The Blood of the Fifth Knight Page 4

  ‘I had to give up again today.’ He towelled his hair and face. ‘As did we all. The weather still wages war on us.’ He looked around, disappointed. ‘Where are the younglings?’

  ‘Enide Thatcher is watching them next door. I am making soap, and I do not want them anywhere near the lye.’ She reached into a basket and pulled out a dry linen undershirt for him. ‘Did you see any sign?’

  ‘The tree was bare.’ He hauled off his wet top, not wanting to see her hope put down again.

  ‘Then I will keep praying.’ She smiled at him again, but he knew she forced it to try to hide her fears. She set about her work as he swiftly swapped his wet clothes for dry.

  Pulling on his undershirt, he saw the neat darns that kept the threadbare cloth on his back. Her pale hands as she stoked the fire. The curve of her white cheek as she turned to the side. The thinness of her frame from months with little food.

  With his guilt stabbing at him again, Palmer stepped to her and pulled her upright. ‘I’m sorry.’

  She scanned his face in surprise. ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘You deserve better than this.’ He gave a helpless wave that took in their poor surroundings. ‘There I was, with the brass to claim the daughter of a king. My stupid pride in turning down the great wealth he offered. I said I could look after you, always provide for you. I meant every word. But what kind of life have I given you?’ He shook his head. ‘I’m no farmer and I was a fool to think I could be. And you’d have been better off staying as an anchoress. The church’s roof would never have crumbled.’

  Theodosia caught back a laugh. A laugh. ‘That I would want a roof more than you?’ She stepped close to him and put her arms around his neck. ‘I think perhaps the rain has soaked into your skull.’ She kissed him softly. ‘You have given me our life together. The life we asked my father to grant us. And we have our blessed children. Our love.’ She kissed him again, harder. ‘We are so lucky, husband.’

  ‘I think it might be you with soaked wits.’ Palmer pulled her closer to him. ‘But I’ll say you’re right.’ His body called to hers and she responded.

  Forget the cold, the rain, the hunger. He’d fought so hard for her, he could never have been happy if he hadn’t won her.

  And she was still his. Fortune truly smiled on him.

  Raoul de Faye had come to despise the arrival of his messengers. Every word they brought him spelled doom. He read this latest travesty by the bright candles lighting the mural of Eleanor in his solar at Faye-la-Vineuse. The storm clouds outside made night of the day, with torrents of rain pounding down.

  The worst blow yet. Annulment. Not the putting asunder of a marriage, but a formal decree by the Pope that the marriage had never existed. Eleanor’s four sons would join the band of Henry’s bastard offspring as Henry cast her aside. She would no longer be Queen.

  De Faye looked up at her likeness, the constantly renewed colours shimmering as bright as ever. She was nature’s marvel, brighter and clearer than any crystal. How could he even contemplate her fall?

  The letter went into the correct chest with the others, though he longed to throw the missive on the hungry, blazing logs in the fireplace.

  Eleanor had to remain Queen. His glorious Queen, as he ruled beside her as King.

  De Faye stepped to a neatly sized arched recess in the wall to the right of the portrait, where a chest rested, its carved wood dark against the fleur-de-lis-patterned whitewash.

  He lifted it out and opened the lid to reveal a number of clean, rough stones. Not obviously of any value, he called them his collection, a reminder of different lands and cities he had visited. But they were more than that. Much more. Despite the dire threat of annulment, he smiled. Each one represented a soldier in his army of invisibility, a reminder to him of who was where. And doing what.

  He picked up his favourite, caressed it for a moment with a gentle thumb. He had to tread so carefully now, could not storm in with wrath and fury. Henry’s men had control of the whole kingdom. If he, the Queen’s uncle, were to play an open hand, Eleanor could be put to death.

  As long as Eleanor was in the tower, Henry had the power. The words sang to him in a mocking rhyme.

  He replaced the stone with a steady hand, though his pulse roared with his anger at Henry’s latest move.

  The King’s scandalised subjects believed the whispers about annulment were for Rosamund Clifford. De Faye knew the situation was far more grave: Henry wanted to clear the way to publicly acknowledge his true marriage to Amélie Bertrand.

