by E. M. Powell
‘Guard! Stay your weapon! It’s me, Hugo Stanton.’
Palmer walked once again on the ground outside the walls. Unlike before, he was not hidden in the trees but going along the wide path with Stanton, in full view of the watch. Though he doubted there’d be trouble, he checked his belt for his knife, saved from the floor of the storeroom.
‘I can see that.’ The guard approached. ‘What brings you abroad at this hour?’
‘This gentleman is the King’s gardener. We need to seek out plants.’
‘In the middle of the night?’ The guard’s surprised look went from Stanton to Palmer.
‘His Grace hasn’t given me many weeks to complete the work.’ Palmer hoped the guard knew Henry’s unusual behaviour as well as he did. ‘I don’t think I’ll be sleeping from now until Pentecost.’
The guard nodded, surprise gone. ‘I won’t keep you, sir.’ He walked on.
With a quick check that the man was out of earshot, Stanton drew Palmer right up to the walls beneath Rosamund’s window. ‘I take what you say about the stone being smooth. But do you see these?’
Palmer squinted in the moonlight. ‘Dark marks.’
‘That’s right. From ivy. You were right when you said that a man couldn’t climb up these walls. But a creeper could. And it did. These walls were covered with thick growth, thick enough to support a man. Henry ordered all of it stripped off after the attack. The walls are completely secure now.’
Palmer tipped his head back, imagining the pale stone clad in dark ivy. ‘What was the night of the attack like?’
‘Storms, terrible rain.’
A dark-robed figure against deep green ivy on a filthy night. If the intruder had scaled it, he might as well have worn a cloak of invisibility. Palmer’s near-certain guess that the attack was from within the palace looked poor. He had one last try. ‘Ivy can appear strong. But often it comes away with the slightest pull.’
‘Geoffrey also said that,’ said Stanton. ‘So he tested it out. Climbed right up, hand over hand, with half the court watching. He said it appeared damaged in places, so maybe someone had gone that way before him. That was enough for Henry.’
‘A wise decision by his Grace.’ Palmer had been proved wrong without doubt. Geoffrey had at least Palmer’s size and build and hadn’t eaten a peasant’s diet for over four years. That creeper would have held most people. He was no closer to the truth. He caught Stanton’s gaze.
‘I swear on my life it wasn’t me, Palmer,’ said Stanton.
‘Your life isn’t worth much if Henry finds you out.’
‘I’ll make sure he doesn’t. And thanks, Palmer. I know you understand the satisfaction of a good woman’s sex.’ Stanton winked. ‘I’m for bed.’ He was off.
Palmer watched him stride past the guard with a quick salute.
He only wished he’d hit him harder.
‘Mistress Palmer! Open up!’ The male shout and hard thuds at the cottage door echoed through her home, startling Theodosia and sending straw and dust down from the thatch with each blow.
‘I’ll go.’ Tom matched actions to words.
‘No.’ Theodosia halted him as she flung her spindle to one side and stood up. It might be news of Benedict. But Hugo Stanton would never come to their door, not in daytime.
Joan, Matilde on her lap, had paused in her spinning. ‘What a racket. They’ll have your door in.’ She put Matilde down and stood up too.
Theodosia went to the door and unlatched it with hands clumsy with sudden sweat. As she struggled to open the warped wood, whoever waited outside pushed it in and her aside.
Theodosia kept a firm grip on the door.
Three of Lord Ordell’s men stood there: two of his guards and one she knew well, clad in expensive jerkin and trousers—Matthew Williamson, Ordell’s reeve.
‘Good day to you, sir,’ she said.
‘It is for me.’ Williamson favoured a heavy black beard, yet his broad smile showed clearly. ‘And for his lordship.’ He held up his white tally stick. ‘Though perhaps not for you. I am here to collect his taxes.’
‘My husband pays those,’ said Theodosia, ‘and he is not here. We will have to pay when he returns. I am sorry.’
Williamson laughed like she had told a good jest. ‘If a missing husband meant you paid no tax, then the graveyards would be full.’ He waved the stick in her face. ‘You still owe the money, Mistress Palmer. Husband or no husband.’ He peered in past Theodosia. ‘Unless Palmer tries to conceal himself by wearing skirts.’
