E. M. Powell (11 page)

“At least no one will hear us now,” said Palmer. “Keep behind me on the towpath and stay away from the edge. And while we need to make haste, don’t run.”

“But we have to run — you made me on those icy streets.”

“It’s too dangerous on here.”

“Then if it’s perilous, we should find another way.”

The axe. His route. His judgment. His jaw clenched at her picking. “I don’t know this countryside. If we strike out, we’ll get lost. We only have a couple of hours till the alarm is raised.” Palmer pointed ahead, past the weir. “We’ll track the river’s course till we come to another town.” His boot slipped in a patch of mud made liquid by river water, and he fought for balance. “Watch this bit.” He looked back to check she obeyed.

She trod with short rapid steps, focused on the path. “I don’t see how a town will help us. We could hide better in the woods.”

 
Questioning me again.
“There’ll either be a church, a monastery, or folk will know of one. Once we find it, we’re safe. I can state my case for ransom. It won’t take them long to arrange payment. Then you and I are done.”
Thank the Almighty.

“I suppose I owe you thanks. Though your methods are not honorable.” She inclined her head stiffly.

Palmer ignored the goad. “I don’t need your thanks, only your value.” He set off again, taking long strides on the drier patches, shorter ones where mud and water pooled.

Then stopped dead as a familiar voice floated over the thrum of the river.

“Goodness, what have we here?”

His gaze shot to the opposite bank.

Fitzurse stood there, drawn sword in hand. “I do believe that’s my prisoner, Palmer. How did she get there?” He didn’t sound angry, merely curious. But his curiosity was backed up by a ready broadsword.

Palmer glanced back at Theodosia. She stood rooted to the spot in terror. He took a half step to shield her from a thrown weapon.

“I’m waiting, Palmer.”

He had nothing. No weapon. No defense. All he had was the truth. “I released her, Fitzurse.”

“Indeed. May I ask why?”

“I overheard your conversation. With de Morville.”

“How did you do that, Palmer?” Again, the tone even, measured.

 Again, he had nothing. “Earlier tonight, I went to the minstrel gallery by mistake. I heard what you said. About not being sure of me, testing me. About the Brazen Bull. I freed her because I couldn’t do that.”

“He will kill us both now.” Theodosia’s anguished whisper came to his left ear, but he didn’t respond. Fitzurse had one sword, and he couldn’t get them both, not from this distance across the rough river.

“Then we were right to question you, were we not?” said Fitzurse, eyebrows raised. “You ran away, like a yellow-breeched knave. Not able to see a job through.”

Palmer boiled inside, but he kept it down. He had a chance at getting a weapon. “Not a bit of it. I’m going to ransom her back to the church. I’ll still be paid.” He adjusted his stance, ready to pull Theodosia to the ground when Fitzurse’s sword flew.

Fitzurse shook his head slowly, then, to Palmer’s astonishment, lowered his sword. “Well done, boy. You’ve passed the test.”

“Test? Your test for me was to roast the anchoress alive.”

“I’d already seen your strength, saw it on the ship. But I had to ask questions about what you carried between your ears. You missed the girl and the monk in the cathedral, Palmer.”

Another whisper. “Don’t listen to him.”

Palmer opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again. Fitzurse was right.

Fitzurse nodded. “There was also the question of your mettle. You didn’t land a single blow on Becket.”

“I didn’t — ”

“No, you didn’t.” Fitzurse shook his head. “A quest ordered by the monarch allows no room for doubt, Palmer.”

“Stop filling his head with your poison!”

Palmer started at Theodosia’s sudden cry above the river’s noise.

Fitzurse merely smiled. “Don’t take on, Sister.” He didn’t move his gaze from Palmer. “Hence your test. De Morville and I invented a terrible fate for the anchoress. Planned for you to hear of it on the morrow, see how you’d react. As it happened, you came clattering into the gallery and gave us a ready-made opportunity.” Fitzurse gave his clipped laugh. “We were obviously convincing. I must say, you acted far faster, far more effectively, than we thought possible. And making sure you’d be paid as well? You’ll go far, Benedict Palmer.”

“Th-thank you, my lord.” All wasn’t lost. In fact, nothing was. He’d been tested and found true.

Another cry. “You lie!”

Fitzurse brought his sword across his body and slowly sheathed it, shaking his head. “It’s a royal mission, my girl. Why would I lie?”

