E. M. Powell (14 page)

Her forehead creased in a deep frown. “But it hurts so.”

Palmer knew it would. The return of feeling to limbs dead with cold had a cruel, sharp edge, as if the skin would burst open and bones shatter. “Can you feel your hands and feet?”

She shook her head. “My boots are too tight.”

Her senses were still scattered. She needed more warmth. He pulled off his surcoat and loosed his chain mail. As he removed it, his muscles relaxed into the familiar sudden weariness that came when they no longer had to carry its weight.

Dressed in his woolen breeches and undershirt, he climbed under the top pelt next to Theodosia, careful to keep her covered.

She paid him no heed, lost once again in her wandering mind.

“I mean you no harm, Sister.” He said it aloud, though he doubted she’d hear. He drew her close to him. Faith, her skin was like stone. He took her in his arms, wrapped his legs around hers, brought her head close to his chest, willing her body to take the life-giving warmth from his.

Shivering still, she clung to him. It was as if her instincts took over and her body knew what it had to have.

Trouble was, so did his. Her naked breasts firm against his chest, her soft, damp hair against his chin. He kept his palms tight on her shuddering back. If he moved them lower, touched the smooth swell of her behind, then he’d lose control.

With a soft, agonized moan, she tightened her grip on him. His lips brushed her ear as she shifted in his hold.

“I keep my soul safe, Benedict,” she murmured.

Her words knocked at his conscience, and he lifted his head away. He was trying to warm her, not bed her. His body needed distraction. Now. “Benedict? You usually call me Sir Palmer.”

Theodosia tipped her head back to look at him with pain-clouded, vacant eyes. “You are Benedict. It means
blessed
.”

“I don’t feel very blessed. But you must be.” He moved one hand up to her neck. “Your cross is of great value, and yet you didn’t lose it in the water.”

“The water was dark…c-cold.” Her eyes widened as another spasm went through her.

“I know.” He rubbed her between her shoulder blades to calm her. “But you were very brave.”

“Cold is good. Hot is bad.”

Did her shivering ease? Her skin beneath his hand seemed a mite warmer. “Cold can be bad too, Theodosia.”

“N-n-noo.” She ground out the word through chattering teeth. “Cold is good. Keep your food cold. Your heart cold. Keep your life cold. Cold is pure. Pure. And I have my cross.”

“You do.” Faith, she was truly scattered. She might not come back from this. He carried on rubbing, kneading her skin.

“Good. Mama gave it to me. My mama was pure. Said keep it, so I wouldn’t forget her. When she went away.”

Mama.
The woman Fitzurse would roast Theodosia alive to find. His heart tripped fast. “Where did she go?” Faster as he waited for the answer.

“Got…jewels on. I cried.”

Palmer kept his tone low, calm, though he wanted to pull the answers from her. “I’m sure you cried. Did she go a long way?”

“Mmm.” She drifted toward sleep, her flesh warmer under his hands, her shivering almost stopped. “Becket took her.”

“Really? Took her where?”

“Posewore.” She yawned again.

“Where on God’s green earth is that?”

“It’s secret.”

“But you can tell me.”

“No. Don’t know.” She nestled back to his chest again. The rise and fall of her shoulders told him she’d slipped into her dreams.

Heart racing, Palmer watched the candle sputter to its end in a puddle of wax, He’d found the information Fitzurse had been so desperate to get from Theodosia. What it meant, he didn’t know. But it mattered more than Becket’s life, Theodosia’s life. Faith, his own life too. He had to find out, find out where Posewore was and find Theodosia’s mother. It was the only way to end this. Fitzurse might not know where he and Theodosia were right now, but he would never give up.

For a start, Palmer had to get the anchoress out of Knaresborough. They would have to wait until darkness fell again. And then what? Escape as fast as possible. That would take a horse. You needed money to buy a horse. Lots of it.

Palmer lowered the top of the sheepskin to reveal the cross again. It wasn’t money, but it was a start. His fingers went to Theodosia’s neck, and he fumbled for the catch. It sprang open, and he slid it off.

She didn’t stir.

He held it up in the dim light. It swung gently, the rubies’ glow like blood in the dying candlelight. He should wait until she came to her senses. It was worth a fortune. More than that: it was a mother’s gift.
Stop prating like a fool
. A mother’s gift it might be, but it didn’t have four swift legs and a broad back.

