E. M. Powell (12 page)

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-f 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.”

Theodosia remained still, her breathing shallow. He held her tighter, and her chill seemed to soak into his own bones.

He raised her eyelids with gentle fingers, and her set pupils stared back. His innards lurched. She was in mortal danger. He needed to get her soaked woolen clothing off, get her covered with straw. He laid her back down on the floor. Even as he started to loosen her skirt, he knew it was useless. But he had to try.

The bolt rattled in its barrel, then the door creaked open. Lamplight flooded in.

Palmer’s hand went to his dagger as he peered through the cow’s brown legs.

“Good morning, Mistress Marigold,” said a sharp, matronly voice. A red skirt rustled against the straw as the woman stepped inside. “Mind, no fussing when I take your milk this morn.”

Not Fitzurse. But still the threat of discovery. He crouched low, his arms circled around Theodosia.

The light danced across the low-beamed ceiling, with a couple of metallic
ting
s as the woman secured the lamp. “There. You won’t be able to kick it over, no matter how hard you try.” The sound of her palms rubbing together told him her task. With a wooden-pattened shoe, she pushed a three-legged milking stool to the cow’s side and sat down. As she tucked her wiry, graying hair under her linen cap, her eyes met Palmer’s. She jumped up with a shriek. “Gilbert! A robber!”

She clattered out the door.

They had to get out before the woman returned with help. Palmer went to gather Theodosia into his arms.

The door creaked once again. Whoever Gilbert was, he’d responded quickly. “Show yourself.”

A male voice, with the quaver of advanced years. Easy to get past, but not carrying the unconscious Theodosia. Palmer stepped around the cow’s hairy haunches. He unsheathed his dagger as a threat.

A thin, white-haired man faced him, tall once, but now stooped with his years. Dressed in neat black jerkin and breeches, he held a rusted curved tanner’s knife aloft. The blade was pitted and uneven with age, but his grip rested sure. His wife, square-faced and plain but younger than he, shielded herself a step behind him.

“Lower your weapon, you wastrel,” said Gilbert. “Then get out. That is my animal.” His watery blue-gray eyes had the mettle of a man quarter his age.

“I don’t want your animal, sir,” said Palmer. “I only came in here to seek warmth.” He gave the cow a firm push, and she stepped away with a low of protest.

Gilbert’s look turned to surprise as Theodosia’s form was revealed on the floor.

“I was trying to revive my wife,” continued Palmer. “We were traveling by the river, and the bank gave way. She fell in, and it was many minutes before I could get her out. I fear the cold has its hold on her and her life’s at risk.”

The man’s look softened, so Palmer pressed on.

“Please, let me keep her in here. Otherwise, she’ll die.” He dropped his dagger at Gilbert’s feet. “Have my weapon. I mean you no harm.”

“Don’t listen to him, Gilbert,” said the woman, her face set in well-worn lines of hostility. “They will both be vagabonds.”

To Palmer’s huge relief, Gilbert lowered his hefty blade. “Hush, Gwendolyn,” he said. “The knight has disarmed. His poor wife is in great peril.” He retrieved Palmer’s dagger from the floor and handed it back. “Your property, sir knight. Bring your lady inside. ’Tis far warmer there than in here.”

Palmer bent to Theodosia and lifted her soaked body into his arms. Her eyes opened and his heart surged in relief.

“Isssit time for dancing?”

“No, my love,” he said. “But maybe later.”

Gilbert nodded. “She still has hope. Let us make haste.”

Palmer followed the couple out of the cowshed and across the yard to the main building. Theodosia’s head tipped back over his left arm. She was lost to the world once more. They entered a side door, and Gilbert gestured for him to come through.

Palmer stepped into what appeared to be a shuttered shop. The light of a single candle placed on the narrow counter showed different pelts and skins fastened to wooden shelves and frames, ready to be put on show. The scent of new, good leather hung sweet in the air.

“Gwendolyn, go and put some water on to heat,” said Gilbert.

His wife did as he asked, but with a displeased set of her jaw. As she went to mount the narrow staircase, she addressed her husband. “I’m not having these people in my home. We don’t know a thing about them.” She stamped up the wooden stairs without waiting for an answer.

Gilbert gave a soft sigh. “Good sir, bring your lady through here.” He picked up the candle and indicated to a room at the back.

As Palmer carried Theodosia in, he noted whitewashed walls and clean, swept floorboards. Windowless, it contained no furniture but instead stored bales of more pelts and skins.