A wave of relief swept through Palmer. “What he says is true, Sister. And he’s withdrawn his weapon. We have our proof.”

“Palmer!” Fitzurse reached beneath his surcoat and pulled out a bulging leather pouch. “Here’s your reward. I know waiting for it plagues you.” He threw it high across the water, and Palmer caught it in one hand with a loud
clink
.

He unknotted the looped tie at the top and looked inside to see the unmistakable glow of gold. He opened it up fully. Fabulous yellow discs, too many to count as they lay atop each other against the red silk lining. A fortune. Forever. He raised his gaze to see a smiling Fitzurse. “You’re most generous, my lord Fitzurse.”

“Half of it is for the girl. She can take it back to Canterbury. Use it to build a shrine to Becket, or whatever the monks want to do with it,” said Fitzurse. “I truly regret frightening her, but it had to be done. We only have to ask her a few questions. If she knows nothing, we’ll release her.”

Palmer turned to Theodosia and thrust the open bag before her. “Now do you believe him?”

“No. More fool you if you do.” She swung up her right hand and hit the bag hard.

It flew open wide, and the coins showered onto the frozen ground.

He bent to pick them up with a loud oath.

“Palmer!”

He looked up at Fitzurse’s shout. Theodosia fled back up the towpath as if chased by dogs.

“Stop her!”

Palmer took off after her. “Theodosia! No!” She couldn’t ruin things for him now. He’d show her the back of his hand when he caught her.

“Palmer! If she gets away, you’ll get nothing. Our mission depends on what she knows.”

Palmer lengthened his strides, but panic seemed to give the girl wings. “Theodosia!” For God’s sake, why wouldn’t she listen? As she ran, she ran with all his hopes. The gold, his fortune. All right for her, with the comfort of the religious life, no fear for her old age. Not like him, going from battle to battle, each one harder as he grew older and the other knights got younger. Old age was a begging bowl and destitution. He’d been raised with that — he couldn’t do it again.

Ahead, she slipped on the wet path and went down on her hands and knees with a cry.

He’d take her now.

She looked back as he gained on her, then scrambled into a dense thicket of shrubs and bushes next to the path.

Palmer’s rapid steps brought him there in moments. “Sister.” He bent low and peered in through the dense evergreen foliage, his breath fast and hard. “Listen to me. You must give yourself up. You’ll come to no harm. You must see that.”

A faint rustle sounded from within. Palmer thought he saw a glimmer of cream wool amongst the shiny dark-green leaves.

“Sister? Answer me. I order you.”

Complete silence.

“Any luck?” Fitzurse’s call came nearer as he picked his careful way along the opposite riverbank.

“Not yet, my lord.” As Palmer forced his way in through the branches, brambles and ivy tangled round his legs. With such a small moon, the darkness in here made his sight of little use. He would have to rely on his ears. A rustle by his boots came from a mouse or water rat in the muss of dry, dead leaves. The constant roar of the water at the weir. Nothing else. He went forward, progress slow through the tough tendrils that laced the bushes. A twig snapped close ahead. He made for the sound, face and hands ripped by sharp branches and hooked thorns. The bushes thinned. Bent double, he propelled himself forward toward the weak moonlight and out from the thicket.

“Looking for aught?” De Morville stood above him to his left, sword drawn. Pointed at his head.

Palmer raised his hands. “Drop your sword. It’s only me. The sister is still hiding.”

De Morville didn’t move. “I know she is, Palmer. And I’ll find her. Soon as I’ve finished with you, you traitor.” He swung his sword in a deadly arc.

“No!” Palmer’s forearm shot up by instinct to parry it. His eyes closed unbidden at his last thought.
Killed by your own greed. You fool.

The blade thumped into its target. No pain.

“Drop it, you mare!”

Palmer opened his eyes to de Morville’s shrill yell of rage.

The knight’s sword was buried in a stout dead branch, held fast by Theodosia. “You killed my lord Becket. You will kill no more.”

“When I have my blade, you’ll lose those pretty eyes.” De Morville yanked hard to free it.

“Leave her.” Palmer unsheathed his dagger and leapt for de Morville.

The knight’s ready boot cracked into his jaw, and Palmer fell to one side over the gnarled roots of a dead tree.

