by E. M. Powell
Palmer tried to clamp his teeth together against it, but his shaking carried on. He fought for control. For breath. Grey spots, flashes of light clouded his vision. The thudding in his head grew worse. His sight went.
And Theodosia came to him.
‘Oh, Benedict. Your poor head. It must hurt so.’ She raised a hand to his throbbing temples, her touch cool and gentle. Her skin glowed against the dark, her dress bright too.
A shadowy figure came behind her.
Palmer opened his mouth to warn her.
‘I cannot make out a word you are saying, my love.’ She smiled. ‘It does not matter. Hush, now.’
Palmer strained to shout. Still nothing.
Then the figure stepped into her glow.
Archbishop Thomas Becket, his skull open and shattered, just as Palmer had seen that night in the cathedral. ‘And now, it is your turn, Benedict Palmer.’
Palmer tried to form words, to tell him of his grief for what had happened, but a band of steel wrapped round his heart, stopping him.
Distant shouts came.
Becket and Theodosia’s images faded. They were leaving him.
Palmer struggled to call them back. He got out a shout, and it merged with the other voice, a voice that bellowed and echoed, thumped inside his head and threatened to break it right open.
‘God’s eyes! Have you killed him, Geoffrey?’
Palmer forced his eyes open.
The King stood above him, glaring at his bastard son.
‘No, your Grace.’ Geoffrey had already removed a couple of the weights from Palmer and bent to lift up another. ‘I was still questioning him. But he’s said nothing.’
Palmer swallowed, unsure if what he saw was reality or more wanderings in his mind. But his swallow came easier than it had for many hours. Then easier still as Geoffrey slid the heavy table from his chest. He fought to form a word. ‘Alive.’
His reward was a new roar from Henry. ‘And you will soon wish you were not!’ He flung a pointed finger at Palmer. ‘I need him to talk, Geoffrey. Now.’
Hauled to his feet, Palmer fell back into his world of pain. The room blurred before his sight as if fog filled it. Geoffrey chained his arms above his head once more. Henry’s shouts came from far away.
A freezing splash struck his face. He gasped and spat, managed to bring his head up to see Geoffrey cast a bucket aside.
Henry’s open palm struck him on one cheek. ‘So you were the enemy! Hiding in plain sight. When I trusted you!’
‘You still can, your Grace. I swear it.’ His voice came worse than a drunk’s.
‘Even though you have committed murder?’ Henry backhanded him across the other side of his face.
‘I swear to you I didn’t, your Grace.’ Palmer brought his unsteady look to Geoffrey. The broad-shouldered bishop stood there with a deep scowl that could’ve been Henry’s own. It gave him the resolve he needed. ‘And I have the answers you sent me to get.’
‘What prating is this?’ Geoffrey’s frown deepened, and he took a step towards Palmer.
Scarlet with rage, Henry raised a hand to Geoffrey, who halted. ‘Then speak, Palmer. And you had better have those answers.’
Palmer winced as he took a breath in. His ribs burned like hellfire. ‘The first attack on the lady Rosamund happened when I lived at home, many miles away.’
‘And whose word do we have for that?’ Geoffrey’s jeer came instantly.
‘Others can vouch for me, your Grace,’ said Palmer.
‘Can they?’ Henry’s face was stone.
‘And we must consider that Palmer may not have been working alone,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I have been trying to extract that from him.’
The bishop was ready for him. That was clear. Palmer pulled his thoughts in order as he spoke again. ‘The killer came from within your palace, your Grace. He knew how to get into Rosamund’s room. Knew to release the leopard. Knew that Rosamund slept in the tower and where to set the fire.’ He swallowed hard, bracing himself. ‘Moved her there.’
Henry stiffened.
But Geoffrey’s jaw dropped open. ‘What?’ His shout filled the still air of the room. ‘What filthy lies are these?’ He made a lunge for Palmer, but Henry stayed his powerful hand.
‘Leave him, boy.’ Henry’s colour had risen more. ‘Go on, Palmer.’ He gave Geoffrey a stern stare. ‘Without interruption.’
‘Geoffrey hated my arrival.’ Palmer faced the bishop, eager to see his words land, one after the other. ‘I began to have accidents that should have killed me. A jammed crossbow. A call to jump from the tower, where I’d have broken every bone.’
