E. M. Powell (38 page)

Now for the belt. Again, she used her fingers to try the knot this way and that. Oh, why wouldn’t it loosen? Not being able to see made it impossible. She pulled at it, picked at it, pushed the knot against itself. It wouldn’t budge. Perhaps her mother could help. But Amélie had drifted off to sleep, her breaths long and regular.

Theodosia yanked at the rope in frustration, rubbed her fingers and palms raw as she fought to free it. It was no good. Her heart sank at the idea of trying to sleep in this scratchy dress, with its tight cord belt intruding into her flesh all night. That no doubt had been Edward’s intention. But she needed rest, at least for now, at least until she met the King. She tugged again. If only she had something to cut it with, but she’d nothing. She brought her hands to the back of her head for a last stretch before she climbed into bed, her shorn hair horrid under her touch.
Hold.
Edward had a razor.

She dropped her hands. Why not borrow that? If the monk and Benedict were still drinking, she could be in and out of Edward’s sleeping area in a minute or two. He would never know, and she would get some rest. She turned to make her way back through the dark, damp confines belowdecks.

As they’d come aboard, the captain had directed Edward to the front of the boat. It should be easy enough to find. As she crept out of her sleeping quarters, the narrow passageway held some light from where Edward and Benedict sat. She could hear Edward’s authoritative tones as he held forth yet again. Benedict made an incoherent interjection.

They were still safely occupied. She went forward, past the piles of sacks that made up some of the ship’s cargo. The full hold was stuffy and airless as she went through, feeling her way in the dim light. A small, closed door showed at the end of one of the high piles of goods. That must be it. She went to it and opened it with care, lest someone else used it. The tiny room was deserted but lit with a covered lamp. It held a narrow bed, with a straw mattress and clean linen. Far finer quarters than those she and her mother had — it must be the captain’s. She turned to go, embarrassed at having intruded.

She spotted a neatly folded cloak atop a small chest. Brother Edward’s. So he had this fine room to sleep in. Better he should have offered this to Mama. Never mind. She crossed to his bundle of possessions and found his razor tucked into a leather pouch. The tiresome string around her waist fell away in one cut. She winced as she put her hand to her flesh. Relieving the pressure made for a different type of pain. As she put the string in her pocket, her fingers met the little wooden cross Benedict had given her. She pulled it out and looked at it with a fresh pang of regret. For all his faults, he had a good heart, was a good man. The kind of man she would have been blessed to find, had that been her path. Oh, here it came again: the temptation that every thought of Benedict brought. Such thoughts were dangerous — she had to stop. She put the cross back in her pocket, replaced Edward’s blade, and tidied his bundle. Now she could go and sleep.

As she turned to go, her eye lit on a rolled scroll, fastened with a length of thin red silk. Edward’s account of the murder for the King. Everything neat and in order, as she would expect of him. She thought back to the conversation at dinner. He would have told the truth about Benedict, of course he would. But Benedict was one of the group of knights who carried out the murder. What if Henry were to punish Benedict for the crime, despite his subsequent bravery, despite his saving her life over and over?

She should take a quick look, see how Edward had given his account. If Benedict was going to put himself at risk by appearing before the King, then she should at least warn him. He may have been an occasion of sin to her, but she owed him that much. Then it would be his decision, a decision made with all the facts.

The silk tie slid easily from the new vellum, and the document unrolled in her hands. Edward’s neat script lay before her, small and precise as ever, headed with the slightly larger
The Murder of Thomas Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury
.

He must have described every detail, as the lengthy account covered the entirety of the document.

She bent her head to read it.

The murderers were named Sir Reginald Fitzurse, Sir Hugh de Morville, Sir William de Tracy, and Sir Richard le Bret. They arrived at the holy cathedral of Canterbury and hid their weapons under a sycamore tree beside it.

Theodosia frowned. Where was Benedict’s name? Ignorant of their purpose though he was, he was part of the group. As for hiding their weapons, the knights had come to the door of Canterbury fully armed. She’d seen them, watched as they’d murdered a brother in cold blood. Puzzled, she scanned down the text, the script recording the retrieval of the weapons. Then:

They broke into the sanctity of Canterbury Cathedral and sought out the lord Becket with rapid pace. Swords drawn, these four brought dread to the holy place as they shouted, “Where is Thomas Becket, traitor of the King?”