After tucking the cross into his own folded chain mail, he settled back down. The warmth of the sheepswool seeped through him, and the sleeping Theodosia fitted perfectly in his hold. Gilbert was right. He needed to rest, no matter how much he wanted to act. The candle flared, puttered, flared again, then died.

Palmer looked into the sudden dark and waited for sleep to take him.

♦ ♦ ♦

The monastery bells rang out the call to the midday office as the market-day crowds thronged past Gilbert Prudhomme’s skin-and-pelt shop. The crisp winter sunshine dazzled but had little warmth, as he stood outside to catch trade. He blew on his raw hands and looked over at Gwendolyn, busy with what she did best.

“That’s my final offer. Take it or leave it.” Gwendolyn eyeballed the male customer and folded her arms across her chest.

The man shot a glance at Gilbert, obviously hoping that he would intervene. Gilbert gave a slight shake of his head to indicate the futility of trying to outbargain her.

The customer caved in and opened up his leather belt-bag.

Gwendolyn shot out her right hand, palm up, for fear the money wouldn’t materialize. Once the coins were counted out into her hand, she pushed the sheepskin bundle to the man with her foot.

He picked it up and slung it over his shoulder. “Drives a hard bargain,” he said to Gilbert as he went on his way.

“Thanking you.” She sounded in great good cheer as she clinked the coins into a cloth bag under the wide wooden window shelf.

Money was the only thing that brought such color to her pinched cheeks, that brought a glint to her eye. She was already back on the street, calling her wares and stopping people for custom.

Catherine had never been like that. Funny how he could think of her now, even after all these years. He’d had her for only ten months, till giving birth to Isobel had killed her. If she’d lived, maybe she would have been like Gwen. A woman of advanced years is often not similar to how she was at twenty. He winced as Gwen tested a suspect coin with her long teeth. No, Catherine would never have been Gwen, no matter how many years might pass.

Gwendolyn came over to him. “Are you just going to stand there and let me do all the work, as usual?”

Gilbert drew breath to reply that in his years as the tanner, he’d prepared hundreds of items like those on sale, with hours of backbreaking and foul-smelling work — he was entitled to go easy.

Gwen’s expression changed his mind.

He let the breath out again. “It’s past dinnertime. Let’s have some food. We’ll need plenty.” He nodded toward the back room, where the young strangers still slept.

“What?” A bubble of spit flew from her mouth, such was the strength of her response. “You don’t expect me to feed them too, do you?”

“They need so — ”

Gwen peered past him. “What’s going on?”

A group of apprentice lads assembled at the end of the main street, shouting and calling amongst themselves. Two or three broke off from the group and headed off down the side alleys, still shouting.

The hubbub spread from them like a wave, with people stopping and gathering to exclaim and chatter.

“Oi,” Gilbert called to a shoemaker he knew, whose stall was close to the fuss. “Tell us the tale.”

The man hurried up, apron wound round his large belly, leather-cutting knife still in hand. “Unbelievable, Gilbert,” he said. “De Morville’s dead, slain by a strange knight, tall fellow by the name of Palmer. Some girl helped him with the crime, can’t recall her name. Teresa or summat, ragged-looking, she is. The guards are going round the whole town. There’s fifty crowns going for her, and the reward for the knight is to be by the pound.”

Gwendolyn gasped and fixed her gaze on Gilbert. She opened her mouth, but Gilbert interrupted. “Why did he kill de Morville?” he asked.

“No idea,” said the man. “But I tell you, that knight’s done this place a favor. Fingers crossed we’ll get a lord who doesn’t beggar us all with taxes, eh, mate?” With a wave, the shoemaker returned to his shop.

Gwendolyn squared up to Gilbert, her fury barely contained in her low, vicious tone. “Oh, well done, Gilbert. You’ve only gone and dragged us into a murder. Not just any old murder, neither. Only the murder of the lord and master of Knaresborough.”

“Hold.” Gilbert looked around to make sure no one could overhear them. “No one knows they are with us. We need to keep it that way, at least for the time being.”

“Have you taken leave of what little sense you have? We need to report them. Now.”

“Suppose there’s more to it? De Morville has bled this place for years. Think of all the money he’s had from us.”

