E. M. Powell

by The Fifth Knight

  The red-bearded de Tracy gave a shout of laughter and hauled at the front of the old man’s robe, lifting him to the tips of his toes. “Paradise not so appealing when you think you’re going there, eh?”

  “Please, have mercy,” said the monk.

  “Put him down,” said Fitzurse. “We have a task to finish.”

  De Tracy flung the monk to the ground and dealt him a savage kick to his ribs as he moved on. “All yours, Palmer.”

  Palmer ignored de Tracy and went past the old man, shamed to see him flinch when he met his eye.

  Fitzurse stopped before a paneled closed door, hand on the metal-ringed handle. “I’ll wager our prize is close by, gentlemen.”

  Agreement rippled through them, and Palmer added his.

  His prize. This was a task ordered by the King, with a purse to match. He tightened his grip on his sword.

  Fitzurse kicked the door open to reveal a simply furnished study, lit by a lively fire in a carved stone fireplace. Archbishop Thomas Becket stood before it, dressed in a gold-edged, dark-green cassock. A tall monk stood beside him, wearing the workaday black of the rest of the monastery.

  “Fitzurse,” said Becket. “I might have known.” His glance met the monk’s. “See, Brother Edward? Send the worst to do the worst.”

  Palmer’s every instinct was to bow before this revered man of the church. Though Becket was well into middle age, he stood almost as tall as Palmer himself, with his hair still dark. His finely featured face held a well-humored look, while his eyes burned with a fierce intelligence. But none of the other knights so much as nodded his head as they entered the room, weapons ready.

  Fitzurse strode up to Becket. “Strange, then, that the monarch thinks I am the best.” He leveled his axe directly at Becket. “Now tell me: Where are the whore and her bitch?”

  The question flummoxed Palmer. Not so the other knights. Nor Becket.

  “Do you really expect me to answer that?” Only the Archbishop’s slight stutter betrayed his dismay.

  “I do.” Fitzurse’s voice was ice.

  The monk stepped between Becket and the raised blade. “Sir knight, you cannot threaten the Archbishop of Canterbury. Please leave this place in peace.”

  “Or?” said Fitzurse.

  “Or we will defend his lordship to our last man.” The monk’s green eyes showed surprising valor for an unarmed man of the cloth.

  Becket put a hand on his shoulder and moved him to one side. “Brother Edward, please do not endanger yourself on my account. These knights’ quarrel is with me only. I can promise you that.”

  The clink of weaponry underscored how that fight would be conducted.

  “Now, Becket,” said Fitzurse, “I will ask you only one more time: Where are the women?”

  Becket crossed himself slowly.

  De Morville’s nasal whine rose in protest. “Have we time for prayers now?”

  “Maybe you should.” Becket dropped to his haunches and grabbed the unlit end of a large burning log from the hearth. He turned and swung the flames at Fitzurse, who ducked out of the way.

  “Get him!”

  Palmer rushed forward with de Morville. Becket swung the log again and caught de Morville on one shoulder. Palmer dodged to one side as sparks flew up and showered across the room.

  “Help me, I’m afire!”

  Palmer moved to beat out the lines of flame flicking along de Morville’s cloak and hair, de Tracy helping him.

  “Quick, my lord,” the monk called from an open door behind the wide desk at the back of the study.

  Becket swiped, then thrust the log at an advancing le Bret and Fitzurse, halting them for a stride. Then he dashed the log to the floor with another burst of sparks and heat. Making for the door, he stumbled against the desk and half tipped it, scattering papers and rolls of parchment. Edward shot out a long arm and pulled him through the doorway.

  Fitzurse rushed it, but it slammed shut. The clunk of a stout bolt engaging brought a string of oaths from him.

  “Forcurse it, we’ll be fried.” Palmer kicked the red-hot log away from a charring bunch of papers. Le Bret ground the broken-off chunks of glowing wood into smoking black across the polished floor tiles.

  Fitzurse’s nostrils pinched in fury. “They’ve headed for the cathedral,” he said. “We’ll get him there. By the time I’ve finished with him, he’ll tell me everything I want to know. Palmer, le Bret. Break that door down. I want Becket, and I want him now.”

  Palmer stepped up to the secured door as ordered. He raised his weapon for his turn as le Bret landed the first blow to the old waxed wood.

  Nothing made sense. Becket’s disagreements with the King were power struggles, politics. Had been for years.

  Palmer struck at the panels, but the blow bounced off a rusted hinge to a snort from le Bret. He struck again. The door stood firm as le Bret landed another blow, still without success. Becket was to be arrested, to be brought to account before Henry. But instead Fitzurse was demanding to know where two unknown women were, and threatening Becket with his very life to get the answer.

