The Blood of the Fifth Knight Page 3

  And at the far end of the solar, on the wall facing him, glowing in the light of dozens of candles on branched metal stands, his centrepiece.

  De Faye walked to it with slow steps across the smoothly planed oak floor, the travesty of a letter still in his hands.

  Eleanor would have been overcome to see it, her mural portrait painted to three heights of de Faye’s own six feet, representing her as Yvain’s lady, Laudine. De Faye had paid the finest artists, and he had not been disappointed. The depiction of her fair tresses would make the sheen of precious metals dim. She wore a dress of shimmering blue that mirrored a sparkling fountain and the greens and browns of a secret forest. And best of all: her eyes. Her lovely, gracious eyes, pools of wonder in a face perfect in form and so delicate in colour. They seemed to gaze upon him whatever his location in his room, whether here at her feet or when he lay in his sumptuous bed, beholding her image as he waited for sleep.

  And now, his lady?

  Lost to him forever, before he fully realised that love. He had been nurturing Eleanor. Not for them the imprudent courtship of youth, burning fast and flaring out like a crackling tinder spark. No. Their love had the blaze of an evergreen. It took time to start, took many attempts, needed careful tending and guarding. Then, once alight, it would endure and endure in a broiling roar.

  De Faye crushed the letter in his hands.

  Now, all that would be left would be cold, dead ashes. Eleanor’s eyes would weep a thousand tears; her hands would wring those wondrous tresses. She would grieve that he had failed her so completely. He, as a courtly knight, should never have left his lady alone and unprotected.

  Just as Yvain did not return to his lady, Laudine.

  It was as if the likeness spoke to him.

  The truthful words branded angry shame onto his heart. He had learned nothing from his hero knight, only made the very same mistakes. ‘But I will still be great like him.’ He ground out the words. ‘Do you hear me?’

  Eleanor’s silence reproached him for his stupidity as effectively as her words might have.

  ‘I should not have spoken so rudely, my love.’ He clutched the ruins of the letter hard to cool his ire. ‘Forgive me.’

  I can forgive you anything. For you are my moon among the stars, my sun above the moon.

  De Faye bowed in reverence at his lady’s magnanimous imagined reply, her recognition of his nobility. Oh, he would lay her doubts to rest.

  Henry had proclaimed publicly that his victory came from Saint Thomas Becket, that the Martyr had decided from beyond the grave who should prevail. The superstitious fools in the kingdom believed it, took to their hearts the idea that a ghost could decide a battle.

  ‘Sweet lady, the knight Yvain too had the greatest challenge from unworldly creatures. But he overcame them, as I will. I will free you, my love. We will ascend the throne together. That is my sacred vow to you.’

  Her towering image gazed her reply of wordless trust at him.

  De Faye smiled in return, his heart soothed by her restored hope.

  One of Yvain’s greatest weapons had been a ring that made the wearer invisible. And de Faye had his own invisibility: an army of spies, loyal to him, woven through Henry’s kingdom as diseased shoots tangle through a healthy vine.

  They would fight for her too. And like the constriction of the vine, their presence would be lethal.

  De Faye went to place the parchment in one of his many painted, carved chests. He opened the lid. So many others, with so many words that had promised victory. Hollow words. But one day, they would ring true.

  He would have his triumph with Eleanor. They would celebrate it as they lay together in his chamber beneath the yellow fleurs-de-lis. He put the letter in its rightful place, consigned to what had gone before but not a sign of things to come.

  Closing the lid, he beheld her marvellous likeness once again.

  De Faye would not fail his lady. No matter how long or how perilous the battle.

  Chapter Three

  The village of Cloughbrook, Staffordshire, England, March 1176

  Sat on a bale of straw in their cramped, smoky cottage, Palmer looked up from sharpening his knife.

  Standing before him on the bare earth floor, his son shifted from one foot to the other in his impatience. ‘Pa, can I come out and work the fields with you today?’ Tom broke into long, hard coughs. ‘Can I?’

  ‘Not till you stop sounding like a guard goose.’

  Tom laughed, setting him off coughing again. ‘Please?’