Geoffrey jabbed a finger at him. ‘Lies. All lies!’
‘Without interruption!’ Henry’s turn to yell.
‘And you tried to dismiss me, Geoffrey. Send me from this place. Only his Grace’s order stopped you.’
‘But—’
Henry’s hand shot up again, cutting Geoffrey off. ‘Carry on, Palmer.’
‘I thought all this through, your Grace.’ The King seemed to be quietening. ‘And I planned to inform you of it as soon as I could.’ He watched the bishop’s face again. ‘Except my wine and my bread had a sleeping draught put in. And I woke to find the lady Rosamund dead beside me.’
Henry nodded slowly. ‘I see.’
Geoffrey’s look stayed closed, furious.
Palmer carried on. ‘And Geoffrey would’ve wanted Rosamund dead. The whole world thought your annulment from Queen Eleanor was so you could marry her—you said that to me yourself—for I believe his ambition is to inherit your crown.’ Palmer hoped he made sense. His head swam again. He was nearly done. ‘Which is why he killed Sister Amélie too. I don’t know how he found out about her.’
Henry put his head to one side, silent.
‘And which is why I fear for Theodosia and the children. That he has found out about them too. I fled to try to get home to them.’ His voice gave. No mind. He’d done it.
Henry’s blow to his face was a blur. And a shock. ‘Geoffrey is my loyal servant!’ And the next. ‘Not like you, you traitor!’
Palmer could not keep in his long gasps of pain, his shoulder alive in new agony.
‘Who is Theodosia?’ Geoffrey’s question had the ring of truth.
Henry flung a hand at Palmer. ‘This cur’s wife.’ His breath came hard through his flared nostrils. ‘My daughter, Geoffrey. My daughter by Sister Amélie. An old, true marriage.’
Geoffrey stood rooted to the spot, robbed of words.
Doubt started to whisper at Palmer. Had he got all this wrong?
Henry carried on. ‘My own sons rose up against me, as well as my Queen. Why should you be any different, Palmer? You fought alongside the traitors once.’
‘Traitors?’ Geoffrey asked, still a mask of confusion.
‘He fought alongside those that murdered Becket.’ Henry spat the words.
Geoffrey paled.
The whisper became a roar. Palmer forced out a desperate question. ‘But why should I murder Amélie, my wife’s mother, when I have saved her life in the past?’
Henry hit him again. ‘That is no defence, knave! She wasn’t murdered. She died of her own illness. The Abbess informed me herself. Yet you try to make me believe a lie that Geoffrey killed her! Attempting to save your own wretched hide!’
Palmer’s insides turned over. He had heard she was dead. Assumed her murder. He had got it all wrong. So terribly, terribly wrong.
Henry pointed a shaking finger at Palmer. ‘I should have known. Once a traitor, always a traitor. You confessed to me once about how much you wanted wealth. But all you are is an impoverished farmer. Hugo Stanton’s duty is to keep me informed. You can hardly put bread on the table. My daughter’s table! My grandchildren’s table!’ His shouting reached new heights. ‘You would have be
en so easy to buy. As you were before. You dispatched Rosamund to ensure your own future.’
Geoffrey looked at him with a sorry shake of his head.
And Rosamund’s murderer walked free. Whoever he was. ‘Your Grace. I’ve got this wrong. Forgive me. I need another chance—’
Henry struck him again. ‘How much of an idiot do you take me for? You will serve as an example to those that sent you here. I will send out the message that I will not rest until I hunt them down, and their fates will be as yours. You are to be executed on the morrow. You are to be hanged for the traitor you are. I will be watching every second you dance on the end of the rope.’ Henry swivelled to Geoffrey. ‘No pulling on his legs to break his neck. You hear me?’
‘I can assure you, your Grace: my hangings are never merciful. With my skill with a noose, I will make his agony last.’ Geoffrey’s firm gaze met Palmer’s. ‘And you have no idea how long that will be.’
‘My lord?’
Lord Nicholas Ordell looked up in irritation from his seat by his hearth to see a servant standing at the entrance to his hall. In the midst of preparing prayers for Cecily’s funeral with Remigius, he did not relish any interruption.
