E. M. Powell (19 page)

“Oh, I don’t know,” said de Tracy. “Looks all right to me.”

“What can I get you, sir knights?” The innkeeper set the ale down in front of a group of weather-beaten farmers and their dreadful women.

“Only some information, my good man,” said Fitzurse. “Have you seen a townsman and his wife come in here?”

The innkeeper took an exaggerated look around the heaving room and returned his gaze to Fitzurse. “Only half a dozen, my lord.”

Fitzurse itched to strike the buffoon’s face, but he didn’t want to draw unnecessary attention to his presence, in case Palmer was within. “I wasn’t clear enough. The man’s around his twenty-third year. Tall, broad. The woman’s younger and very fair.” He went on to describe their clothing.

The man considered the request for a moment. “Not staying here. But there’s that many through here,” he said with a shake of his head.

“Think, man.”

The innkeeper looked askance at Fitzurse’s sharp tone, but it got his full attention. “A woman who might be the one was outside earlier. Very bonny.”

Fitzurse scanned the room as if his gaze could summon his quarry there. “And the man?”

“Never saw her with anyone. Only with them three over there.” The man pointed out three middle-aged men dressed in long woolen sclaveins, with their broad-brimmed felt hats discarded on the tabletop.

“Pilgrims?” said de Tracy.

“Aye,” said the innkeeper. He picked up empty beer mugs. “I’m sorry, sirs, but I can’t stand here yapping all night.”

De Tracy drew breath to admonish him, but Fitzurse stayed him with a warning hand. “Thank you, my man.” With a nod to de Tracy, Fitzurse led the way to where the three pilgrims sat at the end of a bench. They were clearly the worse for wear. One looked ready for sleep and swayed where he sat, while the other two argued with the loudness of the truly drunk.

“Gentlemen.” Fitzurse stood before them and gave them a tight smile.

They nodded at him without recognition, clearly annoyed at having their row interrupted. Then one came to his senses.“Yes, sir knight?” he asked.

“I’m trying to catch up with a friend of mine,” said Fitzurse. “A goodwife. Her name is Theodosia Bertrand.”

“Never heard of her, sir,” said the second, drunker one.

“You may not know her by name, but the innkeeper says you had a conversation with her this very evening.”

All three looked at him blankly.

“Small-built,” said Fitzurse. “Plenty of means, expensively dressed. Very comely.”

The foggy expression cleared on the second man’s face. “I recall ’er.” He dug his friend hard on the arm. “Gorgeous titties.”

The third one’s eyes slid closed and flew open again.

“’Course. I remember her now,” said the first. “She asked about Polesworth Abbey, of all places. We was only there last Easter.”

“Polesworth, did you say?” said Fitzurse.

The man nodded. “Aye. Near Warwick.”

“Was she going there?” De Tracy’s voice had a barely concealed tremble of excitement.

“Far’s I know,” said the man. “She left awful quick. Shame. But we didn’t want to tangle with her husband. Big bloke, he was. Had a big gelding.”

His friend snorted a laugh. “Bet he does.”

“Quite.” Fitzurse inclined his head. “I thank you, good sirs.” He shot a glance at the third pilgrim, who was now asleep on his friend’s shoulder. “Godspeed for your pilgrimage.”

The two who were still awake gave solemn bows. “We’ll need it,” said the first. “Canterbury is a long way.”

Fitzurse exchanged a glance with de Tracy. “Why Canterbury?” he asked carefully.

“An’t you ’eard?” said the second. “T’Archbishop hisself’s been murdered. Miracles have already started. Got to get in quick if you want one.” He brought a finger to the side of his nose and near poked his eye out.

“Perhaps the dead Archbishop will cure your sight. Good evening, gentlemen.” Fitzurse led the way outside without any need for further time on these fools.

“Cure their hangover, more like,” muttered de Tracy.

Fitzurse was having trouble controlling his breathing. “Palmer and the girl can’t be that far ahead, de Tracy.” He raised his chain mail hood against the large, soft snowflakes.

His companion nodded, with eyes that gleamed in anticipation. “Not with one horse between them, no.”

“Then let us get ours and make all haste.” A couple of snowflakes settled on his lashes, and he flicked them away with a short laugh.

“What amuses you?” said de Tracy.

