by E. M. Powell
A young woman came hurrying towards them, her long fair hair stirred by the breeze; she was wearing a thick, fur-trimmed cloak done up against the cold.
‘Ah. The lady Rosamund,’ said Geoffrey to Palmer.
‘I trust you were not going without me?’ Though a bruise still shadowed her temple, her face was among the fairest Palmer had ever seen.
The nearby men bowed as she passed, but Palmer caught more than one man glance up.
Geoffrey gave a bow stiff enough to suggest his back was broken. ‘My lady. I wanted to show Palmer the layout of the grounds. You did not need to be abroad in the cold.’
‘Oh, the cold won’t trouble me. Lucine made sure I had my finest cloak. So you are Sir Benedict Palmer, the brave crusader, come to build my bower?’ She clasped her hands in her fine soft leather gloves. ‘This is wonderful!’ She held out a hand to Palmer.
He bent forward to kiss it briefly. ‘My lady.’ He straightened up.
‘Aren’t you the tall one?’ she said, eyes bright.
Geoffrey found a new frown. ‘And I was about to say that you should not be abroad alone. We still have not found who was responsible for the attack on you.’
‘But that happened at night, Geoffrey. And I am guarded at night, am I not?’
‘Attacks are also possible during the day.’
‘Then it’s just as well I am alone no longer.’ Rosamund gestured to Palmer. ‘Take my arm, Sir Benedict. I am sure you could protect me.’
‘My lady.’ Palmer offered her his arm, and she slipped hers through it, tucking him close to her.
Geoffrey’s square jaw clamped. ‘This way.’
‘Oh, I am so pleased I have not missed the next part of the tour. I believe you will enjoy it, Sir Benedict.’ She smiled up at him from beneath lowered lashes. ‘And I think I shall call you Benedict, for you are to be at my service, are you not?’
‘My lady.’ Palmer matched his steps to her smaller ones. Her scent cut through that of the menagerie’s soil: rose oil and another sweet, costly perfume he couldn’t name but could imagine how it would taste. He shook the thought off.
The next enclosure had low bushes, thick and evergreen. A leather bucket of cut apples hung outside on the iron bars of the fence.
‘Wait till you see this.’ Rosamund reached into the bucket with her free hand and threw a handful of the browning fruit into the small clear space in the middle of the muddy pen. ‘Come on!’ She made a clicking sound with her small pink tongue against white, even teeth. ‘Come on!’
Geoffrey folded his arms and sighed.
The bushes rustled, and an extraordinary creature came out. It matched the size of a medium dog, but with short legs and a thick coat that resembled pointed sticks.
‘Saints alive,’ said Palmer, ‘what is that thing?’
Rosamund broke into peals of laughter. ‘See? I told you you’d like it.’
The creature nuzzled the pieces of apple, nipping out bites with sharp teeth.
‘It is a spiny pig,’ said Rosamund.
‘What an amazing beast,” said Palmer.
‘It’s even stranger when it’s cross. Watch this.’ Rosamund reached into the bucket and threw a large chunk of apple at the creature’s face.
Its head shot up, and with a loud hiss and a hard rattle of its spines, it fled back into the bushes.
‘Take care, my lady,’ said Palmer. ‘I’ll wager it could stab a man with those spines.’
‘Or a woman.’ Geoffrey stepped away from the fence. ‘You need to take care with the animals, Rosamund. They’re not playthings.’
‘I’m sorry, Geoffrey.’ Rosamund looked anything but. ‘I was only having a little fun.’
‘This next section is not for fun. Of any kind.’ Geoffrey led the way.
A high gate, far higher than any of the others, blocked the way ahead, secured with a stout metal bolt.
‘Has someone sent his Grace an elephant?’ Palmer hoped it was true. He would love to see one of those huge, exotic creatures.
‘Oh, Benedict,’ said Rosamund, ‘even I wouldn’t think a thought so featherbrained. Of course not.’ She tucked herself even closer to him. Though she wore a heavy cloak, the swell of her breast met his arm, warm and yielding. ‘She has loins that could warm a corpse.’ Henry’s words. True ones. But not meant for him. Palmer moved his grip. Nor wanted.
