E. M. Powell

by The Fifth Knight

  Palmer turned to Theodosia and thrust the open bag before her. “Now do you believe him?”

  “No. More fool you if you do.” She swung up her right hand and hit the bag hard.

  It flew open wide, and the coins showered onto the frozen ground.

  He bent to pick them up with a loud oath.

  “Palmer!”

  He looked up at Fitzurse’s shout. Theodosia fled back up the towpath as if chased by dogs.

  “Stop her!”

  Palmer took off after her. “Theodosia! No!” She couldn’t ruin things for him now. He’d show her the back of his hand when he caught her.

  “Palmer! If she gets away, you’ll get nothing. Our mission depends on what she knows.”

  Palmer lengthened his strides, but panic seemed to give the girl wings. “Theodosia!” For God’s sake, why wouldn’t she listen? As she ran, she ran with all his hopes. The gold, his fortune. All right for her, with the comfort of the religious life, no fear for her old age. Not like him, going from battle to battle, each one harder as he grew older and the other knights got younger. Old age was a begging bowl and destitution. He’d been raised with that — he couldn’t do it again.

  Ahead, she slipped on the wet path and went down on her hands and knees with a cry.

  He’d take her now.

  She looked back as he gained on her, then scrambled into a dense thicket of shrubs and bushes next to the path.

  Palmer’s rapid steps brought him there in moments. “Sister.” He bent low and peered in through the dense evergreen foliage, his breath fast and hard. “Listen to me. You must give yourself up. You’ll come to no harm. You must see that.”

  A faint rustle sounded from within. Palmer thought he saw a glimmer of cream wool amongst the shiny dark-green leaves.

  “Sister? Answer me. I order you.”

  Complete silence.

  “Any luck?” Fitzurse’s call came nearer as he picked his careful way along the opposite riverbank.

  “Not yet, my lord.” As Palmer forced his way in through the branches, brambles and ivy tangled round his legs. With such a small moon, the darkness in here made his sight of little use. He would have to rely on his ears. A rustle by his boots came from a mouse or water rat in the muss of dry, dead leaves. The constant roar of the water at the weir. Nothing else. He went forward, progress slow through the tough tendrils that laced the bushes. A twig snapped close ahead. He made for the sound, face and hands ripped by sharp branches and hooked thorns. The bushes thinned. Bent double, he propelled himself forward toward the weak moonlight and out from the thicket.

  “Looking for aught?” De Morville stood above him to his left, sword drawn. Pointed at his head.

  Palmer raised his hands. “Drop your sword. It’s only me. The sister is still hiding.”

  De Morville didn’t move. “I know she is, Palmer. And I’ll find her. Soon as I’ve finished with you, you traitor.” He swung his sword in a deadly arc.

  “No!” Palmer’s forearm shot up by instinct to parry it. His eyes closed unbidden at his last thought. Killed by your own greed. You fool.

  The blade thumped into its target. No pain.

  “Drop it, you mare!”

  Palmer opened his eyes to de Morville’s shrill yell of rage.

  The knight’s sword was buried in a stout dead branch, held fast by Theodosia. “You killed my lord Becket. You will kill no more.”

  “When I have my blade, you’ll lose those pretty eyes.” De Morville yanked hard to free it.

  “Leave her.” Palmer unsheathed his dagger and leapt for de Morville.

  The knight’s ready boot cracked into his jaw, and Palmer fell to one side over the gnarled roots of a dead tree.

  A thick holly bush broke his fall. He pushed back from the spiny leaves onto his feet, dagger firm in one hand.

  Theodosia still grasped the branch as de Morville shook her from side to side. “No!” Her feet slid beneath her on the slippery mud.

  Palmer closed in on them again, dagger ready. “Let go of her.”

  “A sound instruction.” With a vicious shove of his sword, de Morville pushed Theodosia closer to the foaming river’s edge. He punched his free left fist onto her clasped grip. She cried out but didn’t let go.

  “Curse you, you bitch.” De Morville drew back his fist for another blow.

  As Palmer surged forward to sink his dagger into the knight’s scrawny neck, the sodden mud path quivered beneath his driving step.