“Becket’s pilgrims. So even a traitor can have devotion once he’s dead.” He summoned le Bret with a shout. “Who knows? If we find the anchoress, we might even have to go back to Canterbury to give thanks for our own little miracle.”

“Let’s find her first, eh?” said de Tracy.

“Oh, we will,” said Fitzurse. He licked a snowflake from his top lip and savored its cold purity. “We will.”

CHAPTER 13

“This looks as good a place as any.” Benedict brought Quercus to a halt in a clearing surrounded by dense stands of leafless trees and the occasional thick evergreen. To Theodosia, his voice sounded oddly deadened by the trees and the thickly falling snow. Huge, dry flakes replaced the earlier powdery fall, descending in a multitude of tiny rustles that whitened the whole world.

The horse blew out a heavy snort from his efforts and put a hopeful nose to the ground to search for food.

“Stay where you are and I’ll get you down.” Benedict dismounted from behind her and came into view at the horse’s head. Snow plastered his black hat and the shoulders of his woolen cloak.

Ignoring his offer, she slid down herself from the animal. She could not bear his touch on her. On the long ride, as she’d turned things over and over in her mind, the suspicions that had been whispering at its corners had become a deafening chorus of certainty. Now it was time to bring her challenge to him. As she stamped her feet hard to return sensation to them, clumps of dry snow fell from her shawl and skirt.

Benedict led the horse to a nearby fallen tree and tethered him there, then removed their bundle of clothing from behind the saddle.

Theodosia huddled into her shawl, tensed for her task.

“You’ll get covered if you don’t move.” Benedict came over to her, his dark lashes pale with stuck snowflakes as he looked down to rummage beneath his cloak.

“That is of no consequence.”

Her sharp tone made him raise his gaze to her as he drew out a flint and fire steel. “It is if you’re buried in a snowdrift.” His words jested, but his look was careful, alert.

“How did you persuade that Jew to lend you the money for Quercus?”

He stiffened. “It’s part of being in the world, Sister. People deal in money all the time.” He walked away to the base of a sheltering evergreen.

She followed him. “Do not dismiss me. You have not answered my question.”

He squatted down to gather small twigs and dried leaves together. “I have.”

“You have not. I remember from my manuscripts that Jews will only lend if you have means to pay them back.”

“Then you’ve a good memory, Sister.” Benedict hunched over the pile he’d created, busying himself with hard strikes of the flint against the steel.

“But you had nothing with you to pay him back. Neither had you anything to give him in exchange.”

A tiny orange flame flared from the leaves, and he sheltered it with one hand as he placed a couple of twigs on it. “If you say so.” He didn’t look round at her.

“You gave him something, Benedict.”

He said nothing, just piled the fire higher as the flames took hold.

“Something that was worth a great deal. At least have the honesty to tell me, and not have me drag it from you.”

“All right, then.” He got to his feet, watching her face.

She clutched her fists tight as she waited for his answer.

“I took your cross. At Gilbert’s. And then I sold it. Are you satisfied?”

I was right.
“You stole my crucifix? Sold it to a…to a Jew?” Her outraged cry, pent up for many miles, tore through the trees.

“Yes. And it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter who I sold it to. We got the money, we got the horse.” His voice climbed too.

“No, you got the money. You got the horse. To do that, you stole my most treasured possession from me. My symbol of Christ’s suffering, and you traded it with one of the people who had put him there. Does your heartlessness know no bounds?”

He snorted in disgust. “I could say the same for your stupidity. No one but the Jews can lend, thanks to your precious church’s rules. That man in Knaresborough is no better or worse than you or me. And I would say better. He traded with me, without fuss or bother, when he could have called on the constable. A rood of that value was suspicious, but he let it pass.”

“How very convenient for you: the moneylender and the thief, gentlemen both.”

“I’m not proud of what I did. But I had to do it. We had to get out of Knaresborough, and we have to find your mother. And that will take money.” The suspicion of shame flickered in his eyes. “I had nothing. Nothing. But you had.”

Cold no longer with the anger that pulsed through her, she nodded slowly. “Well, now I know you for what you really are.”

“Like I know you for what you really are.” Anger quickened his words. “Listen to yourself! You care more for a piece of metal than you do for your life, for my life.”