  ‘It is too cold and wet today.’ Theodosia sat on a low stool by the sulky fire, nursing the newly talking Matilde. ‘You are still not recovered from the pestilence. Perhaps when the weather turns.’

  ‘It’s already turned,’ said Tom. ‘The snow’s gone.’

  ‘Only since Candlemas.’ Palmer laid his knife and stone down on the cold ground and scooped his son onto his lap. ‘Buried we were. Buried!’ He tipped him backwards.

  The lad called for his favourite game. ‘How high? How high?’

  Palmer pulled him up. ‘High as the roof !’ He lifted him above his head towards the sagging thatch and swooped him back down again, Tom whooping.

  Matilde stopped nursing at the noise and turned her small face to him.

  ‘Benedict.’ Theodosia tried to sound firm, but her smile broke through.

  Tom coughed more. ‘Again, Pa.’

  Palmer set him on his feet and rubbed his back. ‘Get your breath, eh? You can’t come with me. Not today.’ He reached for his knife and stuck it in his belt. ‘And I must be off. Those fields won’t clear themselves.’

  ‘Will you check on the way?’

  Palmer looked over at Theodosia’s careful question. He knew she meant: checking the tree, deep in the woods. The tree where the King’s man would leave the sign that a message waited. He nodded. ‘And on the way back.’

  ‘Check what?’ Tom questioned.

  Faith, the lad had the wits of a weasel. ‘Never you mind.’ Palmer picked up the sharpening stone and put it in his work bag.

  ‘It has been too long with nothing,’ said Theodosia.

  ‘No one could move this winter. The snow and ice kept us all trapped. That’s all.’

  ‘But what if—’

  Palmer gave her a warning shake of his head. ‘Tom. Go out and fetch a new log from the woodpile.’

  Tom hurried to the door, like Palmer knew he would. ‘Good lad.’ He stood up and stepped over to force it closed behind him, the wood warped and damp.

  Theodosia went on, voice lowered. ‘But what if there has been new rebellion? What if Henry has been overthrown?’ She dropped her voice to a frantic whisper. ‘What if our secret has come out? For all we know, Queen Eleanor could be free. And even if she isn’t, she still has sons loyal to her.’

  ‘Theodosia, think.’ He moved back from the door. ‘We’d have heard if the King had lost his throne. Even a frozen land couldn’t have kept that quiet.’ Her stricken look tugged at him. He hunkered down in front of her and pulled her gently to him, Matilde quiet and content between them. ‘All will be well. We’ve got through this terrible winter. Spring is on the way. And any day now, you’ll see that sign on the tree.’

  ‘I only pray we do.’ Theodosia leaned her head against his chest.

  He kissed her soft hair. ‘And your prayer will be answered.’

  The door squealed open and Tom clattered in, hauling a lichen-covered log near his own size and grunting with his efforts.

  Theodosia raised her grey eyes to Palmer’s. ‘But what if it is not?’

  ‘Have I pleased you again, your Grace? Again?’

  Henry’s hammering pulse robbed him of speech. He lay on top of Rosamund Clifford in his wide bed in his hunting lodge at Woodstock, his cheek to her smooth, white shoulder.

  She brought a f
ine-fingered hand to the back of his head and gave it a cautious stroke. ‘Your Grace?’

  Henry rolled off her onto his back. The pile of fine down pillows propped him half upright, saved him the indignity of feeling like an upturned beetle as he fought for air. ‘I am most well.’ His words were a gasp, but he got them out.

  ‘Would you like me to bring you more wine, your Grace?’ came the girl’s soft question, full of decorum.

  Henry turned his head to gaze upon her, and she dropped her glance in modesty.

  Rosamund’s plenteous golden hair lay tangled across the white linen pillow covers and her magnificent breasts. Long dark lashes shadowed her cheeks, and in the dim light her lips had the deep hue of the ripest berry fruits. He put a hand under her chin and raised it to make her look at him with those bright hazel eyes.

  ‘You must call me Henry.’ He wished he didn’t sound like an uncle who wished to be popular. He pressed on with the real reason. ‘You have been my mistress for over a year.’