Joan stepped forward. ‘She speaks the truth. My brother has left on pilgrimage.’
Williamson took her in with a glance and raised his heavy eyebrows. ‘I had heard of your arrival and that you were fair. But the gossip doesn’t do you justice.’
Joan drew her cloak tight around her. ‘There’s no tax on a woman’s looks.’ Her usually firm tone had an extra edge.
Theodosia did not like the way Williamson ran his slow glance over Joan, and she could see neither did Joan. He wouldn’t dare do this if Benedict were here. ‘How much do we owe?’
‘The tax on your home and land is three shillings for this quarter.’
‘Three?’ Theodosia repeated the amount, Joan echoing her. She could not believe they would be charged such a huge amount for their poor allocation of land.
‘Three,’ said Williamson. ‘The King demands ever-growing taxes from Lord Ordell. We all have to pay what is due, in coin or goods or services.’ He cast a disdainful eye over her small home. ‘I can see it will not be goods. And your husband is not here to provide any services.’ He did not bother to conceal his smirk. ‘And I fear coin will be sadly lacking too.’
Theodosia longed to respond to his rudeness but knew it wiser to keep her counsel. ‘Please give me a moment. I will have to count it out.’ It seemed so much, but she knew where Benedict hid their money. And she also had the coins Stanton had given her.
‘Oh, I haven’t finished.’ Williamson held up a hand. ‘Because your husband is absent, with no word of when he is due to return, Lord Ordell has instructed that you also pay the next quarter in advance. Your total is six shillings.’
Theodosia gasped in surprise. ‘That is completely unjust.’
‘Thieving, more like,’ said Joan.
Williamson looked from one to another. ‘Would you like to tell Lord Ordell to his face that he is unjust? I am sure he would be keen to hear your opinions.’
‘He should be keen to be told the truth,’ said Joan.
Theodosia could not risk any more encounters with Ordell. She put a hand to Joan’s arm to calm her.
‘The money,’ said Williamson. ‘Now. Or these men will clear you two baggages and your brats from this hovel.’
‘I will fetch it. A moment.’ She stepped from the door as Joan blocked it to conceal her movements, arms folded, staring Williamson down in open dislike.
Theodosia hurried to her bed and slipped her fingers under the straw mattress. She found the small box Benedict kept their meagre coins in. She opened it up. To her shock, it contained even less than she would have thought. He had told her things were bad. Just not how bad. She fumbled in her skirt, found the purse Stanton had given her. God be praised. She counted out the right money.
She went back to the door to join Joan. ‘Please check if you wish. This is the full amount.’
Williamson did a rapid count, unable to hide his surprise. ‘It’s all here.’
Theodosia nodded. ‘It is.’
Williamson placed it in his leather bag. ‘All in order.’ He ran a hand along the stick with a rude look at Joan. ‘His lordship will be pleased.’ Williamson did not seem to believe his own words. ‘Come, men. This has delayed us immoderately.’ He set off for his next visit.
Joan drew breath to call after him.
‘Please. Do not.’ Theodosia pulled her bac
k inside and slammed the door.
‘Why are you so timid?’ Joan asked. ‘He’s not a lord, only his lackey. And an ugly ape of one at that.’
Theodosia glanced to where Matilde played, unconcerned. Tom had lost interest and carved a stick. ‘Lord Ordell already suspects me of all sorts of wrongdoing. I cannot afford to make matters worse.’ She set her jaw as she counted out the remaining few coins she had left.
‘You mean like that nonsense with the toad? His rambling on about what that pig of an abbot said?’
‘I am not well thought of here.’
‘You mustn’t let folk upset you. Thank God I am here to help you with Benedict gone.’
Gone. Her terror at losing him forever came flooding back. And now their home, their livelihood, was in jeopardy. ‘If he does not return soon, I will lose everything. Our home. Our land. Lord Ordell wants rid of me. I fear he believes I am an evildoer, though I do not know why he has such thoughts.’ She stared at the miserable coins on her open palm, the remainder of the money Stanton had left. A mere pittance.