  “Forcurse it. The path. Save yourself, Theodosia!”

  Her panicked gaze flew to his. “I can’t.”

  The ground gave a tremendous shudder. Palmer flung an arm around a thick branch and made a desperate lunge for her.

  Too late. The towpath burst into the river in a wave of useless soil. De Morville and Theodosia plunged into the racing water and disappeared beneath the surface.

  CHAPTER 8

  The sudden cold bit like an animal. Theodosia sank through the mud-filled water as bubbles boiled around her, robbed her of hearing, direction. The river rolled her over and over, in a pull she couldn’t stop. Water forced itself up her nose, down her throat. She had to open her mouth. Earthy liquid rushed in and she gagged. More followed. Her whole body convulsed as she tried to stop it. She could not. God was taking her.

  Then the water fell away and her head was out in the air. She coughed, snorted, gulped for precious breath. The racing torrent churned yellowed foam high all around her, sucked hard at her skirts, her legs. But she didn’t sink back, not yet. She gasped and gasped with cold, couldn’t shout for help.

  Another pale head floated in the thick froth next to her.

  “Get away from me, don’t touch me!” She thrashed at it with her hands as it bounced against her chest. Harmlessly. The thing was her woolen chemise, stretched in an air bubble by the current. It couldn’t last long, and her limbs numbed fast. The banks — she had to get to one side.

  Icy water splashed up through the foam and over her face again. Coughing hard, she twisted her neck around. Her stomach fell.

  Fitzurse. No more than a few yards away, across the boil of yellow and brown water. He stood on an old tree stump that jutted into the channel. The river swept her straight toward him.

  “Come on, Sister.” He gestured to her with an outstretched hand. “I’ve got just the thing to dry you out.”

  Theodosia tried to kick out, change her course, but her long skirt wound around her legs, trapping them. She flailed her dead arms in useless splashes. Her course continued. She had one hope left. “Sir Palmer!” Her scream was a thin echo, hidden beneath the water’s roar. Nothing. He’d gone.

  “Try and get to this side.”

  Her heart leapt at his call. She turned her head, and a clump of floating dead leaves washed into her face. She raked them away with a cry.

  On the bank opposite Fitzurse, Palmer dangled from a willow tree’s long branch, one arm extended to her. “I can’t reach you.”

  “A shame, some would call it,” came Fitzurse’s mock.

  Theodosia hauled her sight back to her tormentor.

  He squatted now on the stump, low over the racing water, to pluck her from the Nidd, blue eyes fixed and unblinking.

  She beat at the water with numb hands, tried to twist, turn, haul her woolen float to change direction. To no avail. The water carried her to within his grasp.

  “Stay away from me!” The current spun hard beneath her, and her skirt untangled. She kicked out, and her feet met the stump’s submerged roots.

  Fitzurse reached out and grabbed a handful of her hair. She flung a hand up and dug her nails into the back of his hand.

  “You little shrew.” He let go for an instant, and she pushed at the root with both feet. It was enough. The current pulled her back out of his reach and swept her away.

  Fitzurse’s shout echoed after her. “De Morville! Get her, man!”

  “I will, my lord.”

  As she bounced and spun in the freezin
g, choking torrent, she held her head as high as she could. The water’s surface broke on the weir only yards ahead, before arcing over and down. Thunderous rumbling and a haze of spray told her how long the drop was. Worse, clung to the weir was a soaked de Morville, his thin face rapt in anticipation of where she would be swept to.

  Theodosia scanned the banks, the bushes opposite, her head full of the water’s roar. She couldn’t see Sir Palmer anymore. With a huge boom, the river surged against the weir and smacked her against its thick rock. Blood tasted iron in her mouth from her bit tongue. The water battered her, kept her pinned tight. Yet she felt nothing now.

  De Morville gave her a slow nod and started to maneuver his way across to her, hand over hand.

  The only escape was down, to let the river take her. Theodosia shook her wet hair from her face and looked over the edge of the weir. Her stomach seemed to fall with it. Tons of water hammered down, roiling in lumps of foam as it set off faster than ever.