  Rosamund appeared very moved. ‘Oh, your—Henry,’—she corrected her slip with a charming bite of her lip, with her perfect pearls for teeth—‘that would be a great honour.’

  ‘Good girl. Now, fetch my wine.’

  She rose from beside him to open the finely woven wool curtains that had enclosed their bed and kept them cocooned in their passion for many hours. Now daylight flooded in.

  As she climbed out, slipping a fur robe around her, her scent found its way to his nostrils. Rose and lavender oil with the warmth of sandalwood. Beneath it, her own female scent, sweet and deep.

  Henry pulled the heavy silk coverlet to him and watched as she made her way to a side table. Though clothed in the floor-length robe, the sway of her hips called to him as if she were without it.

  ‘You have the beauty of Saint Agatha herself,’ he said.

  Turning with the polished pewter jug in her hands, Rosamund gave him a blank look in response. Then she bestowed a bright smile, just to please him.

  Henry smiled generously in return. ‘Then let us say the beauty of King Arthur’s bride, Guinevere of Camelot.’

  This time she flushed with pride. ‘Thank you, your Grace.’ She bent to pour his wine.

  Henry sighed inside. She had rare talents between her legs, but very little between her ears. Never mind. He kept her for gratification, not love.

  As Rosamund poured him his drink, the bells of the midday office rang out.

  Henry sat bolt upright. ‘How long have we been abed?’

  Rosamund came to his side, loosening her robe from her shoulders. ‘Many hours, and each one with such delight from your—’

  ‘Too many, that’s what.’ He waved the drink away. ‘And me still naked as ivory. Bring me my clothes.’

  Fastening her robe quickly again, she responded with haste to his order. She always did.

  Once modest enough to be seen by others, he strode to the door and flung it open. ‘Tell Hugo Stanton I want him.’ Henry’s shout sent the keeper scurrying. ‘Now!’

  Henry finished dressing as the clump of boots sounded in the hallway outside.

  ‘Let my messenger enter!’ He shouted from where he stood, so the keeper would hear.

  ‘What should I do, your—Henry?’ asked Rosamund.

  ‘Stay,’ said Henry, as the keeper admitted Hugo Stanton.

  ‘Your Grace.’ Stanton bowed low.

  ‘Allow no one else to enter,’ called Henry to the keeper. He lowered his voice as the door closed. ‘Stanton, I need you to take a message to Godstow Nunnery.’

  Stanton darted a glance at the respectfully silent Rosamund. His eyes lingered a second too long.

  ‘Your King asks you to perform a task, Stanton,’ said Henry, ‘not to gawp at his mistress.’

  Stanton’s attention snapped back, his roughened outdoor skin deepening in colour. ‘My apologies, your Grace. I didn’t wish to speak indiscreetly in front of this good lady.’

  ‘You may speak in front of her, Stanton. The lady Rosamund has a guarded tongue.’ Henry pointed at her. ‘Are you taking heed?’

  ‘Of course, Henry.’ Rosamund kept her gaze lowered, her hands clasped.

  ‘I should have been at Godstow today, to make my Friday penance as usual, before journeying on to London.’ Henry threw himself onto a low, curved stool. ‘My boots.’

  Stanton grabbed them and knelt before Henry.

  ‘But’—bending forward to shove one foot in, Henry panted with effort—‘thanks to the lady Rosamund, I have been kept in bed for many hours.’

  ‘I am sure your Grace does the keeping.’ Stanton offered the other boot.

  ‘In truth, I think she bewitches me with her charms.’ A quick check showed him she displayed her most demure countenance; hard to believe the excesses she could show between the sheets. He rammed his other foot in the waiting boot. ‘Thanks to such time-wasting, I am too late to make the trip to Godstow today.’ He stood up and checked each foot for its fit.

  Stanton also stood and awaited his next order.

  Henry went on. ‘I will make my penance here and travel directly to London. Stanton, I want you to go to Godstow. You should be there before nightfall. Tell the Abbess I was unavoidably detained, and offer my apologies. Tell her also I will make a double penance next week. Those exact words. Do you hear me?’

