by E. M. Powell
Palmer could not react. At all. ‘I don’t think I’d be as brave as Daniel,’ said Palmer, with a smile to Rosamund.
‘As who?’
‘Daniel. In the lion’s den.’
‘Has someone been in there?’ Her eyes widened.
Geoffrey sighed. ‘Daniel in the Bible, Rosamund. The Bible.’
‘Oh. Of course.’
The lions’ keen amber eyes sought their meat. The animals paced, snarled. The male put his head back and gave a sharp roar. The four females, smaller, thinner, but still with muscles to rival any fine horse, answered him. The deep sound echoed to Palmer’s boots.
The men put down their carcasses. The father picked up a long wooden pole that lay on the ground. His son slid open the stout metal bolt on a section of the front of the iron-barred pen. A set of hinges down one side showed it to be a door.
‘Take care, my lord.’ The older man spoke to Geoffrey.
Again, Geoffrey didn’t budge but gestured to Palmer. ‘Bring the lady Rosamund to a safe distance.’
Palmer brought her back several steps. He checked under his tunic with his free hand. His knife was there, useless though it would be.
‘Right,’ said the older man.
His son opened the door, and his father stepped in, weapon at the ready, giving loud, sharp shouts.
The beasts growled, snarled, but kept their distance as the younger man flung one carcass in. The male was on it, the females hanging back. The second dead animal followed for them.
The older man ducked back out of the cage, and his son slammed it behind him and bolted it shut.
Geoffrey went right up to the fence, grasped the bars with his right hand and stood there, watching the lions feed.
Palmer noted the symbol of the church’s authority on the unlikely bishop’s third finger: a heavy iron ring, its raised carving in the shape of a cross.
The rip of hide from muscle mixed with the crunch of bone, sending out the unmistakable heavy smell of raw flesh and blood.
The men checked the bolt and replaced the stick. ‘Good day, my lord.’ With a quick lift of their hats, they set off.
‘Good day.’ Geoffrey stayed focused on the feeding group.
‘Is it wise to stand so close?’ asked Palmer.
‘They’re well fed already. And now they’re eating more.’ Geoffrey turned to him with a small smile, the first Palmer had seen. ‘I’d worry far more about where you are.’
Palmer took in the empty pen to the side of where he and Rosamund stood. He shrugged. ‘There’s nothing in there.’
‘Sure?’ Geoffrey still smiled.
Palmer peered in. ‘I can’t see anything.’
‘There.’ Geoffrey pointed.
Palmer stared more. And then he saw. Still. Quiet. Inches away through the bars. ‘Away, Rosamund.’ He pulled her back.
The animal stood and watched him without a blink from its green-gold eyes. It had seen him long before he’d seen it. Palmer’s gaze travelled along it. Its length came close to his own height as it stood on four powerful paws, tail giving the tiniest twitch. Its coat was dappled brown, but it matched the bushes, making it invisible. Still it stared.
‘I think it likes the look of you, Palmer.’
Palmer could see no sign of claws on the animal’s feet, but the tree stumps in its pen were raked with long, deep grooves. ‘What is it?’
‘A leopard.’ Geoffrey left the lion pen and walked over.
The leopard’s gaze twitched to him. Then with a bound and a grab, it leapt at the bars, twice Palmer’s height.
‘God’s eyes!’ Rosamund shrieked.
Palmer’s hand went for his knife.
Geoffrey laughed. ‘Calm yourselves; it can’t get out.’ He gazed fondly up at the creature hanging from the bars. ‘It’s a wild one. There’s no animal keeper at this menagerie that would open the gate to it. It’s fed through that small gap. Not that it eats much. It’s too choosy.’
Pulse racing, Palmer slid his knife back into his belt. ‘It’s a fast one.’ Too bloody fast.
‘It is,’ said Geoffrey. ‘A ruler from the east gifted it to the King. Turns out the animal was made into a man-eater, likes only human flesh.’ He looked at Rosamund, then Palmer. ‘I believe people taste saltier than a deer. That is what it is drawn to.’
