E. M. Powell (10 page)

He let go of her and showed her his hands, filthy with ash from the range. “You look as dirty as these, Sister.”

 Theodosia brought a hand to her face and looked at her fingertips. She was indeed smeared with new filth. “Sir knight, you have no intention of saving me. You only want to play some horrid jest. I was a fool to follow you.” She looked toward the door, waiting for the dread figures to show there.

“I thank you for your trust in me.” He grasped her by the elbow.

“Why should I trust you?” She shook him off. “I am not doing anything else until you tell me what your plan is.”

“It’s simple.” Palmer gave her a humorless smile. “We walk out the front door.”

♦ ♦ ♦

No bloody drink left. Sir Hugh de Morville shoved at the dead ashes of the hall’s fire with the heel of his boot. No bloody heat, neither.

He was supposed to be lord of this castle. Instead he sat here like a turnip-headed peasant, without sup nor warmth. At least bed would bring one of those. Rising to his feet, he swayed to balance.

Fitzurse had not long since retired, with his stuck-up “Go easy, my friend” as he’d gone abed.

De Morville hawked on the floor in disgust. He was in charge here, it was his castle, his land. Not Fitzurse’s. Who did Fitzurse think he was, issuing orders all the time?
We’ll have Palmer, we’ll do this, we’ll do that. You’ll not do the girl.

De Morville went toward the door with careful steps. He cursed Fitzurse for the arrangement to meet at dawn in the forge. Up with the bloody cockerel, and nothing to do except watch Fitzurse take up the castle blacksmiths’ expensive time with some metal bull.

“Some bullshit would be more like,” he muttered to himself. His own joke set him off into a long wheeze of a laugh, and he clutched the doorjamb for support.

He finished in a spasm of coughing as he considered Fitzurse’s plan. It would get the information they needed from the girl, no question. Fitzurse would get his pleasure too. The gleam in his pale eyes as he’d described the workings of the bull meant only one thing.

De Morville shook his head. His own pleasures were much more straightforward. He liked a virgin more than anything, especially one who fought her taking. The girl wouldn’t be up to much fighting if she was half-cooked. He belched long and hard. Then why not do her now, eh? Pissed as he was, his cock warmed in his breeches. It might take her mouth first to get him fully up, but he’d have no problem with that.

He staggered toward the stairs. It was all his: his castle, his dungeon, his prisoner. He could do what he bloody well liked.

♦ ♦ ♦

The door that opened out from the deserted corridor squeaked loud on rusty hinges as Sir Palmer pushed it open, revealing a covered porch. Despite the dirty cloth that muffled her face and neck, Theodosia’s flesh pimpled with cold in the frigid night air.

She looked across the courtyard. Mercifully empty though it was, the high walls surrounding it linked even higher towers of forbidding yellowed stone, enclosing it completely. The main doors stood at the opposite end, the dark, metal-studded wood three times the height of Sir Palmer and shut tight.

“How can we get out this way?” she asked, voice low.

Palmer pointed to the gates. “Like I said. Out the front door.” He reached a long arm around her waist and tugged her to him, hip to hip.

“Do not hold me so.” Her sharp whisper had no effect, and she squirmed. “What you do is sinful.”

He held her tight. “It might be shameful for a nun,” he said, “but not for a whore.”

Now she understood his actions, the lecherous caitiff. “You had no plan at all. That you would trick me so for my virtue.” She pulled against him, to no avail. “Then I would rather die.”

Palmer hauled her round to face him. “Not to be a whore, Sister. Only to act like one. For the next few minutes.” He gripped her arms tight. “And we’ve no more time for questions. You do as I say. Or I’ll leave you here.”

His glower told her he meant it.

She gave a stiff nod.

He pulled her to his side again and descended the steps from the porch. They set off across the icy courtyard, the knight’s boots echoing against the stone flags.

“Come on, wench.” He said it with full voice.

He made such a noise, he’d wake the whole castle. Theodosia pulled at his surcoat. “Quiet!” she hissed. “Someone will hear you.”

Instead, he took a hefty stagger almost to one knee and pulled her down with him. “Bollocks to this ice.”

As she struggled to keep her foothold, a voice rang out from the shadows by the main gate.

“Who’s there? Show yourselves in the name of de Morville!”

The call shot through her soul. Palmer had roused the guards.

