E. M. Powell (31 page)

“You talk in riddles. All I can glean is you want to marry another.”

“I don’t, Amélie. But my duty insists on it.” He let go of her and raked his spread fingers through his thick hair.

“How can duty, nobility, be more important than a promise before God?”

“I’m not saying they’re more important. Only that I have to fulfill them. As God is my witness, Amélie, I wish I didn’t have to. I still love you, I’ll never stop loving you.”

“But you will go through the lie, the sin, of marrying another.” Amélie bit her lip to hold in her fury. “How could you do this, Geoffrey?”

He looked at her for a long moment. “Not Geoffrey. That’s my father’s name. My real name is Henry. And as a prince, I have to.”

♦ ♦ ♦

Amélie fixed Theodosia with a calm gaze. “Your father is King Henry himself. My handsome stranger was a prince, and I did not know it when I married him and bore his child.”

Theodosia’s lungs wouldn’t fill. Words wouldn’t come. Benedict’s astonished exclamation sounded as if it were underwater.

“Help me, Benedict.” Her mother’s voice too, at a great, great distance.

The room lost color, faded to black and white.

Strong arms slipped across her shoulders. “Put your head down,” said Benedict, his deep voice near.

Theodosia did so, and the room whirled back into focus. She raised her head and looked from her mother to Benedict. He too had paled with the enormity of this revelation.

Amélie seemed sad yet utterly composed. “You can only imagine my shock at his words. I was sure I was to be put to death, and you, my blessed baby, along with me.”

“Why were we spared?” said Theodosia.

“His Grace was adamant he loved me from the moment he saw me, always would. That his marriage to Eleanor of Aquitaine was for political gain and no other reason.” Her lips puckered in bitterness. “She’s senior to him by eleven years, so I could believe him. Soiled goods, as well, cast aside by a king of France. Oh, he could persuade a stone to turn to gold, could your father. By the end of his visit, I had agreed to stay with my parents, and he would come and see you and me as often as he dared.”

“And he did?” said Benedict.

Amélie nodded. “Things changed suddenly after a couple of years, when Henry and Eleanor succeeded to the throne. For a prince to travel anonymously is difficult enough. He had barely managed it by behaving oddly and changing his plans at short notice. For a king, especially with a watchful queen, it was almost impossible. That was where our dear Thomas Becket came in.”

The door opened.

Theodosia gave a dreadful start, as if a ghost had entered.

Brother Edward Grim greeted them as he shut the door carefully and removed his cloak. “The sailing passages are booked,” he said. “Have you told them your story, Amélie?” He placed a flagon of wine, a jar of water, and a loaf of bread on the small table.

“I am almost finished, Brother,” she said. “Becket was serving as an archdeacon in Canterbury. Due to his brilliance and compassion, he was recommended as chancellor to Henry. They hit it off straight away and became the closest friends. Henry confided his secret to Becket, as not seeing Laeticia and me was breaking his heart. It was Becket’s suggestion to move us to Canterbury Cathedral.”

“I never saw the King there,” said Theodosia.

“You couldn’t,” said Amélie. “As you grew up, your coloring, your looks, became more and more like your father’s.” Her brows drew in a fleeting frown. “Not to mention your demeanor. We could not risk people seeing you and me with him and wondering about our ties.”

“It worked,” said Edward with a nod. “You were under my nose all along, and I never guessed.”

“That was why I had to go to Polesworth Abbey,” said Amélie. “But God consoled me. I made you as my gift to God, Laeticia.”

“Theodosia,” said Edward.

“Of course, Brother,” said her mother.

Theodosia had no words. It did not console her. She’d been ten years old, her mother’s place had been with her
.

Benedict got to his feet. “Then my mission with the knights would have been ordered because the King and Becket had fallen out. Becket held Henry’s darkest secret. If it had got out, everything would have been ruined: the King’s marriage, his sons illegitimate.”

“Indeed,” said Edward. “Henry sent them to arrest Becket and find Sisters Amélie and Theodosia. He must have wanted to contain his secret once more.”