Four? Still no Benedict, who’d made five. It didn’t make sense.

The monks were giving glory to God at Vespers and begged the lord Becket that they would protect him with their lives. Yet he sent them away, like Jesus with his disciples on the eve of His crucifixion. Only one brother stayed to face the four evildoers, Brother Edward Grim, in whose hand this is written. Their cries became louder, but the lord Becket stood firm and steadfast upon the altar, with Brother Edward at his side. When they came through the door, the lord Becket showed no fear, without a drop in gaze or a tremble to his tone. He said, “I am a servant of God. Why do you seek me?”

The four rushed to the steps and brandished their hideous weapons aloft. “You have excommunicated the good from the church and sent yet more away. The King demands you return them to the fold.”

Theodosia stared at the words as she willed them to form into something else. She read them again. Of course they didn’t alter. Didn’t alter to mention Benedict. Or her. Or the truth of what was said and done that evening. Sweat broke out all over her body as she fought down a desire to fling the thing from her grasp and go and find Benedict. Instead, she forced herself to read on. She had to read it all. She had to know the truth.

CHAPTER 30

Palmer watched Edward pour yet another measure of wine into his drinking vessel. “I don’t think I should be having any more, Brother.” His words made bare sense as he fought to get them out.

The monk smiled. “What’s the harm, Palmer, what’s the harm?” He raised his own glass. “God created grapes for a reason, did he not?”

Palmer nodded. It was easier than speech, but not much. This wine kicked like an enraged stallion. He’d had a skinful, but nothing he couldn’t normally handle. Yet he could hardly feel his hands and feet, and his mouth and tongue stung in a strange way. He really didn’t want any more, but the monk seemed keen to drink on. And talk. Forcurse him, the man could talk.

“Nature is God’s own bounty, Palmer, remember that.” Edward embarked on a lengthy speech about God’s provisions and God’s larder.

Palmer fixed his gaze on him, but his eyelids drooped. He must be falling asleep, nay, dreaming.

Edward’s features changed shape, his eyes looking big, then small. His face turned pale blue.

With a hard shake of his head, Palmer pulled himself upright in his seat.

Edward’s appearance became normal again. A huge yawn broke from Palmer, and he apologized as clearly as the wine would allow.

The monk gave a dismissive wave. “No need for apologies. Now drink up, man.” He held up Palmer’s bottle. “There’s still some more left in this.”

♦ ♦ ♦

And the lord Becket shall receive his reward amongst the angels and the saints, in the glory of God forever. Amen. This by mine own hand, Brother Edward Grim, Canterbury, the Year of Our Lord 1170.

Theodosia lowered the scroll with shaking hands. Lies, deception, untruth. Edward had written a fictitious account of the terrible events in the cathedral. One that put the blame for Thomas’s murder fairly and squarely at Henry’s door. According to this awful fabrication, she and Benedict simply didn’t exist. Wiped from history. Which was what Eleanor had sent the knights to do. Remove Theodosia and her mother for good.

Fitzurse’s words came back to her with a terrible clarity: “
Eleanor sent four knights to do the killing. Four in place of her four sons, and a fifth knight to be her champion.
”

The fifth knight was Brother Edward Grim. Not Benedict, an honorable man caught up in terrible circumstances.

She folded up the document and shoved it in her pocket. She had to get out of here, get this scroll out of here. Tell Benedict. He’d know what to do. He always did. Sick with fright, she opened the door.

All seemed as before. With a long breath of relief, she started back along the passageway. The wooden planks beneath her feet groaned and squeaked as if demons were in them, with the sway of the craft more pronounced. They must be well out to sea by now. She put a hand out to the pile of sacks to steady herself.

“Then sleep well, Sir Palmer.”

Terror stabbed her heart. Edward. On his way to his room, with her like a rat in a trap, his scroll in her pocket. She looked around frantically. The only place for concealment was a narrow gap between two piles of sacks. She squeezed right into it, hardly able to breathe. She hoisted her dress up to cover her head and shoulders, and pulled her hands inside it also. She could still see through the coarse fibers of the fabric. Not a second too late.

