E. M. Powell (5 page)

Palmer’s surprised voice called back up the nave. “The cell door’s open. There’s no one here, my lord.”

“What?” Fitzurse ground out the word.

“It looks as if there has been,” continued Palmer. “And recently. There’s a bed. A half-eaten loaf of bread, and it’s not that stale. Water. And some holy-looking books.”

With a suppressed oath, Fitzurse stepped closer to Becket, axe raised. “What have you done with her?”

“Sh-she’s gone.”

Theodosia’s heart fell at Becket’s trip on the word. It always happened when his well-checked emotions ran high, when he spoke from his heart. Every soul in the kingdom knew it.

Fitzurse knew it too. He gave a slow smile. “Methinks Thomas has sung for his supper. Palmer, de Morville, de Tracy: search this cathedral. I want that nun found. Le Bret, you stay here.”

“Courage,” came Brother Edward’s tiny whisper in her ear.

But she had none. A search was on for her, a search by men who’d sliced a sword through another in the blink of an eye. But why her? What had she done to be hunted like this?

The thinnest of the knights and the red-bearded stocky one made their way down the steps. The thin one headed for the confessionals that lined the walls, the other made for the choir stalls. The one who was near giant stayed with Fitzurse, looming above Becket in the transept.

Becket, his composure restored, looked straight ahead, as if the strangers’ presence in his church was beneath contempt.

“You’ll need lights.” Palmer’s call floated up from the back of the church, where he continued his search.

“Bugger those,” came the reply from the red-bearded one. “The point of my sword will find her far quicker than your peering about.”

The loud rattle of his steel blade on the wooden choir stalls made Theodosia start, bite back a scream. The sound of confessional doors being slammed open joined the din. A glow of light from the left showed Palmer was on his way back up the nave.

“Check the altars, Palmer. De Morville and de Tracy can deal with the rest.”

The altars. Like the one she hid beneath. She risked a glance at Edward. A trickle of sweat at his temple showed he shared her terror. A sword thrust through the front of the carved altar would pierce their faces, rupture their eyes.

As the crashing from the other two continued, Palmer came into her sight across the nave at the altar of Saint Joseph. Candle aloft, he looked behind columns, beneath altar cloths, using his sword to prod and pry.

“We haven’t got all night, gentlemen,” said Fitzurse. But his gaze was on Becket.

“I’m almost done, my lord.” Palmer turned and approached the altar of Our Lady.

They were surely lost. She clamped her jaws more tightly on her fingers to keep her silence.

He stopped in front of the altar and seemed to look right into Theodosia’s eyes. She lowered her hands as she moved to give herself up, before the steel, the pain. Edward’s warning grip stopped her.

The knight’s gaze traveled away from her and over the altar. Even holding the light, he could not have seen her through the tiny holes. Despite Fitzurse’s order to use his sword, he continued his perusal of the tableau before him, dark eyes searching for anything out of place, a subtler approach that could yet find them out.

To her horror, he stepped over the altar rail and approached the statue above them. His tanned skin showed rugged from a life outdoors. Thick, dark hair escaped the hood of his chain mail, and his angled cheekbones were shadowed from lack of shaving. Broad, mud-stained hands, one with a dirty bandage, circled the handle of his sword and the candle. His long, chain-mailed legs were now inches from her and Brother Edward’s faces. It was as if Satan stood over her again, but this was no dream. The stone statue above them rang out as he tested it with his sword. Then, dear God, no. He raised a boot and gave the altar front an almighty kick. She shot back, knocking her head against Edward’s jawbone. The altar front held firm, gave nothing to suggest it could be opened.

An age passed. The knight must surely be able to hear them breathing.

Finally, he stepped away and out over the rail. “Nothing, my lord Fitzurse.” He walked back up the aisle to the transept.

Complete silence fell as Palmer replaced the candle in the transept holder.

“We have nowt either.” De Tracy too returned to Fitzurse, along with de Morville, who shook his head.

Even from this distance, Theodosia saw the frustration burn in Fitzurse’s ice-blue eyes.

“You have no more business here, Fitzurse,” said Becket. “Now go, and take your shameful crew with you.”

Theodosia’s lungs filled with relief. They were saved.

“I have plenty business here.” Fitzurse turned his axe and struck Becket across the face with the handle.

The Archbishop stumbled back with a suppressed cry, hand to his injured cheek.

