E. M. Powell (17 page)

Gilbert, my man. The bed of heaven to you for your courage. Forgive me for abandoning you. Your death is on my soul.
The old battle prayer gave Palmer no comfort. He turned to leave, sick to his heart though he knew it was the right decision.

“Excuse me, mate.” A stocky man in a shoemaker’s apron bumped against him as he too made his way out of the crowd.

He fell into step beside Palmer and gave a loud sniff. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “Look at me, blubbing fool.”

Palmer nodded a response.

“A disgrace, that’s what it was.” The man continued as if Palmer had replied. “Kicking their way into Gilbert’s home like that, frightening the daylights out of him. I couldn’t hear nothing clear, not with all the yelling. But when he fell down, and him an old man, no one went to help him.” He sniffed richly again.

“Was he all right?” asked Palmer.

“Naw. Went down like a tree. Didn’t move. I know a dead man when I sees one. My granddad went the same way.” The man palmed at his watery cheeks. “God save us all from such a fate. Good day, stranger.” He peeled off from Palmer’s side and went to a nearby shop piled with neatly paired boots and shoes.

Palmer carried on, desperate to hurry and frustrated he couldn’t. Yet his spirit soared for Gilbert, for the valiant, brave man who’d answered his battle prayer from the gates of heaven itself. And with any luck, Saint Peter had readied the knighthood.

CHAPTER 11

Theodosia stood near the back of the hat stall, a tall basket filled with peacock feathers shielding her from plain sight of the street. She pretended to examine them with deep interest, lest the stallholder wonder why she stayed for so long. She risked a peep through the bright fronds back up the street. No sign of Benedict. The pattern on the feathers mocked her, for all the world like eyes accusing her of stupid rashness, of quickness of mood. She’d no right to force Benedict’s hand the way she had, to send him back into mortal danger. What if he were being torn apart right now? A terrible end, and one that she had caused. The blue feathers shimmered in her trembling touch. Brother Edward had chastised her over and over for her impetuousness, her inability to keep herself contained. Gwen’s betrayal had brought her own sinful anger forth in a heartbeat, with Benedict paying the price.

Still no sign. Fitzurse must have him. Her stomach turned over. Then it would be her next. Should she go, go now, while she still had a chance? That’s what Benedict had told her. Her stomach turned harder at her base cowardice. She’d no right to flee her own death if she’d sent Benedict to his.

There he was. Her knees weakened with relief, to the point she might drop. He made his way through the crowd at a measured pace, calm as the day. But only him. She stepped out from behind the feathers to meet him, damp hands locked on her two packages of their old clothes.

She looked past him to check if anyone followed. “Gilbert?” she whispered as she handed him his bundle.

He shook his head. “He’s dead.”

With a soft gasp, Theodosia crossed herself. “May God have mercy on his poor soul. Who performed this foul deed? Fitzurse?”

“No, he went with the strain. His heart stopped.”

She scanned his face, looking for his lie. “You are humoring me.”

“It’s the truth, I swear,” he said. “One of his neighbors was a witness. I left quick as I could.”

She crossed herself again. “His virtue was rewarded with his merciful release. He will have even greater reward in the next life, bless his soul.”

“Bless Gilbert indeed. Thanks to him, we’re still alive.” Palmer took his package of clothes from her. “And his sacrifice will be for nothing if we don’t get away from here.” He offered her his arm.

She took it, her knees still like water. “I should not have sent you back. It was a decision based in anger. I am sorry.”

“You didn’t send me; I went.”

Not exactly.
Theodosia prepared to argue but fought it down.
Containment.
“Then I stand corrected. Where are we going to go?” She kept her voice low, but it mattered little. The crowds were louder and denser than ever as the street ahead opened out into a wide square, surrounded by tall half-timbered inns and shops. Canvas-topped traveling stalls and wagons filled the central area, with people thronging around them.

“You’re going to tell me,” said Benedict.

Music echoed in the air: a fast hurdy-gurdy, the pipe of tin whistles.

She glanced up at him, bewildered. “I don’t understand.”

“Posewore.”