Edward approached, with a grunt and a stumble from the sea’s pitch. His pale hand landed right next to her as he grasped a sack for purchase. His eyes seemed to meet hers through thick weaved cloth. He paused for a moment, and her knees almost gave way. He’d seen her. But no. He fumbled for another handhold and went on his way, unnoticing of her, a shadow amongst shadows.

She had to make haste. He’d see his scroll was gone in a matter of moments. Easing herself from her hiding place, she hurried back to where they’d eaten. Empty. Wine stained the tabletop, red as spilled blood. Edward had wished Benedict goodnight. But she didn’t know where Benedict slept. The captain? He could tell her. She made her way to a steep ladder that led up to the decks. With her skirt hoisted out of the way, she started to climb up, her hands slippery with urgent sweat.

A hand closed around her ankle and tried to yank her from the rungs. “Where are you going in such a hurry, Sister?”

She looked down into the blazing green eyes of Edward Grim. One pale hand locked around her right ankle. The other held his razor. He brought it to the flesh of her inner thigh.

“Please. Don’t.” Her voice wouldn’t go beyond a whisper.

“If you do as you’re told,” he said, “you might survive. Climb up to the deck. Slowly. I’ll be right behind you with this efficient blade. We don’t want any accidents, do we?”

Theodosia went up, hand over hand.
Please don’t let me fall. Please.
The cold night air met her and she hauled herself out onto the bow deck, her breath in rapid gasps. She looked around to see if she could signal to Donne, but the cargo of piles of hewn wood made a high barrier between the fore and aft decks. She was alone. Trapped.

Edward emerged right behind her, his blade a dull gleam in the weak moonlight.

“You can harm me if you want,” she said. “But Benedict will find you out, you mark my words.”

“Palmer?” Edward gave a snort of laughter. “He’s already halfway to hell, if not already there.”

Her stomach dropped. “What you mean?”

“I’ve been filling the fool up with poisoned wine all night. He’ll be in a sleep he’ll never wake up from.”

Shock threatened to rob her of sense. “You….monster.”

“Only doing my duty,” said Edward. “A lesson you never could learn, you hussy. Now, where is my manuscript?”

♦ ♦ ♦

Palmer leaned over the stern of the ship and vomited his belly empty. Again, he retched. And again. And again.

“Too much wine, sir knight?” Captain Donne’s question wasn’t overloaded with sympathy.

Palmer shook his head as he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “A lot of wine, yes. But it’s the ocean under my feet. It gets in my head and sends my ears spinning till I’m sick. Always has done.” He bent over to retch into the ocean again, then gave the captain a rueful grin. “Always will do, I suppose.”

Donne considered him for a moment. “Well, hurling your guts up has done you some good. You were pale as a ghost when you came up here.”

“Come to think of it, I do feel better,” said Palmer. “I only wish there was an easier way of settling my stomach.” He grimaced. “That fish I had for supper didn’t taste half as good on the way up as it did on the way down.”

“Shame it got wasted,” said Donne. “I had to stretch it far enough as it was. Talk about the loaves and the fishes. Maybe the monk worked another miracle.”

Palmer looked over the side to where the gentle deep-sea swell moved beneath them. He might be sick again. He hoped not. “How do you mean?” he asked, scarcely listening.

“I only had provisions for two passengers. Not four.”

Churning guts forgotten, Palmer focused his full attention on Donne. “Two?”

“Aye,” said Donne. “Edward and his usual companion, I take ’em back and forward every now and then, between here and France. They pay well, no trouble, keep themselves to themselves. Wish all folk were like that.”

“Who’s his companion?”

“Posh bloke, a knight.” Donne pulled a sheet in. “Blue eyes, his name’ll come to me in a — ”

“Fitzurse?”

“That’s the one. Instead of him, I get you and two nuns.” The captain rolled his eyes. “At least I’ve been paid well. Oi! Where are you going so quick?”

Palmer paused at the top of the aft ladder. “I need to find Edward. Fast. Where’s his cabin?”

♦ ♦ ♦

Theodosia backed away from Edward until she hit the deck rail.

“I asked you once,” he said. “Where is my manuscript?”