Gwendolyn stared at him for a long moment, then leaned close to him, her eyes flitting from one stranger to another as they passed by. “Very well, I’ll give you that one.”

Gilbert congratulated himself on his appeal to her mercenary side; it had worked a treat.

“Come, husband. Let’s wake them and tell them what’s occurred. We need to make sure they stay hidden.”

♦ ♦ ♦

Theodosia surfaced from a deep sleep on soft, warm wool. But she couldn’t move. She hated these awakenings, where a Satan-sent homunculus would keep her paralyzed from her dreams, keep his hold on her even though she woke. She opened her eyes. It was no demon that held her in the dim light, but thick sheepskins piled over her. She stirred, and dull pains throbbed from every part of her body. Her hands found her woolen underwear, no habit. She put a hand to her face. No veil.

But Palmer had taken her habit, her veil. The man called Fitzurse had ordered him.

Head spinning, she half rose, the covers a dead weight. Where was this place? Light framed a closed door directly in front of her.

“You’re back to health, Sister. Good.”

She turned her head, and it swam as she made out Sir Palmer, standing by a tall pile of pelts.

He stood fastening his leather belt over his surcoat and mail.

She pushed herself upright. “There’s no light. No windows.”
The gold. The riverbank. Fitzurse.
“You’ve locked me up again.” Her head whirled as she tried to rise.

Palmer dropped to his haunches and took her shoulders in his powerful hands. “You’re not locked anywhere. You’re safe. We’re still in Knaresborough, but not in the castle. A man called Gilbert and his wife, they’ve given us shelter here in their shop.”

An image of an old man hovered at the very edge of her memory, a snippet of a middle-aged woman’s voice. No more. She shook her head. “I cannot recall it.”

“You’re still addled from your time in the water.”

The water?

“You fell in the river. With de Morville,” he said quietly.

Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, Iesus Christus, have mercy on his soul.” A violent trembling seized her as it all came back. “You killed him. Killed him in front of me, with your bare hands, when I pleaded with you to show mercy.” She pushed him off. “Don’t touch me.” She clambered from the pelts and rose to her unsteady feet.

Palmer muttered an oath. “I’d have shown him mercy if he deserved it. But I had to kill him. He was trying to kill me.” He stood too and glared at her. “And Fitzurse wants to kill you. I’m trying to protect you.”

“Like you protected me when Fitzurse threw a bag of gold to you?”

The knight flushed deep red beneath his weather-beaten skin. “He fooled me, Sister. Thank the Almighty he didn’t fool you. Otherwise I’d be dead and you would be soon.”

“At least you can admit that much.”

“Just because I made a mistake doesn’t mean I’m not trying to keep you safe. I’ve risked my life to get you out of the castle, remember?”

“What I remember is I am worth a lot of money to you alive. As far as you are concerned, I could have a large red
R
for
ransom
branded onto my forehead.” Anger steadied her head’s whirl. “That is all you care about.”

“You’re free from that. You aren’t worth anything to me now.”

He made no sense. “Why? What else has happened that I cannot remember?”

“You, Sister Theodosia Bertrand, saved my life when de Morville would surely have killed me. My code demands release from ransom for such a deed.” He gave a slight smile. “Usually it applies to knights, not nuns.”

An urgent knock came at the door. “It’s me, Gilbert. Sir, I need to speak to you at once.”

“Hold one moment!” Palmer got to his feet and gave her a sheepish look. “There’s one thing you should know. The tanner and his wife think we’re married. You’ll have to call me Benedict.” He went to the door without meeting her eye.

Married to him?
She put a hand to her neck. Then gasped, “No.”

Palmer paused. “It won’t be for long.”

“Not that. My cross, it’s gone.”

“You must’ve lost it in the water.”

Another knock, harder this time. “Sir! It’s urgent!”

“Benedict,” he mouthed as he opened the door.

An old man with a kindly face and a middle-aged woman whose demeanor matched her sharp features waited in a spacious shop.

“What if someone sees them, Gilbert?” said the woman.

“Don’t fret, Gwendolyn,” said her husband. “I’ve closed up the shutters and locked the front door. No one can enter.”

Gwendolyn’s eyebrows arched in displeasure. “Good rest in our skins?”

Theodosia inclined her head but would not dignify this odious woman with a reply. She addressed the husband directly. “Thank you for everything you have done for us. I believe you have helped to save my life.”