‘Oh, how horrid.’ Rosamund’s mouth turned down.
‘And how did you find out its tastes, Geoffrey?’
‘You saw the man who fed the lions?’
Palmer nodded.
‘His other son. He was stupid enough to think he could control this leopard. Poor beggar never stood a chance. Its jaws crushed his skull. Then it fed on his brains.’ Geoffrey kept his gaze on Palmer, as steady as the animal’s. ‘A lesson for anyone who picks the wrong fight, wouldn’t you say, Sir Benedict?’
Palmer didn’t reply.
Chapter Seven
From his place in the trees, Palmer could see the window of the rooms where Rosamund Clifford slept, the same window where a robed figure had stolen in and nearly killed her. And Henry expected him to find out who would dare to carry out such a deed against the King’s young mistress.
He shifted his feet to stir them back to warmth. Although the cloudless night gave him moon-glow and starlight to watch by, the clear sky laid a thick frost over everything. Owls called and answered, busy in the good light. He knew those well from his home. Not so the grunts and rumbles that echoed from the menagerie.
Rosamund was a beauty, no mistake about that. For one to warm his bed, Henry had chosen the best. But Palmer doubted very much if Henry knew how keen she was to lend other men her charms. The royal rage would reach a new pitch. Palmer would not want to be the cause of that one.
No mind. The only woman he wanted to share his bed with lay near three days’ ride away. His job was to find out who had attacked Rosamund. Then he could get back to his beloved Theodosia. Easy to say, harder to do. He had to start somewhere.
The regular tramp of footsteps came from his left. One of the extra guards who patrolled the area right outside the building, ordered by Henry after the attack.
Palmer didn’t move, sure that the dense leaves would conceal him. He didn’t want to have to answer questions about why the man charged with making a labyrinth hid and watched a woman’s window.
The guard walked past, axe in hand, his chainmail tunic a dull glow.
Worse would be questions asked with a weapon.
The man carried on.
Palmer frowned to himself. Good that he hadn’t been seen. But not a sign that the guard knew his task. What if Palmer had been the assassin, returned for another attempt? He gazed up at the grey, smooth walls of the grand Woodstock Palace. It wouldn’t matter if he were. Each patrol covered a short distance. No one would have a chance to scale those high walls unseen. A person would stand out as sharp as the blade on the guard’s axe.
And here the man returned now.
The guard trod back, past Palmer and to the limit of his few dozen steps.
Palmer scanned the walls yet again. Even with no guard, it’d be a real feat to climb up there. More like an impossible one. He was a good climber. But no matter how good, you needed something to cling to, even if only with your fingertips.
Another owl called, its cry, a sharp ke-wick.
He shook his head. Or the murderer must have had wings. He went to leave, waiting for the right moment when the guard walked to his farthest distance. All he could offer Henry was to cut down the trees and bushes where a watcher could hide. He pictured the look on Henry’s face. Maybe not.
The bird’s answer didn’t come. It called again, louder. Then right overhead.
Palmer glanced up as the winged shadow flew over and landed out of sight on the high roof.
The roof. The lodge’s steeped roofs
were far closer to Rosamund’s window. Close enough to swing down from. Forget climbing up.
He had to test his theory out. But if he was right, that meant only one thing. The attacker came from within.
Palmer made his way up the winding stone staircase to the upper floors of Woodstock, careful to keep his steps silent and steady. All was quiet, as he’d expect at this late hour. He had to do this tonight. Gadding about on the roof during the day would attract unwanted notice. He was supposed to be a planner of noble gardens, not a pigeon.
The staircase reached a wide, open corridor, with arched windows down one side to his left. This would be the top floor, where Rosamund’s rooms were. He caught the flicker of light against a wall, farther down at the corner. The girl’s door would be guarded too. Palmer turned around and went the other way. No sense in raising any fuss.
The corridor narrowed as he followed one turn, then another. The moon’s light through the windows allowed him enough to see by. A flight of narrow, rough stone steps led upwards into darkness. This had to be to the roof.