‘Have no fear of Ordell. He despises women. That’s all. Now, put the money away.’ Joan dropped her hand and closed Theodosia’s tight around the coins. ‘You’ll need it for that tax collector.’
‘It won’t be enough.’ Theodosia met her gaze. ‘And how are we going to eat?’
Joan snorted. ‘Ordell will have plenty pickings on his land.’
‘That is a sin. No good can come of it. And if you are caught . . .’ She threw her hands up.
‘Ordell himself is a thief—no more, no less.’ Joan snorted again. ‘And I’m sure Benedict will be back before the next taxes are due.’
Theodosia nodded. She would have to try to get a message to the King through Hugo Stanton.
‘Good.’ Joan grinned broadly. ‘Think of it as an eye for an eye, Theodosia. It’s not theft.’ Her dark eyes glittered in anticipation. ‘It’s justice.’
Chapter Nine
Having the manpower of a king made life easier.
Palmer walked the edge of the cleared patch of land outside Woodstock, the first section of what would eventually hold Rosamund Clifford’s labyrinth. It measured forty paces square so far and had taken just two days to clear of every tree, bush, shrub and weed. Two days, because Palmer had been able to command dozens of able men and call on more when he needed. They laboured still, with bent backs and busy hands and arms. Their many saws and axes threw out the smell of new-cut wood as the bigger trees were hewn into logs. Teams of large horses were needed to haul the biggest away, which would be cut into beams and planks. Bonfires ate up the smaller growth, smoke heavy from the green wood.
‘Make sure the ash is ploughed in once those fires are out.’ Palmer gave his orders to the overseer, a man called Lewis.
‘Yes, Sir Benedict.’
Lewis spared words, which Palmer liked.
Underfoot, the dug and turned, soft, dark soil smelled rich and fertile. Not like the stony, poor earth around Cloughbrook.
Lines of men still picked it over, removing the long, tangled roots that were among the bits of vegetation remaining.
‘How long until those are dug out?’ Palmer pointed to the shortened trunks of huge trees, where men with shovels and forks dug down deep around the root balls.
‘End of the week at the latest, sir.’
‘That’s not bad.’ Palmer pulled the drawing of the labyrinth from the pouch at his belt. Henry had given it to him as a guide, and Palmer had to pretend it was his. No mind. There were no words on it, only the curving shape of the labyrinth. His hand hovering over the drawing, he made a space between finger and thumb to show what he meant. ‘We’ll have made space for this much.’
Lewis considered it. ‘It’s a start, I suppose.’
‘We can’t start at the side. It’s not like a ploughed field. We start here.’ Palmer pointed to the centre. ‘Make a square, then measure out the path with lengths of twine. That will build us the one, twisting path. White stone, his Grace says.’
Lewis frowned. He was clearly not a man of letters either, much to Palmer’s relief. It had taken him many hours to figure out how to lay the coiled path. He traced his finger along. ‘It’s turn after turn, but only leads one way. See?’
The overseer’s expression cleared. He put one square finger on the drawing. ‘Then these sections are where the planting needs to happen?’
‘Yes. We want something evergreen and quick growing. And in the middle is the bower. Above head height for privacy. That has to be scented. The King was clear.’
Lewis grunted. ‘He’s not going to get much scent year-round, is he?’
‘No.’ Palmer folded up the diagram and replaced it beneath his cloak. ‘I’m giving it some thought but would welcome your advice too.’ If the King’s tribute to his mistress could be planted with turnips, Palmer’s life would be easier. Fooling with this work kept him from the serious work of finding out who had tried to kill her. ‘I’m going to take a ride out to the local villages. I want to see the work of the stonemasons. I have a design for a carved seat.’
‘Best try the town of Oxford, sir. Get anything you want there. Only a couple of miles away. Take the road south.’
‘Thank you, Lewis. I will.’
‘Sir.’ Lewis tipped his cap and went to supervise his men.
