Authors: The Fifth Knight
E. M. Powell (42 page)
“Then you’ve just granted me Paradise.”
Henry got his feet, as did Theodosia. “Remember that when there are mice in your barn, when your cow stands on your toes, when you’re birthing lambs in the middle of the night.” He smiled. “When you’re holding your babies in your arms.” He patted her cheek again. “You’re right, it is Paradise. Let’s make all haste and get you a mount.”
They walked out of the chapel and into the bright, dazzling dawn, headed across the deep snow for the stables.
“Will you say good-bye to Mama for me?” said Theodosia. “I would do it in person, but I fear we would only be harsh with each other. She would hate my choice.” She heard the bitterness in her own voice. “For her, virtue and nobility are always first. Not even a child is more important.”
Henry said nothing, just reached into his apron pocket again. He handed Theodosia a tiny Book of Hours.
She stopped dead as Henry halted too. It was the one Mama had had all those years ago in Canterbury. Tiny, exquisite: Mama had kept it with her at all times, hadn’t even left it behind when she went away to Polesworth.
Her father put a hand over hers and gently guided her to open it at one particular page. On one side was a picture of Our Lady, the Christ child as a baby on her lap. On the facing page, a verse from John: “When a woman is giving birth, she has sorrow because her hour has come, but when she has delivered the baby, she no longer remembers the anguish, for joy that a human being has been born into the world.”
The ink was faded, the edges of the page stained with a thousand touches. And marking the page was a baby curl: a dark-blonde feather, secured with a thin strand of white silk.
Sudden tears blurred Theodosia’s sight.
“Don’t judge her too harshly,” said Henry quietly. “She did what she thought was right, which is what all loving parents do. It cost her dear.” He closed the book and left it in her hands. “She wants you to have it, with her blessing, and to think of her more fondly when you have children of your own.”
Theodosia’s tears spilled over.
“Now come,” said Henry. “You’ll need to be swift if you’re to catch Benedict up.”
♦ ♦ ♦
Palmer rode at a steady trot through the snow-covered woods, the gelding easily eating up the miles.
Watery winter sun had turned the sky a washed-out blue. He had a sudden yearning for spring, for warmth, for the sun on his face, for long, sun-filled evenings.
Yet he’d face them alone. His joy would have been to share them with Theodosia, to have her call to him for supper made with her own small hands, for him to bring her flowers from the fields. He could hear her voice now. He shook the imaginary sound from his ears.
But there it was again.
“Benedict! Benedict! Wait! It’s me!”
He turned in his saddle. And there she was, galloping after him apace, cloak streaming out behind her. He halted his mount and secured it to a tree as Theodosia raced into the clearing.
She pulled up her mount and flung the reins round a bush.
“What are you doing?” he asked as he dismounted.
She jumped down from her horse and approached him, breathless from her ride. “Are you ready for Paradise?”
“You talk in riddles — ”
But she cut off his words with her lips, fastening them on his as she pulled him tight to her.
Canterbury, Kent, July 12, 1174
The streets of Canterbury teemed with people. Henry had known it would be thus.
From his view out a ground-floor window at the Episcopal Palace, they lined the streets, shoved their heads through casements, sat up on walls. All to get a better look. The excited clamor reminded Henry of massed birds in a feeding frenzy, all waiting to get their fill and screaming till they did.
The sight of a king doing public penance was unheard of. Every citizen who could had made the journey so they would witness it for themselves, tell it forever to those who hadn’t. But Henry wasn’t doing it for them. He did it for his own soul, and as the only way he knew to express his deep, enduring sorrow for the death of his dear friend Thomas Becket.
He turned to the waiting new Archbishop, Becket’s successor. “I’m ready.”
The Archbishop nodded. “Here is your sackcloth, sire.” He held up the rough garment as Henry stripped to his waist.
Successor? Perhaps, but no match for the great Becket. The world would not see his like again. A glance down showed Henry’s own corpulent spread, the gift of middle age. How soft his skin had become from his life as king, with the muscle of his vigorous youth softening to useless flesh. It wouldn’t be too many years before even that soft flesh gave way to shriveled skin and creaking bones. But at least he still had the gift of life. Because of him, Thomas did not. Henry took the sackcloth and slipped it over his head, glad to embrace his penance.
Next, the Archbishop produced a dish of blessed ashes.
“Do you wish me to apply these, sire?”
“No.” Henry dipped his fingers in the nearby holy-water font, then into the dusty softness of the finely ground ash. He smeared his face with the black paste to give himself the mask of the sinner. “Let us proceed.”
“Your Grace.” The Archbishop moved to the door and bowed as he opened it.
Henry stepped into the broiling sun, and the roar of the crowd swelled in volume and climbed in pitch. His bare feet, delicate as a maid’s from years of wearing the finest shoes, hit against every bump of the cobbles in a painful jar.
The line of eighty black-robed monks waited, scourges in hand. Sweat poured down their faces from their wait in the sun.
Henry blessed himself and set off on his slow journey. The first scourge landed across his shoulders and drew a gasp from the watchers. It stung like a serpent, but Henry walked on, praying aloud. Another scourge cracked down, and he continued despite the pain.