  De Faye looked up at Eleanor’s painting once more. ‘Have no fear, my love. I am fighting for you. We nearly succeeded once. We will prevail.’

  The farce with Becket had almost worked. Now came the time for de Faye’s secret army to move once more, to close the snares around Henry and destroy those he loved. De Faye took a long, slow breath. First, have him lie in an empty bed, as de Faye had to lie grieving in his own.

  De Faye went on. ‘My Queen, it is time to get rid of the Clifford whore.’

  He could swear Eleanor smiled at him. In fact, he was sure of it.

  Rosamund Clifford stirred in her curtained bed, alone in her chambers at the palace of Woodstock. Morning must still be a long way away. The little open chink at the top of the richly embroidered tapestry panels let in no light. The rain made such a fearful noise against the window shutters, and the strong winds rattled them like hands shook them. She yawned and burrowed beneath the warm coverlets once more to sink back into sleep, lulled by the lavender and tansy that freshened her bed. Being woken by the loudness of the storm was horrid.

  But not as ghastly as being woken by Henry. Often it would be when he had arisen in the night to piss loudly in his pot; then he’d seek her out. Or if she ever roused him from sleep, even by mistake, he would paw her, put his rough-skinned face against hers, slobber at her mouth. Then he would be on her, and she would have to pretend her joy. She burrowed in further with a shudder, eyes screwed shut. Her father had told her how to make that revolting pretence. Over and over. And always the last line in every lesson: ‘Remember, Rosamund. The Clifford fortunes rest on your shoulders. You must win Henry’s heart as well as his lust.’

  Well, she’d won the King’s lust the first time he’d clapped eyes on her. On her breasts, showing so perfectly in her tightly laced dress. On her long hair, loose and brazen and making all the other women frown. He had her in his bed that very evening, and every step of her father’s plan seemed so very, very simple. But although the royal lust was hers, Henry’s heart did not seem to be following. There were frequent messages from her father, messages that by now she mostly ignored. If the great Sir Walter de Clifford wanted to know what was going on, then he could come and take the King in his mouth nightly.

  The rain came in a renewed, heavy burst.

  At least she had no royal duties at the moment, thank goodness. Henry was away. She could sleep in her own fragrant rooms, have her clean, perfumed body and washed, combed hair still sweet and fresh in the morning. Not stinking from the King’s sweat and lust.

  Oh, why couldn’t he be a young king, or a well-muscled prince, or a handsome nobleman? Then she would love to be woken, have her nightshift opened and pulled up. Have her lover take her, and she would match him, pleasure for pleasure. For hours.

  The shutter rattled again. Then she heard it pop open with a fresh howl of the wind. She opened her eyes and pushed herself upright.

  ‘Damn its eyes.’ Henry swore like that, at every little thing. Well, so could she. Now her feet would get chilled as she crossed the cold stone floor to push the shutter closed again.

  Rosamund pulled open the bed curtain. And screamed. A robed figure, face concealed in a hood, a deeper black against the darkness, was pulling itself in over the windowsill.

  She rolled across her bed to the far side. She had to get to the door.

 
Now the figure stood in the room, the gleam of a blade in one hand.

  ‘Murder! Help!’ Tangled in the curtain, Rosamund misjudged the bed edge and stumbled to her knees on the hard floor.

  The figure came round the bed towards her, steps quick, silent.

  Rosamund scrambled to her feet and ran for the door. Her hands slipped from the carved metal handle. ‘Help me!’

  The figure caught up, knife raised.

  Rosamund grabbed for the handle again.

  The blade swooped and she ducked, caught on one temple in a blow that made her head ring.

  She screamed and wrenched the door open with both hands, snapping her nails. The blade came down again, this time on one hand, gashing it open.

  A distant call. ‘My lady?’

  Rosamund kicked out as her attacker struck again and the blade glanced off the doorjamb. She threw herself into the corridor, landing on her shoulder in a jarring wrench. She flung her injured hand up as she saw the figure lift the blade again. ‘Help!’

  The flicker of a light appeared.

