E. M. Powell (21 page)

A horse snorted in the distance.

Palmer went rigid in the saddle. This could be they.

A male voice, not taking any care to lower or hide it. De Tracy. It had to be.

He kept his gaze fixed on the direction of the sound.

Another grunt of a voice. Le Bret. Surely.

Then he saw them, the three knights on their fine mounts, riding in single file. And before Fitzurse, slung across the saddle, Theodosia’s still form, her wrists and ankles secured like a prize hog’s at a fair.

Palmer’s fists clenched to hold back his rage. They’d killed her, the bloody, bloody, damnable cowards. It was all his fault. He’d abandoned her, the woman who’d had the rash, foolish courage to stay and fight for him against de Morville.

But he’d had to. He’d had a split second to make a decision when the knights had stepped from the bushes, and he had made it. His battle sense, he called it. It had never failed him before. Now it had. And how.

Palmer’s hand went to his dagger. He was going to make them pay. He’d take at least one out, maybe even two if luck fell his way. If he was killed, so be it. He’d no right to walk this earth while she rotted cold in the ground.

The group passed by, unaware that he watched. Their voices echoed over to him, full of cheer at their devilry.

Palmer caught a familiar word.
Polesworth.
So they knew. He looked at Theodosia’s body, trussed so carelessly to Fitzurse’s horse. What had they done to her to make her tell? He should do for them now, the bastards. But he held back.

He needed to see if his plan worked. If it did, there’d be no need for his weapon. No mind. Either way, he was going to avenge the woman who’d fought so bravely for him. Fought, but lost.

♦ ♦ ♦

Theodosia’s head throbbed from being tipped half upside-down. Fitzurse’s bonds, tight when he first made them, tortured her more with each stride of the animal beneath her. Her arms cramped right down to her fingers, and her bound breasts bumped hard against the saddle with each step the horse took.

Fighting down the pain, Theodosia asked God in her soul for mercy. Asked, asked, asked. Begged. Not for release from this awful journey slung on Fitzurse’s horse, but for her mother’s escape. But God wasn’t listening.

One of Thomas’s sayings came back to her. “
He always listens, my child. It’s just that we don’t always get the answer we want.
”

But why wouldn’t God listen about Mama? True to his dreadful promise, Fitzurse had told her the first of his depraved options, describing it in minute detail, with the unspeakable agony that could be inflicted on a woman’s body. The Pear of Anguish.
Sickness roiled through her stomach at the hideous pictures Fitzurse had planted in her mind, and she swallowed hard. If it were her fate only, she could understand. She’d sinned so badly, disregarded her vows. Mama had given her to God, and she’d spurned that generosity. Instead of passing on the gift of holiness, she’d squandered her gifts in wild, foolish actions. She deserved God’s abandonment. But Mama? Her pure, noble Mama. Why should she be rent apart by these men? She had to keep praying. She focused on the monotonous snowy ground that Fitzurse’s horse traveled over. She would ask Our Lady, a woman and mother who might intercede if offered up a sacred rosary.

Theodosia blinked hard. Now her vision played tricks, with dark red blobs appearing on the virgin snow. She opened and closed her eyes several times, but they remained, some tiny, others large as a spoon.

She turned her head to the right as much as she dared. De Tracy rode directly in front. A corner of his canvas saddlebag had a dark stain. As she watched, it dripped onto the snow to form another blob. It looked like —

Another followed.

It looked like blood.

♦ ♦ ♦

Palmer tracked the group, tensed for action, staying well hidden by the trees. His plan had failed. The woods were silent again. The wolves must have moved on, forcurse them. What bad fortune had led them to him and Theodosia? No doubt the same bad fortune that had led the knights. There was no point in blaming fortune. His own poor judgment had finished Theodosia.

He caught sight of her lifeless body before Fitzurse again. Regret lumped in his throat. Cursing himself for carrying on like a maid, he set his will and prepared to make his attack. A shadow flicked at the edge of his sight. He turned to look and caught his breath.

One wolf, then another, and another, ran down the trail of blood that dripped from de Tracy’s saddlebag. Noses to the ground, they ran faster toward the unaware knight.

“Come on, Quercus.” Palmer urged his horse forward. Some of his plan could still work. Just not the part that could have saved his brave Theodosia.

♦ ♦ ♦

“Pick up the pace, men.” Fitzurse’s order sounded above Theodosia, interrupting her rosary.

A faster pace would be even more painful. But she would endure, lose herself in prayer. She gritted her teeth as she tried to start again.

A dark blur shot past on the snow below, then another.

“Wolves!” Fitzurse’s warning echoed through the trees.

Snarls came from ahead, then de Tracy’s shout.

“Get off, you bastards!”

Theodosia twisted in her bonds, frantic that the animals would try and grab for her as she dangled from Fitzurse’s horse.

“Stay still, or you’ll have us over.” Fitzurse’s hand clamped a warning hand on the back of her neck. His stallion skittered beneath them with terrified whinnies and tried his best to bolt, flinging her harder against the ropes that held her. “Use your sword, de Tracy!”

“I’ll lose my hold! I need to — ”

Yowls and snarls drowned his calls.

Theodosia wrenched her head to one side in Fitzurse’s grasp.

Wolves surrounded de Tracy as his horse spun to try and escape leaps, jaws, teeth, claws.