Edward recoiled in horror beside her as she stifled her own reaction.

Fitzurse nodded to le Bret and de Tracy. They stepped in and grabbed Becket by either arm. Dragging him to one of the transept pillars, they pulled him tight against it, with his hands flat and wrists pinned.

Fitzurse handed his axe to de Morville and drew his sword. “I know you of old, Becket, and I know you are lying. I can’t find the anchoress, I can’t find her mother. But you will tell me.”

Mama too?
Theodosia went rigid.

Fitzurse brought his face close to Becket. “You will tell me because de Morville and I will remove your fingers, digit by digit. And if you persist in not telling me, I will carry on: your tongue, your eyes, your genitals.”

Theodosia’s sight shadowed, and she shook her head to keep from collapse. She could not hide while her beloved, blessed Thomas was hacked to pieces for her. She had to act. She went to push the panel open, but Edward’s hand tightened on her shoulder. “Hold, Sister.”

Becket met Fitzurse’s gaze with no fear. “Do what you will. My body is of no consequence. God wants only my soul.”

Fitzurse laid the edge of his sword across the joint of Becket’s right thumb, the better to position his blow. “By the time I have finished with you, you will doubt if there is a God.” He raised his sword.

“Stop it! Leave him be!” Theodosia broke from Edward and flung open the carved door of their hiding place.

♦ ♦ ♦

Palmer raised his weapon at the sudden female cries. He looked around to see a slightly built young nun scramble over the altar rail of the Lady Chapel, the tall monk called Edward behind her. Where in devildom had they sprung from?

The monk called out too. “Stop, sirs, I beseech you.”

“Theodosia, no!” shouted Becket.

“Hold him, damn you.”

Palmer turned back at Fitzurse’s order to see Becket break de Tracy’s grip, but de Morville moved in whip-fast with Fitzurse.

Palmer swiveled as the girl reached the bottom of the steps.

“Don’t hurt him, for the love of God,” she said.

“Stop there.” He raised his sword and she halted, one foot on the steps, gray eyes wide on his blade as shouts and oaths came from the struggling group behind him.

“It’s her,” came Fitzurse’s call. “Take her, Palmer.”

“You will not.”

Palmer glanced to his left.

“But I will.” Brother Edward lunged for him from farther along the wide steps.

Palmer swung his sword and the monk jerked away, overbalancing onto one hip and hand. The nun sprinted up the steps and ducked past Palmer as he went to grab her.
Forcurse her.

She flung herself at de Morville, who still tried to pin Becket down. She pulled at the knight’s bony forearm with both hands. “Let him go. You must, you must.”

“Off, whore.” De Morville kneed her in the stomach, but she kept her hold.

Palmer was on her in three strides. “Enough.” He flung his forearm across her throat and lifted his sword against her neck. She shrieked and let go of de Morville.

“Please, have mercy on us.” She choked her words out and raised both arms in a plea as he flexed his grip tight round her neck.

Becket stopped writhing in the knights’ hold and glared at Palmer. “Leave her be, you churl. I command you.”

“I’m afraid Palmer’s not yours to command,” said Fitzurse.

Palmer had to will himself not to respond to Becket. But he relaxed his grip enough to let the nun breathe as he pulled her well back from the group. He kept his sword raised.

Fitzurse stepped away from Becket, with a quick glance to make sure the others held him firm against the pillar once more. He observed Palmer’s captive with a thin smile. “I do believe we’ve found one.” He reached out and slapped Becket hard across the face, making him gasp in pain. “Where is the other one?”

“There is no other, Fitzurse.”

Fitzurse raised his sword over Becket’s hand once more. “Dear me. Back to where we started.”

“Stop it, I beg you,” said the nun.

Palmer clamped the girl hard to him again, in case she made another attempt at Becket’s captors.

She tugged at his forearm as she fought for breath. “You must believe him. As God is my witness, there is only me here, I swear to you.”

With a wary eye on Palmer’s sword, Brother Edward hovered at the edge of the circle, face drawn in torment. “It’s true what Sister Theodosia says. I beg you also, sir knight. Leave his lordship be. There is no one else to be found. No one.”

“Then our work here is almost done.” Fitzurse stepped away from Becket, sword by his hip once more. “Palmer?”

“Yes, my lord?”

“Take the girl outside and put her in the cart.”