The crowd grew more subdued. Many took up the rhythm of his prayer. Others raised their voices in solemn hymns. Still others wept as they saw his suffering, his humiliation on the public streets.
His progress was slow, difficult. The scourges bit, his skin tore. But it was for Thomas, the martyr, the saint. Tonight he, Henry, would spend all night at the ornate shrine in the cathedral, the one built on the very spot where the murdering knights had felled Thomas.
“God bless you, sire. You know He will.”
A voice he knew well. A woman’s voice.
Henry turned his head to see who spoke. In spite of his pain, he smiled.
Dressed in simple peasant dress, her face tanned from the summer sun, freckles across her nose, was Theodosia. Her belly swelled with a babe who’d be here by autumn.
Next to her stood Benedict Palmer, his shoulders even broader from his near on four years as a farmer.
Palmer nodded his sympathy, and his dark eyes said more than words. Sat on his shoulders, small mouth round in astonishment, was a little red-haired lad of about three. Palmer raised a hand. “The blessings of Saint Thomas Becket upon you, sire.”
It was as if his pain had lifted.
Henry smiled in return, squared his shoulders, and continued on his pilgrimage to Canterbury Cathedral.
THE END
The Fifth Knight
is a work of fiction but many of the events and characters in it are based on fact.
The murder of Archbishop Thomas Becket in Canterbury Cathedral in 1170 is one of the most infamous EPISODEs in medieval history. Becket and King Henry II had been close friends and allies, but relationships between the two had become increasingly strained from 1165 onwards. Their disputes were power struggles: between church and state, and between canon and secular law.
Matters came to a head at Henry’s Christmas court in Normandy in December 1170. Hearing of Becket’s excommunication of the King’s religious allies, Henry is alleged to have exploded into a rage (for which he was well known) and demanded “Will no one rid me of this troublesome priest?” Other popular versions are “This meddlesome priest” and “This turbulent priest.”
Four knights (Sir Reginald Fitzurse, Sir Hugh de Morville, Sir William de Tracy and Sir Richard le Bret) then acted on his words, and left for England to murder the Archbishop. It is interesting that no one can quite explain why these knights decided to take such action. Various accounts state “They overheard him”, or “They took it upon themselves” and “They took Henry at his word.” They were not directly ordered by Henry. There are accounts of the four knights fleeing to Knaresborough after the murder, and also to Scotland and Cumbria.
The public outrage that followed Becket’s death was intense. The blame for the murder was laid at Henry’s door and there were calls for him to be excommunicated from the church. Pope Alexander intervened, instead excommunicating the four knights. Their penance was to be sent to the Holy Land for fourteen years but later accounts of them are vague. Henry conducted a public penance for Becket’s death on the streets of Canterbury in July 1174.
Brother Edward Grim’s written description of the murder is very detailed. Yet he was the sole person to directly observe Becket’s murder (other than the murderers), making his the only eye-witness account. In it, Grim makes sure that his own role is important. He is clear the other monks left, that he was wounded trying to defend Becket and that he stayed to hold the dying Archbishop.
Henry’s relationship with his Queen, Eleanor of Aquitaine, was also filled with conflict. When they married in 1154, she was eleven years older than him and had previously been married to King Louis VII of France. She had six children, with four surviving sons. Henry’s infidelities were well-known and he may have considered divorce from Eleanor so he could marry a mistress. By 1167, Henry and Eleanor were estranged. Eleanor sided with her sons, all of whom distrusted their father. Eleanor spent several years under house arrest, such was Henry’s suspicion of her political intentions and fear of her skill at plotting.
There are many surviving records of anchoress’s cells in medieval churches and some cells exist to this day. There is no record of an anchoress’s cell in Canterbury, although much of the structure has been destroyed and rebuilt over the centuries.
Thomas Becket was canonized in 1173 and remains a venerated saint. His shrine was destroyed in 1538 on the orders of Henry VIII. Today, a single candle marks the place where it once stood.
There’s only my name on the cover, but it took many special people to get it there. My wonderful husband, Jon and beautiful daughter, Angela have helped me every step of the way. My literary agent, Josh Getzler, and his assistant, Maddie Raffel, believed in my work. At Thomas & Mercer, Andy Bartlett believed in it too, with Annie Morgan applying her special touch. And for Pat Sider, online angel and keeper of the dream: you know what you did.
E. M. Powell was born and raised in Ireland, a descendant of Irish revolutionary Michael Collins. At University College, Cork, she discovered a love of Anglo-Saxon and medieval English during her study of literature and geography. She is a member of Romance Writers of America, the Historical Novel Society, and International Thriller Writers. A reviewer for the Historical Novel Society, she lives today in Manchester, England, with her husband and daughter. To read more about the world of The Fifth Knight, go to
www.empowell.com
.
This book was originally released in EPISODEs as a Kindle Serial. Kindle Serials launched in 2012 as a new way to experience serialized books. Kindle Serials allow readers to enjoy the story as the author creates it, purchasing once and receiving all existing EPISODEs immediately, followed by future EPISODEs as they are published. To find out more about Kindle Serials and to see the current selection of Serials titles, visit
www.amazon.com/kindleserials
.
Table of Contents