♦ ♦ ♦

“Guard! Open up the bloody door.” Sir Hugh de Morville shouted his order as he rounded the last corner of the passageway that led to the dungeon.

He stopped in surprise as the door came into view. All in order, closed tight. But no one stood watch. The torch flickered on an empty post.

De Morville made the last few steps and tried the door. Locked, of course. He swore and spat richly on the damp floor. Where could the knave be? Doubtless sat on the privy, or other such time wasting. Worse, the man might be curled up in a warm corner, using the deserted castle and late hour to sleep off his watch.

Wherever he was, it meant de Morville’s pleasure was thwarted, leastways for the time being. He dealt the door a hefty kick. “Raise yourself, Sister. Once I have the key, you’ll be at my bidding.”

A muffled voice came from within.

De Morville halted his next kick in surprise. That were no maid’s voice. He put his right ear to the door. “What are you up to, you mangy dog? Unlock this bloody door and come out. You’ve no business in there.”

“I can’t, sir. He’s locked me in, took the key. Chained me up too. Can hardly breathe.”

“Who has?”

“One of the knights, sir. He went with the prisoner.”

“Which bastard knight?”

“Called himself Palmer, sir.”

Rage sobered de Morville as quick as a bucket of icy water over his head. “I knew it.” He kicked the door so hard he near broke his foot, but the wood remained solid. “You fool, soldier. I’ll deal with you later.”

“Very sorry, sir.”

“Don’t worry. You will be. Sorrier than a gelded goat if I have anything to do with it.” De Morville gave the door the punch he wanted to give to this oaf’s face.

Then he turned and sprinted back toward the stairwell.

♦ ♦ ♦

“Show ourselves? Have you no eyes, man?” Sir Palmer slurred his words as he lurched toward the gate.

Theodosia staggered too, half pulled off her feet by the knight’s tight hold on her waist.

The thickly clothed sentry looked askance at them as they approached and drew his sword in readiness. “Stop where you are.”

Theodosia tried to respond to the clipped command, but Sir Palmer paid no heed. “I’ll thank you to have some manners, soldier.”

“Stop. Now.” The sentry held his sword in readiness.

Theodosia grasped at Palmer’s arm as hard as she could. They would be cut down.

The knight carried on, halting only a couple of steps away from de Morville’s man and his sharp metal blade.

Her heart pounded in her chest, and she feared her knees would give way.

“I’ll thank you to open that gate, soldier,” said Palmer.

The sentry’s unimpressed look swept over them both. She could strike Palmer for his foolishness. Had he stayed quiet, they might have had a chance.

“And I’ll thank you to explain yourself, you insolent swillbelly.” The sentry gave a loud sniff. “I can smell the drink from here. Sir de Morville will want to know how you and your trollop got hold of his supplies.”

Palmer drew himself up and took a step toward the sentry. “I am Sir Benedict Palmer, returned with Sir Hugh from his recent mission. He poured his supplies into my glass with his own hand. How does that make me a swillbelly?”

The sentry paled and lowered his weapon. “My lord, apologies — ”

Palmer cut him off with a wave of his free hand. “Enough of your blubbing. I care not. And you were right about one thing.” He made a clumsy lunge at Theodosia’s chest, crushing her lips with his. She held in her cry of disgust. He broke from her with a coarse laugh and addressed the sentry. “You’re right, she is a trollop. A bit dirty, but very willing.”

He jabbed his unseen fingers against her ribs to prompt her enthusiastic nod.

“So willing that she wants me to meet her friends at a bawdy house in the town. Are you going to keep me from my pleasure, soldier?”

“No indeed, Sir Palmer.” The sentry turned and hurried to the massive main gate, where he busied himself raising the heavy wooden bars.

Palmer glanced down at her. “Keep it up,” he whispered through clenched teeth.

Stomach turning at her own base actions, she flung a hand to the knight’s neck and stroked it.

The gate opened with a deep creak, the gap enough to allow them through. “As you required, Sir Palmer.”

“Good man.” Palmer leaned Theodosia against him and made his way to the gate.

“Good night to you, sir. What’s left of it.” The sentry gave a brief salute as they passed through.

The road ahead dipped steeply toward the straggle of the town of Knaresborough lining the river along the narrow valley.

“Carry on with our slow stagger,” came Palmer’s low murmur. “And once the gate’s closed, we run.”