  No matter. His reward would be the same, and he had to make sure he earned it. Summoning every pound of strength, Palmer raised his sword and brought it down in a double-handed blow. The door’s planks split in two. “We’re through, my lord Fitzurse.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  Male shouts came from the other side of the shut door that led to the cloisters. Theodosia’s breath came faster, in noisy gasps. The marauders had found a way in.

  Out in the cathedral, the choir faded to a questioning halt as the calls got louder.

  The crash of the door bouncing back on its hinges shot through her bones. She tucked her crucifix out of sight beneath her vest and gabbled out a last confession, words half-formed.

  “My dear brethren! We are under attack!”

  God be praised. The shout came from Archbishop Becket, warning the monks where she’d failed.

  “Leave now, Brothers. Make all haste.” The familiar voice of Brother Edward came too, along with the snap of metal on metal as bolts were shot home. “The Archbishop and I will deal with the intruders.”

  Puzzled exclamations from the monks in the choir matched her confusion.

  “You should come with us, Archbishop,” said one. “And if not, our place is with you.”

  “Indeed.” The chorus came from several others.

  “Thank you from the bottom of my heart.” Becket’s voice deepened in his emotion. “But you must leave. I order you. Hide yourselves as you know how to do. Make for the crypt, the lofts, the cellars.”

  Still the muted clamor of hesitation continued.

  “You haven’t much time. I’ve bolted the doors from the Archbishop’s study and the cloisters, but they won’t hold for long. Now leave, Brothers.” Brother Edward’s order allowed for no disagreement.

  She heard the rapid clops of leather sandals along the wooden choir stalls, then fading across the stone floor as the monks made their way out through the northeast transept. The door boomed closed, the sound vibrating through the cathedral. As the golden light visible through her barred window faded, the sweet smell of the extinguished beeswax candles wafted in.

  Becket’s head and shoulders appeared as a dark silhouette at the window. “Sister Theodosia?” His usual measured tone had an urgent edge.

  She ducked her head to her knees and folded her veil across her cheeks, the better to hide her face. “Here, my lord. But pray step away — I have to draw the curtain. I am sorry I left it open, but I — ”

  “It is of no consequence.”

  She kept her face averted and carried on. “My lord, I saw one of our brothers murdered only minutes ago, God have mercy on him. Is it a raid?”

  “It is a time of great danger,” he said, “and you must conceal yourself.”

  “I am concealed.”

  “Not well enough, I’m afraid. You must come out. At once.” The rattle of Becket’s fitting a key in the l
ock came from her door.

  She looked up in shocked disbelief as Becket pulled the door open. But his appearance appalled her as much as his breaking of her vows. High spots of color shadowed his cheekbones, and a smear of what looked like black ash marked his temple and the front of his robes. He gestured to her with a hand covered in yet more ash.

  “Have they set the cathedral on fire?” she asked, her veil still tight to her face.

  “No. But they will be in here soon. You have to come out.”

  Behind him lay the vast shadows of the cathedral’s long, straight nave. The start of the world, an endless, impossible world where she would be open to sin, to death. To step out there would be a step to hell for her soul. She shook her head wordlessly.

  Two of Becket’s long strides brought him to her side. “Fear not. Now come.”

  Theodosia climbed to her feet, her gaze fixed on the lines of gray stone pillars and high shadowed arches beyond. Demons lurked there, she was sure of it, waiting to swoop for her spirit. “But I am not allowed to leave. My lord, you order me to commit a great offence.”

  “That offence will be on my soul. I order you to leave.”

  He carried the scent of fresh smoke, a reminder that Lucifer did too. Her legs would not comply.

  Becket raised pleading hands. “Obedience, Sister. One of your vows. I beg you.”

  His humility spurred her to action, but she could manage only slow, unsure steps. Her heart beat so hard she could hear it. “I leave the place of my eternal rest, my lord.”

  “I know. Forgive me.” He followed her out as she passed the threshold.

  The immense space pressed in on her like the confines of her cell never had, robbing her of the air in her lungs. She let go her veil to clutch at her chest and took fast, shallow, useless breaths. Her terrified wheezes bounced back at her, a hundred tiny echoes from the darkness, as if the demons had found a voice to mock her fear.

  “Steady your resolve,” said Becket.

  She met his gaze with her own and felt the blood rise in her face. She should not expose herself so.

  But Becket seemed not to notice. “There is a better place for you to hide from the knights. Go with Brother Edward.”

  The monk waited by a pillar, his face a mask of fear that surely mirrored her own.

  “But what about your safety, my lord Becket?” she said, breathless still. “You cannot face those men. Hide with Brother Edward and me. My cell could easily fit all three of us.”

  Becket gave her a tired, gentle smile. “I dearly wish I could, but I have my duty to perform.” The faint shouts of the strangers came from the cloisters beyond. He raised his hand in a swift blessing. “Lead the way, Brother Edward.”

  Edward gave an urgent gesture. “Come, Sister Theodosia.”