“No.” The nun backheeled Palmer’s legs, clawed at his arm as he started to haul her across the transept.

“Unhand me!” Becket struggled like a man possessed against the three who held him, pulling de Tracy and de Morville near off their feet and making le Bret grunt with effort. He dragged his head from the pillar and looked directly at Palmer. “Let her go, sir. Don’t let Reginald Fitzurse make you a pander.”

Fitzurse’s nostrils pinched in fury at the insult. “Wait, Palmer. I’d like her to see something.” Fitzurse moved back to Becket as Palmer halted. “Leave him.” He nodded to his other three knights. Surprise writ on their faces, they loosed their hold on Becket. The Archbishop stepped away from the pillar to face Fitzurse.

“Oh, thank you, sweet Jesus.” With her murmured prayer, the nun sagged against Palmer in relief.

Fitzurse pointed a finger at Becket and jabbed him hard in the chest. “Kneel before me.”

The nun gasped, echoed by the watching Edward.

Becket regarded him with rage. “Do not dare to touch me, you who owes me faith and obedience. Leave this place, you and your fellow fools.”

Fitzurse’s punch was a blur, and Becket was on his knees to a scream from the girl. “I don’t owe faith or obedience to you,” said Fitzurse. “Only to the monarch.” He pulled his sword up and swung.

Palmer flung his other arm across the girl’s face as he saw the blow’s arc.

Becket ducked, but Fitzurse’s blade caught him at his crown and crunched through the bone. A shard of Becket’s skull flew off and splintered on the stone floor to a roar from the knights.

“Help us! The Archbishop is being murdered!” Edward rushed forward as Fitzurse gave the sprawled Becket another blow to his head that glanced off and caught the monk on one arm, sending him yelling against a pillar.

The girl in Palmer’s hold screamed and screamed as if she voiced a banshee. He kept his hold rigid; she couldn’t see such sights.

“He’s up, Lord Fitzurse,” said le Bret, as the mortally wounded Becket attempted to rise, watery blood soaking his face and neck.

“In the name of Jesus and in defense of the church, I am willing to die,” gasped Becket. “But leave the girl alone.”

“Willing or not, you’re dead.” Fitzurse’s breath too came fast and deep. “Finish him, le Bret.”

Le Bret took his sword grip in both hands. Blade pointed down, he lifted his weapon high, then brought it down on Becket’s skull. His savage thrust went clear through to the floor beneath, smashing the Archbishop’s skull in two and shattering his sword.

Palmer’s captive’s screams turned to wild sobs, and she scratched helplessly at his hands to try and loose his hold.

Edward cowered by the pillar, face pallid, fist to his mouth.

“Devil take it.” Le Bret cast the ruined handle aside.

“Don’t know your own strength.” De Morville grinned and raised his sword to a cowering Edward.

A chorus of shouts built from outside.

“Leave him. The other monks must have summoned help,” said Fitzurse. “We need to make our escape.” He looked over at Palmer. “But first, let Sister Theodosia see what happens to those who cross me.”

Palmer reluctantly lowered his arm from in front of the anchoress’s eyes, steeling himself for a fresh struggle. But she stopped her cries, went completely still. He felt her give a huge gulp and knew she fought her vomit.

Fitzurse watched her face intently. Then, still watching, he placed a boot on Becket’s mangled head, crushing out the whiteness of the brains to mix with the growing puddle of the Archbishop’s dark-red blood.

Still she didn’t make a sound.

With a shrug, Fitzurse gestured to the others. “Away, knights. Becket will not get up again.” He looked at Palmer. “Bring the girl.” He set off toward the transept steps as the others acted on his command.

She remained fixed on the sight of Becket on the altar but started to pull against Palmer once more as he hauled her to the steps. A long, low moan escaped her. “No. No. No.” Her gaze was locked on the floor as she began to cry, her body racked with silent sobs.

He followed her line of sight and saw Fitzurse’s boot had left a trail of bloody footprints down the nave. “Do as you’re bid,” said Palmer. “And be thankful it’s not your blood spilt.”

He hurried her down the darkened nave, her struggles feeble against his tight grip.

“Murderers!” The venomous cry came from the transept. Palmer looked back to see the injured Brother Edward Grim kneeling beside the dead Archbishop in the flickering candlelight.

The monk leveled an accusatory finger as le Bret wrenched open the front door of the cathedral and led the way out into the cold, black night.