The man bowed. ‘Joan Palmer is here to see you, as requested.’
‘Send her in.’ Remigius met Ordell’s eye.
‘The woman can have nothing of value to offer.’ Ordell shut his Bible with a snap. ‘And I am preparing to bury my sacred wife.’
The Abbot held up a placating hand. ‘I believe it is a worthwhile endeavour. At least folk will see we have given the matter all due weight and attention.’
The echo of the woman’s rough wooden shoes sounded in the quiet hall as she approached.
She stopped before him and gave a swift bow. ‘Lord Ordell.’ Her dark eyes glittered with arrogance, belying her show of respect. ‘My Lord Abbot.’
Ordell’s shoulders stiffened. Oh, this one was trouble. Like all women were. Few were chastised enough.
Remigius did not even seem to have noticed the Palmer woman’s insolence. For a man of the church, he often missed sinners.
Ordell stood up. ‘Joan Palmer. We have summoned you here today to question you about the dreadful discovery in your brother’s cottage.’ He locked onto her gaze. ‘Specifically, the finding of my dead wife’s heart in the children’s bed.’ The words he uttered could only have come from hell.
‘A terrible find.’ She at least had the decency to cross herself, and a softening came in her face. ‘I wish I could shed more light on how it got there. But I’m afraid I can’t. And that is God’s truth.’
‘You see?’ Ordell spread his hands to the Abbot. ‘Our time is wasted on such a creature.’
The Abbot just gave a fatuous smile and addressed her. ‘Joan, I have been to visit your sister. Seeking her confession, you understand?’
Joan nodded, white hands clasped. ‘Of course.’
‘Which she refused to make. She claims she is completely innocent. Which is, quite simply, an astonishing claim.’ The Abbot hauled himself to his feet and moved over to her, putting a hand on her shoulder. ‘Yet she puts great faith in you, my dear, to prove that claim.’
The woman nodded again, her expression full of resolve. ‘I made her a promise to find the truth, my Lord Abbot. And I’ll do everything I can to keep it.’
Ordell clicked his tongue in impatience. ‘And your coarse babbling tells me you have found nothing.’
‘I am sure you have many talents.’ Remigius squeezed her shoulder, then sighed and dropped his hand. ‘And yet, like his lordship, I believe the truth is out.’ He limped back to the fire.
‘There may be more to find, my lord.’
Her stubbornness to take instruction inflamed Ordell’s ire. ‘How dare you question your betters? Not only did she assault my men when they arrested her, Theodosia Palmer, the woman you try to defend, attacked the Abbot Remigius when he visited on his holy purpose yesterday. Put her sinful hands on God’s representative when he reminded her that the penalty for sorcery is burning.’ A spasm passed through him. ‘Like she had strength from Satan himself.’
Joan’s eyes opened wide. ‘Theodosia hit out again?’
The Abbot nodded, plump hands held to the fire. ‘Flew at me, she did. Tore at me. Set about me at the idea of the flames. I had to get the guard to come to my aid, such was the strength of her attack.’ He shook his head at Ordell. ‘We will have the same trouble at the trial, you mark my words.’
Joan had a hand to her face in naked shock. ‘Attacked her confessor?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said the Abbot. ‘Howling about waiting for her husband to return.’ He sniffed. ‘From his drunken pilgrimage? Of course not. We could wait forever.’
Joan’s face changed.
‘What?’ Ordell demanded.
Now her hands twisted too.
‘Speak, woman.’ Ordell ground out his order.
‘I also have to confess to a sin,’ she said.
The Abbot’s head shot up. ‘Then I will take you where we can be private with God.’
‘No.’ Ordell fixed her with his gaze. ‘You will confess it here. Now. Or join the rest of them in my undercroft.’
‘Yes, my lord.’ Joan’s fingers locked, unlocked. ‘On the day of the first search of the village, when the birds had been found, I told an untruth.’
Ordell tensed. ‘A lie, you mean.’
‘Yes. And I’m sorry.’ The pride had left her dark eyes. Now they held fear. Good.
The Abbot raised a hand to absolve her but Ordell stopped him. ‘Then confess your lie.’