A deep sorrow and even deeper guilt tore through Theodosia. Bad enough that Thomas had died to save her, that had plagued her enough. But to have been cut down for a sinful lie — the lie was she and her false vocation. She might as well have landed a blow on the altar at Canterbury herself. Her stomach convulsed, and she put a hand to her mouth. How could she ever have thought she was a woman of God?

Around her, they talked on.

“Is it safe for Sisters Amélie and Theodosia to travel to France to see the King, Brother Edward?” said Benedict.

“I believe so.” The monk lit the wick of the open-dished oil lamp. “Come.” He gestured for all to sit round at table as he too sat. “Sister Theodosia?” His prompt allowed no delay.

Theodosia complied with weakened limbs, joining her mother.

“Thank you, Brother,” said Amélie. “I hadn’t noted the time slip away. Why, the darkness is almost complete outside.”

“Palmer, sit down,” said Edward.

The knight hung back from the table, standing with his big hands awkwardly at his side. “I don’t think I am fit to share this table, now that I know the truth.” He bowed to Amélie.

“Oh, dear boy.” Amélie gave him a sweet little smile. “I have lived humbly for so many years. It is very important that I am treated as a vowess.” She patted the free stool. “Things must be as before.”

“That’s very important,” said Edward, addressing Theodosia also. “Not a word of this can come out.”

“You have my word.” Benedict sat as directed. “Faith, it’s a shock to have heard it. I’m not sure my mind can make sense of it all.” He bowed his head with the others as Edward said grace, then poured out goblets of wine for himself and Edward. “Indeed, it was a shock to me also,” said Edward, “but a good lesson in finding out that people may not always be who they seem.” He poured water for the women.

Theodosia stared at her piece of bread, appetite gone. How could they all carry on as normal? Talk. Smile. Exchange pleasantries. When her sinful lie of a life had brought death to Canterbury. A liar’s death for Thomas. The words beat like a drum in her head.

“Tell me, Edward,” said Benedict, mouth full as he chewed, “why do you think Theodosia and Sister Amélie are safe to come with us to see the King?”

Edward took a thoughtful sip of his wine. “We have heard Amélie’s story. It’s corroborated by items I found in Archbishop Becket’s papers. Add to that our eyewitness account. You, Sister Theodosia, and I were all there, Palmer. His Grace needs to know that the arrest went wrong, that murder was committed in his name by brutal knights who’d lost control.” He looked round the table. “This is our chance to set the record of history straight and to ensure the King’s name is cleared. That is our God-given duty, isn’t that so?”

Amélie and Benedict murmured their agreement.

“Sister Theodosia?” Brother Edward’s searching green gaze rested on her.

Duty it might be. But no longer God-given. Only by sinful man.

Amélie’s gaze rested on her too, drawn by her silence.

She couldn’t form words, not now, not to them. To anyone. “Of course.” She managed a whisper.

Satisfied, they turned their attention from her and began to talk through the whole wretched story once again.

CHAPTER 24

Theodosia lay abed in the shadowed, quiet room and watched the pattern of stars change slowly in the small window. Every muscle in her exhausted body ached for sleep, for oblivion. But it would not come. Not like all the times she’d lost her battle against sleep in her cell, slumped forward over her Psalter in the early hours. Her regret afterward, the knowledge of her weakness. Now, when she would welcome sleep’s dark forgetfulness, it would not come, and she knew why.

She’d been taught to look on her bed in the same way as she did her grave, as if she were entering it for burial. A clean, washed body. She had done that earlier. A clear conscience also, to grant her scared rest.

Her conscience had never been so disturbed. Her mother’s account of her birth whirled through her mind over and over. All she thought she’d been had been broken to pieces. Her life, based on truth, on holiness, had been revealed as one gigantic lie. A lie of which she hadn’t even been aware.

She turned over yet one more time, willing her body to relax into unconsciousness. Her sore limbs refused, tensed as if they had life of their own. Across the room, her mother slept in the second bed, her slow breaths a reflection of her deep, peaceful slumber.

The sleep of the just. With a sudden wave of fury that sickened her to her stomach, Theodosia sat upright. How on earth could Mama rest so? Mama’s calling to the holy life had been a lie, a lie to conceal a wrong passion and to continue it while her husband became betrothed to another. Mama’s gift of her, Theodosia, as an oblate: another falsehood. Worse, a falsehood that had cast her away as if she were of no importance, her child’s heart broken in the process.