Palmer climbed up, finding his way by feel as the dark closed in. His head bumped against wood. A trapdoor. He felt around with his fingers and found the bolt. It slid open under his touch, a sure sign of its regular use. He allowed himself a satisfied nod. His guesses were being proved right.
Palmer pushed it upwards, and the cold of the night air met him. He climbed out onto a flat roof, splattered with a thick, sour-smelling layer of bird droppings. Other sections varied. Some were steeply pitched, with heavy slate tiles. A separate rounded tower and the square keep appeared at odds, with their differing shapes. He went to the edge nearest to where he judged Rosamund’s rooms to be. He lowered to a crouch, wary of the guards patrolling the ground, and peered over the low balustrade. There it was. The upper lintel of the big window. The drop to the ground would be death to anyone who fell. But it would only take planning and nerve to get into that shuttered window, not supernatural climbing prowess.
He stepped back, keeping low. Back on the staircase, he closed the trapdoor and bolted it behind him. Still careful to stay silent, he climbed down the narrow staircase and into the twisting corridor. He made his way to the main winding staircase. The owl’s call came again, and he looked out onto the moonlit grounds to see the shadow glide above the trees.
He faced forward again. And caught the flick of a dark-robed figure disappearing down the staircase.
Raoul de Faye liked the moon.
Framed by the tall windows of his chambers, which still awaited his Eleanor, his love, it hung quietly in the sky, its shape changing in its regular, familiar way. It held no surprises, not like the sun, which could barely dry a wet cloak one month, then scorch one’s flesh worse than a furnace the next.
You could depend on the moon. Unlike those charged with doing his noble work.
De Faye took another drink of wine to steady his hand. He’d not closed an eye tonight. His latest message had taken his breath from his body. It assured him that plans had had to change, but that all would be well. He read part of it again:
‘I have poked about in all the corners, with more diligence than a hunting dog seeking out the quail or partridge. I know what to change.’
Change? His plans?
De Faye flung his cup across the floor in a furious clatter, the wine splashing out. Did they think him a simpleton, made happy by fair words and taken in with ease? All they had done was murder his sleep.
If only he could take the fight himself. How fiercely he would attack, staining his lance, his sword, his shield with the blood of his enemies, just as Yvain did.
But he could not. De Faye reached for more wine from his table, pouring from jug to goblet. In the moon’s blank light, his own flesh, Eleanor’s painted skin too, appeared bloodless.
Dead.
Even the bright yellow of the fleurs-de-lis decorating his solar faded to pale under the moon’s stare. Just as a dead flower fades and dries to nothingness.
Dead. Like his enemies would be. As would those who fought for him and failed.
‘Hey!’ Palmer ran for the top of the staircase, his strides quiet no more. The first turn was deserted. He raced down, two at a time.
Ducking round the next corner, the top of a dark hood.
‘Halt!’ Palmer jumped four steps and stumbled. He caught the iron handrail, saving himself a broken neck. He pulled himself up, ran down again.
He was catching the figure. Saw it once, twice. He sped up, careless of his neck, as he descended past closed doors and dark landings.
Then nothing. No sightings.
Palmer paused, breathing fast. His quarry must have ducked out from the stairwell. Cursing hard, he turned round and scrambled back up, punching each door. The first held fast, as did the second. And the third. The fourth gave with a click. It had to be this one.
Palmer burst through it. Another dark corridor. With a figure fleeing down it, steps loud in its haste.
‘Stop if you want to keep your head!’
His quarry paid no heed.
Palmer set off after, his long stride gaining.
The figure reached a closed door at the end of the corridor. Rattles and kicks echoed back to Palmer.
Locked. ‘I’ll have you now.’ He was half a dozen strides away.
The figure whirled round, head down, and lunged to the side with a crash. It disappeared.
Another door, hidden in the shadows.