Geoffrey slid the bolt open. ‘This is only an outer gate. It must be shut at all times.’ He pulled the gate ajar and waved Palmer and Rosamund in. ‘This is where we keep the finest, most dangerous of the beasts.’ He swung the gate closed behind him.
A deep, low growl rumbled from one of the big pens that lined the path ahead.
Rosamund clutched Palmer even harder with a soft gasp and a wide-eyed glance.
Geoffrey went on. ‘They don’t eat apples. They like meat.’ He locked gazes with Palmer. ‘The fresher, the better.’
Theodosia hurried over the bridge with rapid steps.
The long line of women visible at the village well showed her how late she’d slept on this clear, cold day. Stepping back to let a rumbling cart pass, she steeled her resolve. She always got here extra early to avoid the gossip and nosiness. The well had the perfect position for both, situated next to the main grouping of cottages and on the path that led down to the mill.
Today, she would have to endure it. She could blame no one but herself for oversleeping.
As she walked up, the last in the queue, a solid woman of her own age, called Kath, glanced around at her approach.
‘We don’t usually have your company here at this time, Mistress Palmer.’ She nudged her friend.
Theodosia gave her a smile, hoping it appeared warm. ‘No, mistress. I am afraid I overslept.’
‘That great big husband of yours keep you up late, then?’ Kath asked.
Her friend hooted.
Theodosia could not help the blood that rose in her face at the crude comment. ‘Indeed not.’
‘Sorry. Didn’t mean to pry.’ Kath winked at her friend, not bothering to hide it from Theodosia. ‘Not seen him for a bit, mind.’
Theodosia pretended she did not see the wink as she readjusted her hold on the leather pail. She had not meant to sound rude or above them. But she could not possibly share the truth. She had hardly closed an eye for the last three nights, worrying about Benedict’s mission for the King.
‘Too dangerous.’ Those were Hugo Stanton’s words to her and Benedict, explaining why she could not go as well, along with the children.
Thoughts of danger had plagued her ever since. And each of them led to Benedict lying dead and cold, never to return to her. When she had finally slept last night, it must have been near dawn and had been so deep she never heard the cock crow.
The line moved up, woman after woman filling up her pail with water; some headed off, while others stayed to trade stories and news. No one had joined behind her. She must be the last.
Joan had woken her with a hard shake, saying, ‘Much as I’d like, I can’t leave you to lie here anymore.’
Not especially kind, but better than kind, Matilde and Tom were dressed and the fire started. Then came more questions about Benedict, just as on the other days.
Tom asking over and over when his father would be back. Joan’s continued surprise that Theodosia had returned without him, that he would have gone so quickly after being reunited with his sister. Only little Matilde seemed mercifully unaware.
And she lied in answer to them, lied freely that Benedict had gone to his birth family’s graves. But what if he had gone to his? She would never hold him, touch him again. Never meet his dark gaze, have his strong arms pull her to him.
Theodosia dragged in a deep breath to banish her painful longing. Thank goodness the women were almost done and she could retreat to her home.
&nb
sp; Kath turned to eye her: ‘We’re keeping you, are we?’
‘Oh no, it’s not that—’
‘Wait for me, girls!’ A call from another woman interrupted her.
Kath grinned, her attention gone from Theodosia. ‘Why should we wait for a hussy like you?’ she said, addressing the other woman. ‘Hark at the state of you, Meg.’
The woman called Meg laughed in return, fastening her loose hair under her coif with pins as she came to join them. ‘I’m all up and down this morning.’ She stepped in front of Theodosia to join her friends. ‘You don’t mind, do you, love? Ta.’ Meg did not even have the courtesy to wait for Theodosia’s answer, instead presenting her back to her.
Theodosia could not tolerate this rudeness. Joan and Tom were already upset and hurt, and her tardiness with water to break their fast would not help matters. She tapped Meg on the shoulder. ‘I am next. Please wait your turn.’
The cackling ceased.
Meg looked round, as did Kath and her friend. ‘Keep your hair on,’ said Kath. ‘She won’t be long.’ They turned back.