She bent up her knees and hugged them, willing her rage, her grief, to subside. But it did not. Her mother slept on, her form still beneath neatly tucked sheets.

Her mother had given her life, the most precious gift there was, but through her selfish desires had brought death knocking, calling to her daughter, over and over again during the past, terrible weeks. Theodosia tightened her grip. Not only to her. To innocents like Becket, Gilbert, the nuns.

And Benedict. The man who had faced death with her, had shielded her over and over again from its hideous embrace. His thanks had been her constant rejection of him, her desire to be rid of him, so she could reclaim her calling as an anchoress. A good, good man put aside so she could follow a calling as empty and false as the painted lands on the stage of a miracle play.

Her limbs trembled with the tightness of her own angry embrace. She had to lose some of this wrong emotion or it would consume her. She slipped out of bed, the bare wood floor chilly beneath her feet. Arms crossed, she walked the short distance from bed to door and back, over and over. If she had to pace all night, she’d do it.

The small table with the remains of their simple meal caught her eye. The few scraps of bread didn’t appeal. A half-f stone wine bottle did. Benedict had told her once he favored alcohol to help him sleep, to take the pains from his battle-weary limbs, to make him forget the terrible sights he’d seen. Perhaps it would help her pain in the same way.

Theodosia went over to the table and picked up the bottle. A sniff to the open top had her wrinkle her nose. It smelled like the stuff he’d made her sip, had splashed over her in the kitchen at Knaresborough. Wine might be made from grapes, but it had a peculiar sharp scent. Further, it was a sinful potion that robbed men and women of their senses, made them fight. Lust. She went to replace it, then halted.

So if it did cause sin? Why should she care anymore? Her days of virtue and purity had been for naught. She could achieve no rest, she was marked with evil. Now, if she chose to indulge as the rest of the world did, it would not matter. With hands that shook, she picked up a goblet and poured a full measure.

She put the bottle down and brought the goblet to her lips. Again, the heavy scent of the wine prickled the inside of her nose. She took a sip. Bitterness flooded into her mouth, a soil-like taste and scent mingled together. Her tongue curled.

As she wondered how anyone could tolerate such a thing, the liquid hit her stomach. Strange warmth began to grow there, as if she had a low fire within. She took another mouthful. The bitterness was less this time, and the subtlest taste of fruit broke through. The heat brought by the first mouthful increased and spread along her arms, her legs. This was what Benedict must have meant. She drank again, and it tasted almost palatable. A final mouthful emptied the goblet, and she replaced it on the table. A slight wooziness in her head should have prevented her from having any more.
Should have.
She filled another goblet and drank it down in one untasted draught. She wiped her mouth with her fingers. Now perhaps she’d sleep — her head spun as if she might faint.

Theodosia considered her narrow, hard bed with its tousled covers and scratchy straw mattress. She’d lain in it for hours already without closing an eye. Hours where she had thought of her mother, the King, Thomas. She clenched her fists in frustration. Here they came again, the same thoughts, the same pictures in her head. The wretched wine hadn’t worked, whatever Benedict might claim. She needed to get out of this room, try somehow to break this horrible repeated wheel in her mind.

She made her way out the door and onto the deserted corridor. A large window stood at one end, secured with iron bars rather than the rare, expensive glass of the church. It faced the open sky to light one end of the corridor. Through it, she could see the small moon hang in the starlit sky. She went toward it to get a better view. Funny how the chill night air seeping from it seemed to bother her little, even though she was dressed only in her thin shift and underskirts.

As she stepped up to the barred window, she caught her breath. On the quayside, the sea had lapped dirty against the dock, hidden by the jam of boats and humanity. But from this high window, the water glistered with starlight and the mirrored moon, opening out before her, promising her a world of wonder, of possibility. She had a sudden desire to leave the hostel, to go out and get on the first boat to leave, put this life and its heartbreaking history behind her. She put a hand to the bars as if they might part before her touch. Of course they didn’t. They stayed resolute, cold, hard, like all the barriers in her short existence. Barriers put up by her mother. By Edward. By the church. Even by her beloved Thomas.