  ‘Yes, your Grace,’ said Stanton.

  ‘Now leave,’ said Henry. He gestured to Rosamund. ‘You too.’

  She hesitated. ‘I could stay and pray with you.’

  ‘I am doing penance, not committing further sin. Out!’

  She bit her lip once more.

  ‘My lady.’ Stanton beckoned to her from the open door and Rosamund hurried out, closing the door behind them.

  Henry ignored his screened chapel at the far end of his chamber. Instead, he paced the floor with loud, hard strides—one, two—as if that could allay his irritation at himself. His regular visits to Godstow were too important. The world had to see his continued penance for Becket. Yet he, Henry, had so much more for which he had to make amends. More importantly, to whom he had to make amends.

  Amélie. His wife, his soothfast wife. The woman he’d wed in private so many years before. The woman who’d given him Theodosia, their only child. Henry drew a long shuddering breath at the danger they’d been in. He had nearly lost them once, the wife and child he held so dear. Eleanor had discovered their existence. The fact that they lived would put Eleanor aside, would give her four curs of sons no claim to the throne. She had tried to hunt Amélie and Theodosia down, and Becket had died as a result.

  Only Sir Benedict Palmer had stood in the way and saved him, Henry, from ultimate grief. And now Henry was putting plans in place to claim Amélie as his true wife, to reveal her to the world. Up to now, it would never have been possible. But Eleanor’s rebellion had shown the world her real treachery. He had locked her away and he had taken the first steps to annul his sham of a marriage to her. Letters had gone to Rome, opening the discussion with a disapproving Pope.

  Henry’s pacing brought him next to his bed, rumpled and damp from his hours with Rosamund, the sharp-smelling linen all askew. He yanked the curtains closed to banish the reminder. Rosamund Clifford was a distraction, nothing more. Eleanor required far more urgent attention.

  Palmer made his way with the small group of other farmers along the main street of Cloughbrook Village. With the constant, sleety rain, most had already given up for the day. This last small group headed for home, peeling off one by one as they reached their own doors.

  Now Palmer continued alone as he headed for the bridge over the high river, his worn leather shoes squelching and clogged with wet, sticky mud. He shook hard in wet clothes that stuck to him, with his woollen tunic and hose weighing four times what they had when he started out in the grey dawn. His thick wool hood had turned
to a wet lump on his head.

  He’d done what he could, as had the other men, for as many hours as they could. They’d had to work—had to at least try. Had to try because the tax collection time loomed and Lord Nicholas Ordell would be seeking the huge payments due him.

  Due? Palmer snorted and wiped the rain from his face for the hundredth time. Ordell already owned near everything. Over to Palmer’s right, the slate roofs of the lord’s huge manor house stuck way above the woods surrounding it and the low cottages that clustered around the streets. So too the church, a bit farther back. And the mill downriver, the huge wheel turning on and on, the mill where everyone had to bring their poor grains to be ground and pay Ordell for the favour.

  As Palmer crossed the bridge over the noisy river, he caught the bleats of the penned sheep in the fenced-off fold on the lord’s land. The great man even kept all the animal dung for himself, the better to make his land fertile.

  The sight of his poor cottage, the last one at this edge of the village, with its one set of shutters closed tight, called to Palmer. His home, where his loved ones would be.

  But his usual guilt bit at him. Not even as large as the Thatchers’ home nearby, he didn’t know if the rotting roof had kept out today’s deluge. If it hadn’t, he’d have to wait to change it. The money Theodosia had accepted from Henry when the King had given them his blessing had nearly run out, thanks to Ordell bleeding them dry.

  He walked up to his door, the rough cobbles before it half-buried in the mud, and the little fence full of holes. No mind. No hens lived in their small hen house. All had been slaughtered to keep them alive this terrible winter.

  He opened the door to a welcome wave of smoky heat. Pulling his hood off, he gave the two-tone whistle for his children. No clatter of small steps met him.

  Theodosia stood up from the fire with a smile. ‘You are back.’ She hurried to him with a length of old cloth as he rammed the warped door shut on the sheets of rain outside. ‘And sooner than I thought.’