‘Neither will I.’ Theodosia grasped the rough twine of her bucket handle with both hands.
‘Then we’re all happy.’ Kath barely lowered her voice. ‘Unless we have a face like we drank vinegar this morn.’
The others tittered as Kath lowered her bucket over the waist-high mossy stone wall of the well.
Theodosia tightened her hold. She was sick of the smirks, the glances, the barbs. All because she was not like them. ‘You should not have taken my place,’ she said to Meg.
Kath pulled her pail of water up with a grunt of effort. ‘You’ll live.’
Kath’s friend followed her actions, and the newly arrived Meg moved up next.
Theodosia stepped beside her, took hold of the sodden rope and raised her pail to attach it.
Meg snatched the rope from her grasp. ‘I’ll have that.’ With a quick twist to knot the pail on, she dropped it into the well with a deep splash.
‘See?’ said Kath. ‘Quick as lightning.’
‘Then enjoy every drop, won’t you?’ Theodosia gave her the fiercest look she possessed. Not that it mattered to this horrid woman.
Meg hauled her pail up. Then screamed loudly. ‘By God! What’s in there?’
Kath peered over and swore loudly in disgust. Her other friend’s eyes rounded.
Meg whipped round. ‘What have you done, wife of Palmer?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Then what do you call this?’ Meg thrust the bucket at her to more cries of disgust.
An enormous dead toad floated on top of the water, its stinking green and grey flesh inflated and grotesque from decay.
‘It is a dead toad,’ said Theodosia. ‘And you found it. Not me.’
‘But like you said, it was supposed to be your turn.’ Meg’s eyes narrowed. ‘Or are you trying to poison me?’
Theodosia’s gaze went from one face to another in the press of angry woman surrounding her. ‘I have done nothing.’
‘Theodosia, what’s taking you so long?’ Joan elbowed her way through them. ‘What’s going on?’
Meg slammed her bucket down. She pointed at it and addressed Joan. ‘This filthy thing is what’s going on.’ Joan wrinkled her nose. ‘A rotting creature.’
Meg’s point flew to Theodosia. ‘And she conjured it up.’
‘Leave off.’ Joan shoved Meg’s hand down, eliciting gasps from the others.
Meg squared up to Joan. ‘I can give you some of that back if you want.’
‘Then try.’ Joan’s answer came low and eager.
Loud hooves sounded along the road. ‘Move aside, there.’
Theodosia looked up to see Lord Ordell on horseback, returning from an early ride, his wife riding another smaller mount.
‘Have you wretched women no better things to be doing?’ Ordell’s clipped words carried on the clear air. ‘The devil finds employment for those who idle.’
‘My lord.’ Meg bowed and flung a hand to her bucket. ‘There is more sorcery afoot.’
Theodosia watched, bewildered, as Ordell peered down from his horse.
His face contorted. ‘God’s thunder.’
His wife gave a little cry of revulsion and put a gloved hand to her mouth. ‘By Saint Peter of Rome.’
‘What foulness is this?’ Ordell asked sharply.
‘We were all getting water, my lord,’ said Kath.
‘It was fine,’ said Meg. ‘All of it.’ She bobbed her head at Theodosia with a clenched jaw. ‘Then she got angry because I took her place. This should have been hers.’
Ordell’s gaze lit on Theodosia. ‘You.’ He drew the word long as he pointed his whip at her. ‘You are the one who was abroad in the woods, innocent you say of the death of a number of animals. Yet sure as the manure pile stinks, here you are again with another dead, despoiled creature.’
Theodosia held her composure at the unjust accusation. ‘I promise you, my lord. This has nothing to do with me.’
‘I need your husband’s word on that,’ said Ordell. ‘Summon him so he can vouch for you.’
Theodosia’s insides coiled. She could not disobey the lord. But neither could she obey him. ‘I am afraid I cannot.’
‘You cannot?’ Ordell’s horse jigged at his rising voice. ‘From what I heard from your Lord Abbot, you were happy to rail and rant at Palmer very recently.’
She shot Joan a desperate, unspoken plea.
‘It is true.’ Joan’s reply came as firm as Benedict’s. ‘My brother is not here, my lord. He’s gone on a pilgrimage.’