♦ ♦ ♦

The sentry slid the bolts in place and made the gates secure once more. It was tricky work in his thick leather gloves, but he wouldn’t remove them for a gallon of hippocras, not on a night as cold as this. At least his work on the gate had made his blood move round a bit more. Guard duty in winter could lead to black fingers and toes if you weren’t careful.

He stamped his feet a couple of times for good measure.

Across the courtyard, the door from the porch at the bottom of the main keep flew open. A flushed-looking de Morville dashed out.

The sentry snapped to attention as his lord ran over to him, slipping and sliding on the icy stones.

“Have you seen Palmer and the prisoner?” said de Morville.

“I’ve seen Sir Palmer. But he had no prisoner, my lord. Only a harlot.”

“A woman?”

“Yes, my lord. I allowed them passage to the town. He wanted to go to her brothel.”

“Fool!”

The sentry ducked from his lord’s furious swipe. “I’m sorry, my lord. He said he’d been feasting with you tonight. He had great authority.”

“And you have a tiny helping of sense.”

“I will get the gates open at once, my lord. We can give chase — they must only be at the bottom of the hill.”

“Forget that.” De Morville heeled round to return to the castle. “I’ll take the sally port. Going down the tunnel will give me the surprise of being ahead of them, when they expect me to come after.” He held out a hand. “Give me your sword.”

The sentry complied. “Please excuse my foolishness, my lord. Whatever you want, I will do it to put it right.”

“Then take yourself up to wake Lord Fitzurse. Tell him to follow me down the tunnel. Armed.”

The sentry breathed a sigh of relief as de Morville hurried off and he hastened behind. His apology had been accepted.

De Morville paused and gave the sentry a sour look. “And on the morrow, you’ll get your flogging. Six for each prisoner and six for your stupidity.”

“Yes, my lord.” His bowels knotted tight but cramped at his lord’s next words.

“And if I don’t find them, I’ll hang you.”

CHAPTER 7

Palmer’s breath clouded before his face as he and Theodosia ran through the unlit narrow streets of Knaresborough, his arm locked tight through hers to keep her speed up. Dark houses and shuttered shops meant no one would see them pass but might easily hear them. The brown, smooth ice that coated the mud road snapped and cracked under his boots, her shoes.

Theodosia’s feet went from under her, but he blocked her fall and pulled her on.

“Hold, sir knight.” She panted so hard she could scarce speak. “It feels like a knife in my side.”

“That’ll pass. We can’t stop.” He hurried her along the slippery surface. “Keep going, and faster.”

Her brow creased as she fought for breath.

He knew how much it hurt when you couldn’t get air in your lungs and still had to run. Yet she tried to match him, even with her shorter legs. “That’s it.” He took more of her weight to help her.

They neared a row of wretched cottages, the wattle-and-daub walls splintered and crumbling. A dog barked as they passed, scrabbling against a warped door.

Theodosia clutched at him hard. “What if it gets out?”

“Keep moving.” He forced her past.

The animal fell quiet and she relaxed her hold.

“We’ve nothing to defend ourselves with. Nothing.” Her gray eyes shone with fear.

“I’ve got my dagger.”

“There was an axe in the cell.” Her look judged him as a fool.

“And what would the sentry have done if I’d come into the courtyard carrying a weapon with the Knaresborough crest?” He fixed her with a scathing glance. “Leave the fighting to me, Sister.”

Beneath the filth on her face, the flush rose at her mistake. “With pleasure.” She gasped. “What’s that noise?”

Palmer paused to listen out. The ceaseless rumble of turbulent water. Knaresborough’s river, the Nidd. “Our guide from this place.” He headed down the steeply sloped road toward the loudening roar of the river, Theodosia still in his grasp.

As the land flattened out, he released her, scanning for the best route. The buildings and streets petered out to a broad swath of thick shrubs, patches of grass, and a few moisture-loving willows. It might be a waste of land, but one look at the river beyond told him only a fool  would build a house this low down.

Palmer signaled to Theodosia. “We need to find the towpath. But mind, the river’s very high.”

She followed him with a wordless nod.

As they drew close, the noise grew. The wide Nidd battered against the frozen banks, churning the brown, soil-filled water to yellow foam. The recent rainstorms had swollen it right up to the top of its normal channel, threatening a breach. Its fierce current bit out chunks of the riverbank, carrying more soil, weeds, and pieces of grass with it. A few hundred paces downstream, it thundered over a high natural weir, throwing up spray and more foam.