  The figure froze, then ducked back into her room.

  More lights blinked at the end of the corridor, along with the rap of footsteps, the echoes of calls, shouts.

  Then faces surrounded her, stood over her, uttering horrified words as the blood from her wounds splashed over her white nightgown and the pain took hold. She couldn’t stop screaming, struggling, when hands went to touch her, hold her.

  ‘My lady. Please.’ A male voice cut through. One she knew. Knew so well.

  She looked up as Hugo Stanton lowered himself next to her onto his haunches, a hand held out to her, his blue eyes shining with his concern.

  ‘Please, fair lady,’ he said softly. ‘You must let us tend to you. You have been sore wounded.’

  His gentle words pierced her terror.

  ‘Somebody tried to kill me, Hugo.’ Rosamund let out a long wail that ended in choking sobs as Stanton gathered her to him, then lifted her into his arms.

  ‘Fetch the physician,’ he said. ‘Now. And prepare my horse. The King needs to know of this attack.’

  Chapter Four

  Closing the door to her cottage home, Theodosia hooked her basket over one arm and held out her free hand to take Matilde’s small one. The days and days of rain had ceased, and weak, watery sunshine lit the village.

  ‘Let’s go! Pa’s waiting.’ Tom ran ahead, ran back, danced around them.

  ‘We are going as quickly as we can,’ said Theodosia. ‘Matilde is not as fast as you.’

  Across the arched stone bridge, far down the cart-rutted, muddy main street, she could see the other village women had set off for the fields to bring food to the men. They always moved as a herd, knowing what to do and when to do it, never seeking to include her, nor she them. She knew they thought her odd for it. But she could never, ever reveal her life before Benedict, cloistered in a cathedral with little knowledge of the real world. The real world that could be so harsh but that had given her the love of a man who shared her days, her nights. The man who would soon walk towards her across the fields, his dark eyes lighting with his smile for her as he eased the strain from his broad shoulders.

  Theodosia crossed the bridge with her daughter, the swollen river beneath a roar of brown foam.

  Tom, stopping for a coughing fit, leaned over the low-walled edge. ‘Look at that.’

  ‘Stay away from the edge, Tom. Do you hear me?’ Theodosia clutched Matilde’s hand hard as they went over. Pounding water: covering her head, stopping her breath. It still came to her in her nightmares.

  Her son bounced back to kick at stones on the roadway, Theodosia still with careful eyes on him.

  Tom not only had Henry’s blocky build, he shared his relentless energy too. Yet the pestilence had hit him so hard. For an interminable week at Christmas, he had burned with a fever, lying limp in her arms. The fear that she would lose her child had clawed through her, ripping her sleep and her appetite from her. She could only appeal through prayer. And through the intercession of the great Saint Thomas Becket himself, her son’s fever had left him on the twenty-ninth of December, the day of the Martyr’s feast. A miracle among many hundreds, she knew. But for her, a sign he still cared for her, watched over her as he had while he lived on this earth.

  She would not follow the women. Instead, she turned left with the children onto a track that led eventually to the nearby abbey but also past the fields. It briefly followed the river’s course, the weed-strewn ground underfoot squelching and boggy.

  ‘I don’t need to walk. I can run!’ Tom set off, haring from one side to another in splatters of wet mud.

  ‘Your shoes!’ Her son took no heed of her call.

  Thankfully the path veered onto drier ground, the thick woods she knew well lining it to her right.

  Deep in one clearing stood their message tree. When Hugo Stanton arrived with a message from Henry, he would leave a square of white linen hanging from it. She and Benedict would come when it was dark, so no one would see them meet the stranger. But there had been nothing for four long months. Months where the deep snow and thick, solid ice had trapped people in their homes, where their meagre food supplies had dwindled to almost nothing, where the terrible fevers had taken so many.

  Since the late thaw, she had been checking and checking, twice, three times a day. Benedict had too, on his way to and from the fields, where he would be looking out for her now. She hesitated. She could check it again now. It would only take a few minutes. ‘Come, Tom. We can have a walk through the woods.’

  Her son whooped and ran in through a break in the undergrowth onto a small animal trail, Theodosia following with Matilde.