“You have no idea what I care for.”

“Oh, but I do — you never stop telling me. Your habits, your veils, your cross, your cell.” The fire crackled high and bright behind him. “Anything you can surround yourself with to keep the world at bay.”

His words stung. “Such a fool’s description means you know nothing of my calling.” Well, she could sting back. “Foolish like you were on the riverbank, dancing for Fitzurse’s gold. At least I’m not a thief.”

His face was like stone. “So now you judge me for a thief, what are you going to do about it?”

“I would that I would leave you here to rot,” she replied through clenched teeth. “But I cannot.”

“You cannot because…?”

“Because, God help me, I depend on you to get me back to the church.”

“Exactly. And, God help me, I’m stuck with you.” He rummaged in his bag and pulled out a stone bottle. “Unless you want to prate on at me some more, leave me to get on feeding and watering us. I need to melt snow so we can drink.”

She grabbed it from him. “I will do it. It saves me looking at you a minute longer than I have to.”

“Please yourself, Sister.”

She stormed off into the quiet of the trees, where the drifts were deeper. The snow rustled down, a quiet backdrop to the banging of her furious heart. How could he have done this to her, how could he, how could he? She hunkered down next to a smoothly curved drift, and her fingers quickly deadened as she tried to push snow into the bottleneck. She shook it hard, as if it were the knight himself. The snow melted to give a few drops in the bottom. This would take an age.

She pushed a palm across her face in frustration. Frustration at the stubborn snow. Frustration at her own stupidity in trusting a man of the world. Gilbert’s account of Benedict’s care had touched her, confused her, but she should never have let it. At bottom, Sir Benedict Palmer was a grasping ruffian.

As she shoved more snow in the bottleneck, the trickle of running water sounded through the quiet. If that was a stream, it would be ten times easier to fill her bottle. She followed the sound as it became louder, then the snow was carved in twain by a deep stream that flowed gently over scattered rocks and reeds.

Theodosia went to the low bank and crouched down carefully. The sooner she got this filled, the sooner they could be on their way, and she would be one step nearer to being rid of Sir Palmer. Careful to keep her numb fingers’ hold on the bottle, she tipped it on its side. It filled rapidly and she brought it upright to cork it.

As she raised her gaze to it, her eyes met another’s across the stream.

A huge wolf stood there, head lowered, with eyes that glowed orange against its gray-brown fur. It drew its lips back and bared long, pointed fangs. Its deep, deep growl vibrated through her bones.

The bottle fell from her paralyzed grasp with a splash into the stream. She didn’t care. She couldn’t take her eyes from this animal. Could it swim? Or jump across? She was sure it could. She’d heard tales of these beasts. Satan himself was said to take one of his bodily forms through them.

The growl changed to a snarl, the wolf’s long muzzle in a deep wrinkle. Still it watched her.

She rose to her feet, hardly able to breathe. “Benedict?” It was barely a whisper.

As she backed away, the animal lurched forward. She screamed in anticipation of its pounce. But it stopped short of the water’s edge and snarled even louder.

It didn’t want to go in the water. That was enough.

Theodosia turned and fled back the way she had come. “Benedict! Benedict!” The snow whirled round her, struck her face as she ran. She didn’t even know if she ran the right way anymore. Any second, the animal would find her, be on her, tear her to pieces. “Where are you?” Her scream pierced the woods, but she couldn’t see him.

Something brushed her shoulder. The wolf. “No!” She reacted with her fists, her feet.

“Stop it.” Strong hands grabbed hers. “It’s me.” Through the driving snow crystals, Benedict looked down at her with ill temper. “What are carrying on for?”

“By the stream.” She took huge, heaving breaths and pulled from his tight hold to point. “There was a wolf.”

His expression changed. “A wolf? Are you sure?”

A long howl echoed through the woods, echoed by several more.

Her heartbeat soared, and she clutched for the knight.

A terrified whinny came from Quercus.

“Back to the fire.” Benedict set off at a run through the woods, pulling her along with him.

The howls became louder, closer. The lying snow dragged at her skirts, clogged her shoes. She half-fell onto one knee, but he steadied her and dragged her with him. Falling snow drove into her face, heavier than ever. She couldn’t see the fire. Growls came from a thicket. “We’re lost.” She choked on a sob.