Theodosia’s heart thudded fast at the public lie, but Joan stood steady and still.
‘A pilgrimage?’ asked Ordell. ‘Where?’
‘He has gone to visit our family graves.’ Joan crossed herself.
Lady Cecily nodded in solemn approval. ‘A holy undertaking, right worshipful husband,’ she murmured to Ordell.
The lord ignored her. ‘And so you choose to make trouble for others instead?’ Ordell pointed his whip at Theodosia again. ‘What drives you to such unnatural conduct, woman?’
‘My sister has not been very well, my lord.’ Joan picked up their own pail and stepped to Theodosia’s side. ‘If your lordship permits, I will take her home and tend to her. I’ll return later for the water.’
‘Make sure you deal with her.’ Ordell reined in his horse, his attention still on Theodosia. ‘Give your bucket to that woman. She should be compensated for her own being defiled.’
Meg snatched it off Joan with a sour-faced sneer.
‘And burn that other one, along with that toad. We shall not look on it another minute.’ Ordell glared at Theodosia. ‘Nor on you.’
Joan picked up the pail with its foul contents. ‘Come, sister.’ She quickly led Theodosia away, headed for the bridge that led to home and safety.
Geoffrey moved ahead of Palmer and Rosamund to lead the way once more. ‘The lynxes are in here.’
Palmer had seen skins of these animals. He recognised the brown and grey fur on the mounds huddled at the farthest corners of the pen.
‘Three?’ asked Palmer.
One raised its head at his voice, its ears straight up on its neat head as it stared at him.
Geoffrey nodded. ‘All female. Fight each other like women too.’
‘Many women never fight,’ said Rosamund. ‘Like those of us of noble birth.’
Geoffrey paid no mind to her remark.
The animal lost interest in its viewers and lowered its head again in sleep.
‘I’ve heard they can take down a wolverine,’ said Palmer.
‘Then you heard right,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Though their daily meat seems to keep them calm.’ He walked on.
Daily meat. No pottage for these creatures. They were
fed as royally as the King himself.
‘I have not been here for a while. But the next are my favourite, Benedict.’ Rosamund urged him along. ‘Come see.’
Geoffrey stood outside the largest pen. ‘The bravest, most noble of beasts.’
Palmer looked in. And caught his breath. There before him, with coats of gold, their thick-maned leader in their midst, lay lions. Real, live lions. The rumbling came louder. They were what he had heard. ‘They seem very calm.’
‘Calmer than those showing their ferocity on the shields of the crusaders?’ Geoffrey dealt him a questioning look.
Rosamund cut in. ‘I like the male one the best.’ She pointed. ‘See? He’s so big, and he has thick, dark hair.’ She smiled a pretty smile. ‘A bit like you, Benedict.’
‘I don’t think so, my lady.’
‘No?’ She pressed her breast harder against his hand, unseen.
He shifted his hold again, sending as clear a message as he dared in this game of hers.
‘Rosamund. I hope you’re not confusing Palmer with his Grace,’ said Geoffrey. ‘That would be very unwise.’
She brought the tips of her gloves to her lips. ‘Oh, what could I have said? His Grace is, of course, most like the lion’—her smooth forehead creased in the slightest of frowns—‘with his bravery and his nobility and his closeness to Christ. The lion rules the animal kingdom, but Henry rules the lion.’ Her face relaxed into a proud smile. ‘There. I remembered the lines from the bestiary. That’s better, isn’t it, Geoffrey?’
‘Very good.’ Geoffrey’s look didn’t match his words.
Faith, Rosamund’s prattling has saved me, Palmer thought.
With a sudden movement, the lions were on their feet.
‘Step back.’ Palmer moved Rosamund by instinct. ‘What’s spooking them?’
Geoffrey hadn’t budged. ‘Only their food.’
Palmer saw what Geoffrey meant.
Two men, one old, one young, approached, deer carcasses across their shoulders. Palmer guessed they’d be father and son.
‘Good morning, my lord,’ said the older one.
‘And to you. See, Palmer? Plenty of teeth now,’ said Geoffrey. ‘Like those depicted on the shields.’