  The trees cut off the fragile heat of the early sun, bringing damp, chill air heavy with the mouldy smell of dead leaves.

  Tom picked up an old stick and ran from mossy trunk to trunk, striking each one with a loud crack. ‘Take that, dragon! And you, and you.’

  ‘Dragon?’ Matilde turned worried grey eyes up to Theodosia.

  ‘No.’ Theodosia smiled down at her. ‘It is only Tom playing games.’

  They followed the narrow path through to the clearing. And there it was. The frayed, discoloured linen square would draw no attention if anyone were to see it by chance. The wind could have blown it to this isolated place. But for Theodosia, it had the glow of gold. Praise God. She stepped up to it and removed it, tucking it safely away in her belt pouch. The long wait was over. They would see Hugo Stanton again this night. They would find out if they were still safe.

  ‘No dragons?’ Matilde clutched tight to Theodosia’s skirts.

  ‘No dragons, my sweet.’ Theodosia bent to kiss the fear from her daughter’s round little face. ‘Still only Tom.’ She straightened up, seeking her son. ‘Tom?’ He was nowhere in sight. ‘Tom!’ The quiet woods damped down her call, made it hollow. She called again. Silence. Where could he be? She scooped Matilde into her arms so she could move more quickly.

  The path ahead gave a turn through the trees, in the direction of the river.

  Theodosia increased her stride.

  Matilde giggled. ‘Hurry, hurry.’

  Still no sign. Theodosia’s pulse tripped faster. She rounded the bend to where the trees had been cleared. Dear God.

  The deep pond she had seen here last autumn had grown to three times its normal size from the winter’s snows and rains. Overhung with dense evergreen bushes, a couple of dead, rotting trees protruded into it. Balanced at the end of one tree, leaning over the water, with his stick sword aloft, was Tom.

  Her mouth dried as she fought for breath.

  He grinned at her. ‘I am King Arthur. I seek the Lady of the Lake.’ He waved the stick.

  The end of the trunk nearest to her shifted in the mud at his movement. ‘Tom.’ She had to sound calm—she could not alarm him.
She had to get him off there. ‘Come off the log. Let us go and show Father your sword.’

  ‘Excalibur.’ He waved the weapon again. This time the log gave a visible shudder along its entire length.

  Her son paused, gaped down at his feet.

  ‘Tom! Get off it now!’ She thrust Matilde from her, dropped her basket and ran to grab the dead tree, stop its slow spin.

  Tom wavered, fought for balance as it went into a roll. ‘Mam!’ His stick fell from his hands. Then with a cry, he plunged in too.

  With his forearm, Palmer wiped the sweat of the morning’s work in the fields from his forehead.

  ‘You look ready to put your arse on the ground.’ Ahead of him, his neighbour, the bow-legged Alfred Thatcher, gave him a knowing nod.

  ‘Sounds about right.’ The winter’s ice had thrown up stones and rocks that had to be picked from the sticky, wet earth before ploughing. It made for backbreaking work. He and Alf usually shared it out on their strips of land, as many of the other men working there did.

  This spring they couldn’t.

  Alf had a basket slung between his shoulders, his broken right arm still in a tight bandage. ‘Worse for me.’ He twitched it at Palmer. ‘This is me ale hand.’

  Palmer bent to work at another sharp-edged rock. ‘I heard you could sup ale with your feet.’

  Alf grinned. ‘It’s me cock hand too.’

  Palmer freed the stone with a grunt and flung it into the basket. ‘Heard you were able to manage that with your feet as well.’

  Alf wheezed his laugh. ‘I might give it a try. Just don’t tell Enide. Fact, here she is now. She’s a sight for sore eyes.’

  ‘Dinner time, Alf.’ Holding a leather water pouch aloft, the broad-shouldered Enide Thatcher’s loud call echoed from the side of the field, joined by others.

  Alf made his way across the newly cleared earth to collect his food, Palmer walking alongside.

  ‘No sign of yours?’ asked Alf.

  Palmer looked for Theodosia in the group of women arriving after Enide. ‘She’ll be along.’