  De Morville called to her. “You don’t want to go down there, Sister. Very dangerous.”

  She looked back up.

  He was almost able to reach her, but he kept his movements small and cautious as the flow of the torrent increased at the center.

  “Theodosia!” Another voice.

  She tore her gaze from de Morville and looked down once more.

  Sir Palmer stood on the riverbank below, waiting by the bottom of the weir. “Jump! You must.”

  “I can’t, I’ll drown!” She looked back.

  De Morville was inches away.

  “I won’t let you.” Palmer’s call floated up to her.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll soon warm you up. Start between your thighs.” De Morville’s few teeth had the green patina of old bronze, and the putrid scent of decay wafted with his words.

  She’d rather drown. She took a deep breath and flipped her senseless limbs over the weir.

  The roaring water pummeled her body, her head, drove her down and down into total darkness. She felt something give and put a frantic hand to her front. The bubble in her undershirt had burst. Her only hope now was Sir Palmer. Her chest ached, then burned for release. My God, please take me quickly.

  A knock to her ribs. She clutched hard for the object, and her deadened hands found something solid. As she took a clumsy hold, it tugged upward, then, with a sudden pull, her face broke free of the water again.

  “I’ve got you.” Sir Palmer stood above her on the bank, pulling her to him with the broken-off sapling he held. She took shuddering breaths, coughed up mouthfuls of soil-tasting water. But she could breathe, thank the Lord, she could breathe.

  He hauled her up to him, her chest, stomach, then legs bumping against the stone-filled muddy bank. With a final drag, she was out.

  Theodosia collapsed on the ground at his feet, chest searing, soaked clothing plastered to her. She was cold no longer. Strange. But very nice. “God be praised. Thank you.” She looked up at Sir Palmer and recoiled. “Behind you.”

  De Morville stood there, leather strap in hand.

  Palmer dropped the sapling, but de Morville flung the strap round his neck.

  As Palmer grasped at it with both hands, de Morville tightened the coil in a savage twist.

  “No.” Theodosia raised a hand, as if it would stop him.

  “You should watch your back, boy,” said de Morville. “Too busy fishing her out to see me coming.”

  She tried to get to her knees but her legs wouldn’t respond.

  Palmer’s face turned a dark, mottled red as he pulled in vain at his constricted throat. He kicked back, but de Morville stepped to one side.

  “Not long now.” De Morville’s tendons strained into bumpy knots on the backs of his scaly hands.

  Theodosia stretched out a hand to grab at his ankle, pull him over. But her senseless fingers slipped from his thick boots.

  “And don’t worry about the girl.” De Morville brought his foul mouth as close to Palmer’s ear as their unmatched heights would allow. “Fitzurse will get her warmed up in no time. Like I will with my cock. It’s good and hard in readiness.”

  Palmer swung his right hand down. Square on de Morville’s privates.

  De Morville’s grasp broke, and he dropped like a stone on the ground beside Theodosia.

  She jerked back with a scream.

  As de Morville writhed in helpless pain, hands clutched to his crotch, Palmer flung the coil from his neck.

  He coughed and wheezed hard as he pinned de Morville on his back with one boot pressed hard on his chest. “I’ll wager it wasn’t ready for this.” He bent down and grabbed de Morville by the hood of his surcoat. With one strong pull, he brought the skinny knight to the river’s edge, next to Theodosia.

  “Mercy on me!” De Morville got a shriek out.

  Sir Palmer. Do not do this. Her lips would not move with her thoughts.

  “Doubt me as a fighter, would you?” Palmer flipped de Morville over onto his stomach. He put a large hand on the back of de Morville’s grease-slicked hair. Then pushed his head under the water.

  The sight wavered before her as if it were not real.

  De Morville’s skinny arms and legs thrashed and drummed on the bank as he fought for release. A couple of high screams echoed up through the streams of bubbles around his face.

  Bent over him, Sir Palmer kept his iron hold. De Morville’s movements weakened to mere twitches. Then he was utterly still.

  “De Morville?” Fitzurse’s angry shout echoed down from beyond the weir.

  Palmer released the drowned knight but left him facedown in the uncaring torrent.