  With her chest straining, he hurried her up the long stone nave as yells and thumps came from the cloister door that opened onto the northwest transept. “Brother Edward, we are going toward the intruders, not away from them.”

  He stopped before the altar of Our Lady, tendrils of smoke trailing from the quenched candles.

  “Step over the rail,” said Edward.

  “They will see us immediately,” she gasped. “These shadows make weak concealment.” Sweat dampened her whole body. “My cell, I should go back to my cell. Please, Brother.”

  A crescendo of thuds echoed from the door.

  “Edward,” said Becket, “you have but moments left.” He walked past them up the nave.

  “My lord Becket, where are you going?” she asked.

  He did not turn his head.

  She looked back at Brother Edward. “Where is he going?”

  The monk responded by clearing the low metal rail in one high step. “No time to argue. Please trust me.” He dropped to his knees before Mary’s statue on its high plinth.

  Bewildered, Theodosia looked from his bowed shoulders to the benign stone face of the Queen of Heaven, surrounded by a crown of stars. Was the monk hoping Mary would grant a miracle? Theodosia turned at the sound of splintering wood, and her throat tightened again. A split ran the length of the door, and an axehead gleamed through.

  “Stop where you are!”

  “They’re coming in.” She appealed to Brother Edward: “My cell, Brother. We have to hide. Quickly!”

  The monk ignored her. His fingers beat out a sharp tattoo as he rapped the base of the carved wooden altar.

  “Hurry, Edward,” came Becket’s steady order, steady as his stride as he neared the transept steps.

  “I have it, my lord,” said Edward.

  With a sharp click, a large section of the altar front opened out, revealing a space underneath.

  Edward moved quickly inside and gestured for her to follow him.

  The cloister door’s planks squealed in protest as the axe wrenched free for another blow.

  Theodosia hitched herself up onto the altar rails and swung her legs over. She scrambled into the confined space with Brother Edward.

  He swung the wooden panel shut. “Forgive my unseemly closeness, Sister,” he said, his whisper close to her ear. “I do not touch against you with any intent.”

  She nodded, subduing her ragged breathing with her palms folded across her mouth. The altar front had several small holes that formed the leaves and flowers of its intricate carving. Her view was of the transept, the only pool of light that remained in the dark cathedral.

  Becket climbed the short flight of wide stone steps up onto it and faced where the crashes at the door had quickened, grown louder. His stately figure radiated calm as he clasped his hands before him.

  Then he raised his voice over the din. “Away, you cowards. A church is not a castle.”

  The lofty stone arches resounded with the final collapse of the door, followed by a terrible roar.

  “Where is Thomas the traitor?”

  CHAPTER 3

  Palmer and his fellow knights joined Fitzurse’s charge through to the cathedral. A solitary tall figure stood at the far side of the transept. Becket. Two yard-long church candles in waist-high carved holders lit the stone-floored space and made curved shadows of the large pillars behind the Archbishop. The rest of the huge church was in darkness.

  Palmer had his sword raised and ready, and a quick glance told him the other knights’ weapons were ready too.

  Hands joined in front of him, Becket addressed Fitzurse without a flinch. “Here I am. No traitor, but archbishop and priest of God.”

  Fitzurse motioned that his knights should fan out around the transept, form a circle from which Becket could not break free. Palmer followed the order, watching the Archbishop for any sudden moves after his agile speed with the fire.

  Fitzurse stood directly opposite Becket. “Priest of God, eh? You must be aware, then, that it is a sin to tell a lie.”

  De Morville snickered.

  Becket did not dignify Fitzurse with a reply.

  The knight shifted his grip on his axe. “I have asked you once. Where are they?”

  Becket spread his hands. “You see me here alone. Alone I am. They’re gone, Fitzurse. Gone where you will never find them.” He joined his hands together again.

  “That’s not what I’ve heard,” said Fitzurse. He looked around. “Palmer, go to the back left corner, along from the main doors. The anchoress’s cell is there. Get her out of it by any means you can.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  The anchoress? Theodosia crushed her hands harder against her mouth and bit down on her fingers to stop her scream. She shot a stunned glance at Edward in the shadows of their flimsy hiding place.

  The horror in his green eyes affirmed hers.

  Her whole body weakened, shook. They came for her. For her. But why?

  Edward’s raised a hand as a wordless message of comfort, even as he gave an imperceptible shake of his head.

  Then he did not know either. She watched the broad-shouldered knight called Palmer take one of the candles from the transept holder and descend
the steps. The stone floor echoed under his metal-booted tread. He walked swiftly past their hiding place down the nave, toward her cell, bearing the light aloft.

  Her cell. Her precious cell. Her refuge, her protection. Or so she’d believed in her weak foolishness. Somehow her lord Becket had known, had been told by God to make her leave. But she’d tried to resist. Had she succeeded in her sinful disobedience, she would still be in there. Her innards twisted to sickness.

  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.”