Cursing again, Palmer was there. But this was no staircase door. It led into a closed, internal room, pitch black, with no light or windows. Only the faint light from the passageway gave him any sight. It had to be a storeroom. Wooden pails stacked high. Piles of full sacks lay one on another, with only narrow gaps between.
‘Come out now.’ Palmer drew his knife. ‘There is nowhere else for you to run.’
Silence.
Palmer stepped inside, blade ready. He felt rather than saw the movement. Then something smashed into his jaw. He fell to one side, the sacks breaking his fall as the small wood pail that hit him bounced to the stone floor with his knife.
His attacker shoved past him, making for the door.
Palmer flung himself after, got a hold on one boot, got kicked in the face with the other. But kept his grip. ‘I’ve got you now.’
Another kick.
Palmer grabbed his quarry’s free foot, grasped it hard.
The figure fell, Palmer hanging onto its legs.
‘No!’ A male shout, another blow to Palmer’s face that missed.
Palmer was on him, straddling the struggling man’s knees, with a hard punch to his head.
Still the man fought, but his strength was gone.
He had him. Palmer dropped one hand to the man’s throat and squeezed hard. Crouching over him, he hauled him out into the corridor. ‘Let’s see you, you bastard.’ He yanked off the concealing hood.
Hugo Stanton stared up at him, blue eyes fearful, nose and mouth bloodied. ‘Stop, Palmer. Please.’
Chapter Eight
‘I ought to break your neck right now.’ Palmer stood up, hauling Stanton to his feet by the front of his cloak.
‘Mercy. Please!’ Stanton held his hands up. ‘I’ve done no harm—I swear.’
‘You can explain that to the King.’
‘Why would we summon his Grace?’
‘Why?’ Palmer twisted his handful of cloth tighter. ‘Because you’re sneaking around the corridors, clad in a cloak that hides you. Waiting for your chance to get in Rosamund Clifford’s room, to try to stab her to death. Like you did before.’
‘No!’ Stanton fought for air. ‘I’ll tell you.’
Palmer released him with a shove. ‘Well?’
Stanton coughed, hands to his neck. ‘It’s true. I have been in Rosamund’s room.’
Palmer we
nt to grab him again.
‘Wait! Not like the assassin.’
‘Then how?’
‘Rosamund invited me.’ Stanton’s bright blue gaze wouldn’t meet his. ‘As she did tonight. Yes, I want to get into her room unseen. But not to do her any harm.’ Stanton licked dry lips. ‘We’re . . . friends. Enjoying a dalliance.’
‘Dalliance? Are you a troubadour now instead of a messenger? Forcurse it, Stanton—you’re a poor liar. Do you mean to tell me you’re bedding the King’s mistress?’
Stanton’s look shifted to wary. ‘Is that why his Grace summoned you here? Because he suspects Rosamund has a lover?’
‘It’s none of your business why. All you need to know is that he wants to find out who carried out the attempt on her life. Far as I’m concerned, I’m looking at him.’
‘Lower your voice.’ Stanton glanced left, right. ‘I have done her no harm. But if anyone hears of our trysts, my head won’t stay on my shoulders more than a day.’
‘Then if you’re not a liar, you’re a fool. If Henry finds out, your head won’t be the first thing to go. I can promise you that.’
Wincing, Stanton shrugged his cloak straight. ‘You can ask Rosamund if we have lain together. She’ll tell you.’
‘That’s of no help. All she knows about me is I’m here, on the orders of the King, to build her a blasted labyrinth. If I come to her and ask her who she’s having between her legs, she’s going to have me arrested.’ Palmer pinned Stanton with his look. ‘And even if you have found a way under her skirts, that doesn’t prove your innocence. The reverse, in fact.’ He stepped closer and lowered his voice. ‘For you’ll be practised at slipping in through that window from above.’
Stanton shook his head hard. ‘You’ve got it all wrong. The murderer came from outside.’
‘Up sixty feet of smooth stone? Impossible.’
‘Not at all.’ Stanton raised a hand. ‘I can show you in the morning.’
And give him the chance to flee? ‘Show me now,’ said Palmer.