A thick holly bush broke his fall. He pushed back from the spiny leaves onto his feet, dagger firm in one hand.

Theodosia still grasped the branch as de Morville shook her from side to side. “No!” Her feet slid beneath her on the slippery mud.

Palmer closed in on them again, dagger ready. “Let go of her.”

“A sound instruction.” With a vicious shove of his sword, de Morville pushed Theodosia closer to the foaming river’s edge. He punched his free left fist onto her clasped grip. She cried out but didn’t let go.

“Curse you, you bitch.” De Morville drew back his fist for another blow.

As Palmer surged forward to sink his dagger into the knight’s scrawny neck, the sodden mud path quivered beneath his driving step.

“Forcurse it. The path. Save yourself, Theodosia!”

Her panicked gaze flew to his. “I can’t.”

The ground gave a tremendous shudder. Palmer flung an arm around a thick branch and made a desperate lunge for her.

Too late. The towpath burst into the river in a wave of useless soil. De Morville and Theodosia plunged into the racing water and disappeared beneath the surface.

CHAPTER 8

The sudden cold bit like an animal. Theodosia sank through the mud-filled water as bubbles boiled around her, robbed her of hearing, direction. The river rolled her over and over, in a pull she couldn’t stop. Water forced itself up her nose, down her throat. She had to open her mouth. Earthy liquid rushed in and she gagged. More followed. Her whole body convulsed as she tried to stop it. She could not. God was taking her.

Then the water fell away and her head was out in the air. She coughed, snorted, gulped for precious breath. The racing torrent churned yellowed foam high all around her, sucked hard at her skirts, her legs. But she didn’t sink back, not yet. She gasped and gasped with cold, couldn’t shout for help.

Another pale head floated in the thick froth next to her.

“Get away from me, don’t touch me!” She thrashed at it with her hands as it bounced against her chest. Harmlessly. The thing was her woolen chemise, stretched in an air bubble by the current. It couldn’t last long, and her limbs numbed fast. The banks — she had to get to one side.

Icy water splashed up through the foam and over her face again. Coughing hard, she twisted her neck around. Her stomach fell.

Fitzurse. No more than a few yards away, across the boil of yellow and brown water. He stood on an old tree stump that jutted into the channel. The river swept her straight toward him.

“Come on, Sister.” He gestured to her with an outstretched hand. “I’ve got just the thing to dry you out.”

Theodosia tried to kick out, change her course, but her long skirt wound around her legs, trapping them. She flailed her dead arms in useless splashes. Her course continued. She had one hope left. “Sir Palmer!” Her scream was a thin echo, hidden beneath the water’s roar. Nothing. He’d gone.

“Try and get to this side.”

Her heart leapt at his call. She turned her head, and a clump of floating dead leaves washed into her face. She raked them away with a cry.

On the bank opposite Fitzurse, Palmer dangled from a willow tree’s long branch, one arm extended to her. “I can’t reach you.”

“A shame, some would call it,” came Fitzurse’s mock.

Theodosia hauled her sight back to her tormentor.

He squatted now on the stump, low over the racing water, to pluck her from the Nidd, blue eyes fixed and unblinking.

She beat at the water with numb hands, tried to twist, turn, haul her woolen float to change direction. To no avail. The water carried her to within his grasp.

“Stay away from me!” The current spun hard beneath her, and her skirt untangled. She kicked out, and her feet met the stump’s submerged roots.

Fitzurse reached out and grabbed a handful of her hair. She flung a hand up and dug her nails into the back of his hand.

“You little shrew.” He let go for an instant, and she pushed at the root with both feet. It was enough. The current pulled her back out of his reach and swept her away.

Fitzurse’s shout echoed after her. “De Morville! Get her, man!”

“I will, my lord.”

As she bounced and spun in the freezing, choking torrent, she held her head as high as she could. The water’s surface broke on the weir only yards ahead, before arcing over and down. Thunderous rumbling and a haze of spray told her how long the drop was. Worse, clung to the weir was a soaked de Morville, his thin face rapt in anticipation of where she would be swept to.

Theodosia scanned the banks, the bushes opposite, her head full of the water’s roar. She couldn’t see Sir Palmer anymore. With a huge boom, the river surged against the weir and smacked her against its thick rock. Blood tasted iron in her mouth from her bit tongue. The water battered her, kept her pinned tight. Yet she felt nothing now.