  Wordless with shock, Theodosia watched as the murdering Sir Palmer turned to her.

  Still hunkered down, he shook his head hard as he rested both elbows on his bent knees. “Faith, he nearly had me then.” The hoarseness in his voice made it like another’s. He brought a hand under her elbow. “Come. Fitzurse won’t be far behind.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  “Sir Palmer. Sir knight. I insist you allow me some comfort.” Theodosia halted in the alleyway and pulled her soaked leather shoes off. For the third time.

  Palmer took a quick look back the way they’d come, to check Fitzurse hadn’t caught them up. Not yet.

  “You’ll soon have all the comfort you need, Sister.” He bent down and slipped her right shoe back on again.

  The narrow, walled passageway they stood in led off one of Knaresborough’s cobbled main streets. Thank the Almighty the many shops and houses had still been closed up as he’d hauled the anchoress along. This part of the town had wealth. The hue and cry would definitely have been raised at his and Theodosia’s strange appearance. He hooked her other shoe back on as she warbled quietly to herself. But the shops would be opening soon, people would be stirring. He needed to find cover. And warmth.

  Palmer straightened up and put a coaxing arm around her shoulders. “Now come with me, and we will seek out that comfort.”

  “I do not think you should touch me.” She gave a simultaneous shake and nod of her head and lurched forward again.

  Curse the river, curse the cold. Her woolen clothes soaked right through, her many minutes in the water. She showed all the signs of the dread disease he’d seen many times on winter campaigns. Men near frozen to the bone would lose their senses, pull off what clothing they had, claim to see things that weren’t there, hear loved ones who were half a world away.

  Theodosia gave his chin a clumsy pat. “Your sins are in you, you know.”

  She touched him readily. Faith, her wits were truly scrambled. He had to get her warm. It wouldn’t be long before she slid into unconsciousness and from there to certain death.

  They carried on along the street as he sought out any shelter. He couldn’t allow it, she’d saved his life. Twice. If he’d carried on yammering like a knave to Fitzurse, de Morville would’ve stolen up behind him and carved him in two. Her strike at the coins had ruined that. Then she’d leapt to his defense, same as
she had for Becket in the cathedral. Foolhardy again — she could’ve died. But also very, very brave. And for no reward. Not like him, with his foolish plan of ransom. There’d be no ransom now, even if she did live. By the knights’ code he held, her saving him released her. No matter. Her life was what mattered. He couldn’t have her die because of him and his fool’s judgment.

  A sleepy low came from a windowless, thatched stone building that backed onto the quiet alley.

  Palmer stopped and put his face to a narrow gap in the moss-covered wall. The heavy odor of animal dung met his nostrils.

  “Through here.” He led a reluctant Theodosia around to the door of the byre, which led off a small yard. No lights showed in the attached two-story, half-timbered building.

  Palmer quietly slid back the well-oiled bolt and pulled the door open. A stocky brown cow stood in the gloom and chewed on a mouthful of hay from a half-full iron rack on one wall. Dry straw piled on the floor, with a couple of fresh cowpats in one corner.

  Palmer pulled Theodosia in after him and pulled the door to. The cow chewed on, unbothered.

  “Why do we come to my cell? And why is there such a smell?” She swayed as she stared at him, testy as a drunk.

  “Hush.” He took his knife and eased the bolt shut again through a gap in the door planks. Turning back to Theodosia, he dropped to his haunches and drew her down with him. He tested her skin with the palm of his hand. Still like marble.

  His eyes adjusted to the darkness, helped by the open row of bricks under the thatch that let in air and light for the animal.

  Theodosia took the darkness as a different signal. She sank to the floor and stretched out on her side in the tumbled heaps of cow bedding. “Jus’ want…sleep.” Her eyelids slid shut, wet hair plastered against her cheek.

  “Theodosia.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Wake up.” He kept his tone sharp but low.

  “Soon.”

  “Now.” He shook her hard. Nothing. He gathered her into his arms and rubbed her body vigorously with his palms, brought his breath to her neck. Still nothing. He rubbed harder. “Come on. Come on.”