She stopped dead to an impatient tut from someone behind her. “What did you say?”

“You heard.”

A cheer came from one area, and a man in a jester’s hat appeared on a wobbling ladder, then collapsed back down again to howls of laughter and loud applause.

Her heart raced in her chest. How could he conjure up a name from her past, a name she’d never breathed to anyone?

“I’m waiting.” His dark eyes did not leave her face.

She drew herself up and tightened her hands on her bundle. “Unless you tell me where you heard tell of this place, you can wait until the crack of doom.” She gave him her fiercest look. “For only a spy or a traitor would know.”

The suspicion of a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, believe me, I heard it from you.”

She opened her mouth to deny his ridiculous assertion, but he cut across her.

“Heard it while your mind was addled from the cold. Now spit it out — every moment is a risk.”

She’d no memory of what she’d said, done, while the cold had gripped her, no way of testing if he told the truth. She had to trust him; she had no choice. “The only time I heard it mentioned was the day Mama left Canterbury.”

She was ten years old, had been for just over a month. She was still Laeticia, her baptized name, her name of childhood, of innocence. The early-summer sun warmed her arms, her face, as she sat in the bright cloister garden at Canterbury, Mama next to her on a low bench. She had an open manuscript of verses from the Bible on her lap, reading quietly. Mama sat with her lips moving wordlessly as she held her own tiny Book of Hours.

“Sister Amélie.”

Laeticia looked to the source of the serious-sounding male voice. A tall, dark-haired man stood in the shade of the cloisters. His deep blue robes were far, far finer than any of those she had seen the monks wear. Next to him stood a black-robed monk, her Brother Edward, though she didn’t know it then.

“Chancellor Becket.” Mama’s questioning gaze was locked on his.

He gave a rueful grin. “Not chancellor anymore. Archbishop.”

Mama gasped. “You mean?”

He nodded. “Of Canterbury.”

“Oh, my dear Thomas.” Mama tucked her little book away in her pocket, got to her feet, and hurried to him. She fell before him on her knees and kissed the ring on his left hand with deep reverence.

His straightly featured face showed some discomfiture. “Please rise, Sister A-Amélie.”

Laeticia wondered at the little trip he gave over his words.

Becket nodded in her direction. “We need to talk,” he said to Mama.

“Of course, my lord.” Mama raised a warning finger. “Leave us be, Laeticia.”

Becket turned to the strange monk. “Brother Edward. Why don’t you converse with little Laeticia?”

“Yes, my lord.” Brother Edward made his way over to her as Mama and Archbishop Becket set off at a slow walk down the east cloister, engaged in low-voiced conversation. Brother Edward took Mama’s place on the bench. He was tall too, not as tall as Becket, with shiny black tonsured hair and eyes as green as the early-summer leaves.

He gestured to the manuscript. “You like the pictures?”

She gave a copy of the short sigh Mama would give when her childish ways exasperated her.

“No?” The monk’s eyebrows rose in surprise.

“I prefer the words, Brother.”

“Goodness.” His eyebrows remained up. “A little bird that can read. How remarkable.”

She curled her bottom lip in. She shouldn’t have prattled so. Mama had always told her it wasn’t very ladylike to read.

But the monk didn’t seem to mind. He gave a disbelieving frown and shake of his head. “I think you tell me a tale.”

She couldn’t tell a lie. “I do not, Brother Edward.” Laeticia pointed to the words on the open page and read them to him steadily.

“My, my.” He gave her an astonished look.

A muffled cry came from the cloisters. She looked over to see Mama, face in her hands.

She shoved the book into Brother Edward’s hands and jumped from the seat.

“Stop, child.”

She took no notice of the monk, made for the shaded cloister. Briefly blinded from its contrast with the brilliant sunshine, she cried out, “Mama, what’s wrong?” Her vision adjusted to see her mother drop her hands, face deathly pale.

“Theodosia.” Her tone was sharp. “I told you to leave us be.”

“I am sorry, my lord.” Brother Edward had followed after and went to take her hand.

“No, leave her.” Thomas sounded kind as he addressed Mama. “You have to tell her, Amélie. Now.”

