “Stop it.” Theodosia’s command to herself in the sightless cell was angry, fierce. “Stop it now. You’re not a child anymore. You are a woman of God, an anchoress.”

But how could she claim such things? She had disobeyed, rushed in to the sight of men. Called forth the evil of murder.

Her teachings from Aelred flooded back.
“From sight comes all the misery that there now is and ever yet was and ever shall be.”

With a low moan of despair at her foolishness, she bowed her head against the rough collar. God had been with her in here all along. By removing her sight, He was trying to show her where she had gone so wrong, to remind her of her true vocation of staying hidden from the world.

She had to repent, and repent quickly, for her sins before those knights, those brutal men, came for her, bringing whatever torments they had to find out what she knew. But she would resist them. Resist them to the end, even if that end meant death.

♦ ♦ ♦

The early sun warmed Palmer’s face and neck as he ran down the rough track to his tumbledown home. He clasped the dish in both hands, unable to believe his luck. A quick glance down told him it was true. He had a pudding for his father, a rich, sweet pudding, all the colors of the rainbow. This would do it, would make Father eat, would make him well. Palmer pushed open the sagging door, his eyes still blinded from the light outside. “Father, Father! Look what I’ve got you.” No answer. He squinted hard.