‘I said that my brother was full of ale when he left the cottage to go on the pilgrimage to his family graves.’ She bit her lip. ‘He wasn’t. He went out that evening with Theodosia and did not return. Again, I’m sorry, my lord.’
Ordell’s breath came fast in his nostrils. ‘Then my suspicions are true. We know not of Palmer’s fate? Except for the word of a sorceress?’ He pointed at the Abbot. ‘You see, Remigius? Only God Himself will know what has befallen Benedict Palmer.’ He whipped round to face Joan. ‘And as for you, another liar. I need to decide what to do with you.’
‘My Lord Ordell, my Lord Abbot.’ Tears stood in her dark eyes now. ‘I beg your forgiveness. I’ve been lied to by Theodosia as well. I thought I was helping her.’ A tear slid down her cheek. ‘And now I see I’ve sinned. I’m a weak woman.’ More tears followed. ‘And worse, a foolish one who did not see that my brother may be in danger too.’
‘I have no time for your sinful stupidity.’ Ordell sniffed in disgust. ‘You who elevated herself to find the truth, when the ugly truth stared her in the face across the fire from her in the Palmer cottage. Remigius, I trust you will set her an appropriate penance.’ Ordell waved her away. ‘Now leave my sight before I decide worse for you.’
‘I beg you, my lord: let me help. I am so ashamed.’ She crossed herself again. ‘And what you have said about my poor brother terrifies my soul.’ She wrung her hands. ‘My Lord Abbot, you know I have so little left in the world. Please let me try.’
Remigius pursed his lips. ‘We will hear you out.’
She drew in a long, shuddering breath. ‘Lord Ordell, I believe I can get the truth from Theodosia. Get all to see the virtue of your trial. And put right the wrongs that have been done to my brother.’
To see the pride knocked from the Palmer woman gave him a small scrap of comfort. ‘Then be brief,’ said Ordell. ‘And if I do not like what you have to say, I will have you flogged.’ Now, that would be comfort indeed.
In all his twenty-two years, Hugo Stanton had never been so afraid. Not even the time an outlaw had thrown an axe at him from an ambush by the road, narrowly missing his head as he rode past. Not even the time he’d ridden through a mighty winter storm, an urgent message of Henry’s in his satchel, with huge trees fall
ing all around him. Not even when he thought he shared a cave with a hungry leopard.
And this time of greatest fear took place in a nunnery. Perhaps God punished him after all. He looked out his window again, with its clear view of the still-dark stable yard. He could just make out the newly constructed gallows, built with all haste on Henry’s orders late into yesterday evening.
The story of Rosamund’s death and Palmer’s role as her lover and murderer had been repeated and repeated in shocked whispers through the convent by the servants and guards, and even some of the sisters. Palmer would be hanged in just a few hours.
Stanton’s guts coiled. He hoped he wouldn’t have to run to the privy. Again. He’d lain with Rosamund too. The same night she took to Palmer’s bed. And then Palmer had throttled her.
He brought his knuckles to his mouth to stop his grief. She hadn’t deserved that. Not that. Not his sweet, fair Rosamund. Palmer should hang for such a crime.
Stanton shook his head hard to shift the terrible picture. He would say nothing. No point in drawing Henry’s wrath down on him as well. And anyhow, he hadn’t killed Rosamund. Palmer had. Upright Sir Benedict Palmer, with his holy wife and the complete trust of the King. Not anymore. But who’d have thought it?
Stanton’s gaze went to the window again. The earliest faint daylight had begun to show. It would all be over soon.
So long as Palmer didn’t mention, hadn’t mentioned, that he, Stanton, had also been bedding Rosamund. Stanton pulled his hands through his hair. It wouldn’t matter. He’d deny it all the way.
Deny questions from Geoffrey? Henry?
Sweat broke out all over him, as if he had a sickness. He needed wine to fortify his courage in case either of them called him for questioning.
He went to the door. Rosamund’s servant, Lucine, had always been a friend to him. To them both. And she always rose early to prepare her mistress’s bathing water. He caught himself. But now? Nobody to need warm, scented water.
He pushed down his grief again and made his way to Rosamund’s room. The sadness rose back up like a wave within him.