Mama knelt before her and took her by the shoulders. “Thomas is a very important man. He has had to bring me some very important news.”

“Amélie, you must be brief,” said the important man.

Laeticia shot him a look. His eyes looked sad.

“My dear girl, Mama has to go away.”

Terror clutched her heart at Mama’s words. Away? “Where?”

“I’m afraid I can’t tell you where, because it’s a secret. Somewhere very special.”

“But it’s special here in Canterbury. You’ve told me so. Lots of times.”

“I know, I know. But I cannot stay here.”

“Can I come too?”

Mama glanced up at Becket, then back at her. “No, my dearest.” Her tone was firm, the tone that Laeticia knew would never budge or shift.

Tears pooled in her eyes as the terror clutched harder.

“You must stay here, with Archbishop Becket and Brother Edward,” said Mama.

Laeticia cast a doubtful glance at these two tall strangers as her tears spilled over. “But they are not my family. Only you. Papa’s in heaven. There’s no one else.”

Mama took her face in her hands and gripped it tightly. “But they will be your family soon, my dearest. For I am gifting you to Canterbury, to learn the ways of a woman of God.”

The tears came faster. “I am not a woman, Mama.”

“But you will be. You will be a great woman of God: noble, contained, pure. It is a terrible, terrible sacrifice for me, yet I give you as an act of gratitude to God, for He is our Savior, giving His life for us.”

Laeticia shook her head, Mama’s words far above her ten-year-old understanding. “Stay here, Mama.”

“It is time, Amélie.” Becket was gentle but firm.

Mama reached behind her neck to undo her crucifix. She held it out to her. “You see this, Laeticia?”

She nodded, still without speech. She’d admired the beautiful golden cross, with the rich glow from the little red stones, so many times.

“I give this to you to mark this special day.” Mama placed it round her neck and adjusted it against the lace bib of her dress. “Whenever you get lonely, touch it and ask God to comfort you.” She stood up and bent once more to kiss her cheek. “And He will, my love, He will, because you are my gift from Him. I return that gift, with all the grace you have and will acquire.”

“Mama. You can’t go.” She reached out, but Mama already walked away, head down. Becket went with her and spoke to her in low tones as they made their way down the cloister.

Brother Edward stood with her and laid a hand on her shoulder. “An oblate, eh?” he said. “God be praised for you and the talents you will bring to the office. And your mama is Sister Amélie. It’s most important you call her that. The Archbishop himself says so.”

“She’s not, she’s not. She’s my mama.” She shook him off, to a displeased exclamation from him. She raced after Mama, her calf-skinned feet silent from years of practice on the smooth stone. They all called her special, holy. But she couldn’t be — Mama was leaving her. She must have done something very wrong, have sinned very greatly. Be so very, very bad. As she almost caught up, she heard Becket’s words.

“Polesworth Abbey is Benedictine, a place of great devotion.” He opened a heavy door that led outside and ushered Mama through.

As he did so, he saw Theodosia. He shook his head sadly, and the door thudded closed to prevent her coming too.

Its echo mirrored that of a loud drum, beaten by the jester back up on the ladder.

“Are you all right?” said Benedict. “You’ve lost your color.”

A roar of laughter came from the crowd as the jester began a lewd song about the joys of a woman with no teeth.

Theodosia looked back at Benedict. “It wasn’t Posewore,” she said. “It was Polesworth. Polesworth Abbey. That’s where my mother went.”
When she left me.

“Then that is where we’re going.”

She caught her breath. “We cannot. I was never supposed to go with her. My lord Becket, Brother Edward. Mama herself. They were absolutely clear I could not. I cannot disobey them.”

Benedict started to walk her along, faster this time. He bent his neck to bring his mouth close to Theodosia’s ear. “Could not. But everything’s changed. Archbishop Becket’s dead because of your mother. I’ve drowned de Morville in his own river, that poor furrier has lost his life, the knights have tried to kill me. All this, because of you and your precious mama. Fitzurse wants to roast you over an open fire to find out where she is. Our only chance to stop this is to find her first.”