Palmer set off, making his way back to the edge that lay beneath the castle. He did plan to borrow a horse and start a search of the neighbouring villages, using the search for a good stonemason as cover. The large town of Oxford could well be an even better place to start his enquiries. He had to start the search outside this place. By meeting folk, talking to them, he’d see if a face looked wrong, if an eye couldn’t meet his. If a careless word would lead him to the answer.
As he followed the path, he saw Rosamund in the distance, making her way towards him, a servant woman by her side. Both were heavily cloaked against the biting cold. But as ever, Rosamund’s gold hair escaped its cover, whipped loose by the wind.
She paused to exchange a few words with the servant woman, who turned and went back to the palace.
‘Sir Benedict!’
Palmer inclined his head as he reached her. ‘My lady.’
‘How lovely to meet you here. I was taking my walk with my servant, Lucine, and then I saw you. I told her she didn’t need to keep her creaky old bones out in this cold, for you could accompany me instead.’
Forcurse the woman. He needed to set about a real task. ‘I had no plans to walk. I have to ride out, see about other tasks for your labyrinth.’
‘Oh, how sweet of you.’ Rosamund bit her lip. ‘But now how shall I have my walk? I am not allowed out on my own. Geoffrey said. He said I’d be in lots of trouble if I did.’
And so would he be if Geoffrey heard he’d left Rosamund alone. ‘Then I shall stay with you.’
‘You become even sweeter by the minute. Why don’t you show me where my labyrinth is going to be?’
He pointed into the trees. ‘The centre will be in there.’
‘Oh, can I see?’
‘At the moment, there are only trees and bushes.’
‘But I desire to see it.’
‘It’ll be muddy, my lady. And wet underfoot.’
‘I care not.’ She stuck out one small foot. ‘I’ve got my pattens on.’
‘I don’t think—’
‘His Grace is doing this to make me happy. I would be very unhappy if you do not take me. I would have to tell him so.’ Her pout held an open threat.
‘Then it’ll be this way.’
‘Oh, good.’ She slipped her arm though his, as tight as before, as they made their way in through the dense trees along a narrow path. ‘Do you do this every day, Benedict? Build things, from clever pictures in your head?’
‘That’s a part of what I do.’
‘And what else do you do?’ Rosamund smiled at him again. ‘I can think of lots of things.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘I wonder if they’re the same?’
He could not be drawn like this. His own warnings to Stanton came back to him. ‘Not for me to say, my lady.’
Smoke from the nearby works wafted on the breeze, along with the distant sound of the busy tools.
He went on, keen to bring the talk back to the gardens. ‘All that work is for you, asked for by his Grace.’ He gestured to the surrounding trees. ‘In a few weeks all of this will be gone. In its place, the symbol of his Grace’s love for you.’
‘That’ll be nice.’ She looked as bored as she sounded.
Palmer kept his temper in check. Men toiled from dawn till dusk for this folly. The least she could do was appreciate it.
‘Is it much farther?’
He pointed ahead. ‘Through there.’
A couple of huge fallen trees lay across their path, long dead from an old storm and covered with ivy. The surrounding undergrowth tangled thick as a wall.
‘That’s it until they clear the ground. There’s no way through, save climbing over.’ He made to go back the way they came.
She tugged at his arm, raised sparkling eyes to him. ‘Then let us do that. It can be our adventure.’
Palmer knew he couldn’t refuse. He was a lapdog to this girl, and she liked to click her fingers. ‘If you wish.’ He let go of her to bend forward, hands locked together. ‘Put your foot in here. I’ll boost you to the top.’
Rosamund grasped his shoulders, face close to his. ‘Like I was to mount a horse?’ Her breath came warm, sweet.
‘Just like that. Put your foot up.’
She did so and he went to boost her.
‘Oh, my.’ She slipped and clung to him, one skirted thigh raised around his waist.
With one quick movement, he pulled her off him and sat her on her backside on the tree trunk. Hard.
‘You’re up.’
‘I am. Thanks to your strength.’ A flush lit her cheeks.
Palmer threw both arms to grasp the top of the trunk and levered himself up. He slid off the other side and held his hands for Rosamund. She slipped off with a shriek, arms tight around his neck as he lowered her to the ground.