Fitzurse’s stallion bucked, and the ground tipped up to her. She cried out. If the ropes gave, she’d be on the ground.

“Back him, le Bret,” said Fitzurse.

The huge knight urged his powerful animal toward the stricken de Tracy, but the horse would have none of it. It backed away with rolling eyes and flared nostrils.

With a grunted oath, le Bret swung himself from the saddle, stained broadsword in hand. His animal jerked from his grasp on the reins and took off through the trees.

“You oaf!” shouted Fitzurse.

“Sorry, my lord.” Le Bret waded in with his broadsword to slash at the group. He connected with one, and it fled with a howl.

Another clamped its jaws on de Tracy’s bloodstained saddlebag. The bag gave with a loud rip and spewed its contents onto de Tracy’s leg.

“What the devil’s in there?” said Fitzurse.

The wolves howled afresh. Most fell on the bloody chunks that scattered on the snow. But a couple, crazed by the scent of fresh meat, leapt for de Tracy’s leg.

An agonized scream came from de Tracy.

Theodosia cringed in horror. One of the wolves had bitten on his ankle, swung off its paws as the beleaguered knight tried to pull away.

The rest of the pack regrouped, surrounded le Bret, closed him in.

“My leg! It’s got my bastard leg!” De Tracy hung on to his horse by the mane, stirrups lost, as the wolf held tight, pulling, snarling.

“Help us, my lord.” Le Bret wheeled left, then right, as the pack circled closer.

With an exclamation of disgust, Fitzurse jumped from his horse and tethered it in one movement. He made for the group with a yell, brandishing his sword.

Theodosia wriggled frantically atop Fitzurse’s panicked stallion. The wolf pack was consumed with bloodlust, could easily turn on this horse, her ankles. Her face.

A fresh shriek came from de Tracy. The wolf pulled him to the ground, his riderless horse kicking out in terror as it fled after le Bret’s.

The wolf released the knight’s leg, then fell on his throat, tearing out a mouthful of red beard and wet flesh.

Theodosia looked away as bile rose in her throat. Noises from a nightmare filled her ears: the wolves’ snarls, the rip of live flesh, the pitiful screams of the dying de Tracy and le Bret, and Fitzurse’s shouts and oaths.

An animal snorted near to her left. With a start, she moved her gaze to its source, braced for what she knew not.

Screened by a couple of huge fallen tree trunks, Sir Benedict Palmer sat astride an anxious-looking Quercus.

She blinked in case she dreamed. No. He was still there.

He put his fingers to his lips and brought Quercus to her horse’s side. With a neat slash of his dagger, he loosed the stallion’s reins.

A roar of recognition came from Fitzurse, but Benedict didn’t pause. He grasped the stallion’s reins in one hand and jerked Quercus’s reins with the other. Neither horse needed encouragement. With a rapid canter, they set off through the woods, snow erupting from their hooves as they took flight from the murdering pack.

CHAPTER 15

Fitzurse’s stallion surged beneath Theodosia, its long strides tossing her body in the vicious straps that held her. Snow flew up from its rushing hooves and struck her face, her chest. The noose tightened, then loosened, with every step. “Stop! I’m choking.”

“Soon.”

The stallion stumbled on a stride and went to its knees. Theodosia’s weight flung full against her bonds. They held tight, tighter around her neck. She couldn’t breathe. Blood roared in her ears.

“Hold.” Benedict was off his animal, floundering through the deep snow to the stallion’s neck. He held the horse steady with one hand, then pulled his dagger from beneath his cape.

With a nip of cold metal against her throat, the noose fell away. She dragged in a breath, then another.

Benedict urged the stallion back to its feet and palmed the side of its quivering neck. He looked up at her, his dark complexion shades lighter than normal. “I thought they’d done for you.”

“Get me off this animal.” She strained to free herself from the saddle. “Now.” She struggled harder, and the stallion jerked in fright.

“Steady there, boy, steady.” Benedict kept hold of the reins. “Keep still, or you’ll fright him. I’ll get you off, but we need to get out of sight.”

“Then do it and get me down.”

Calling to Quercus to follow, Benedict guided the stallion toward a thick grove of pine trees. Steam rose from the stallion’s coat, matching her own skin, sweat-coated from pain and terror.

Her arms, her legs, screamed for release as Benedict threaded their way through the dense trees, snow sliding off the green needled branches.

She couldn’t stand it any longer. “Enough! Do you hear me?”

“Quiet.” Benedict secured the stallion to a tree. Knife in hand once more, he sliced through the thick hemp that secured her to the horse. He slid her from the saddle, one arm behind her shoulders and one underneath her knees, as he gathered her to him.

Theodosia stiffened in his hold. He carried her a few steps from the horse’s side to the shelter of a large pine tree, the ground dry with heaps of dried pine needles. He set her down into a seated position, staying hunkered down before her as he severed the ropes across her chest.

“Faith, that devil Fitzurse has you tied like a carcass for market.” He leaned behind her to free her wrists.

She brought them before her painfully, wincing as the blood returned.

He bent to her bound ankles. “There.” He sat back. “You’re free.”

“No thanks to you.” Theodosia ripped the cut ropes from round her body and whipped them across his face.

He jerked back. “What are — ”

“It’s a pity Gilbert didn’t have a yellow suit for you. It would match your cowardice well.” She lashed out at him again, but he ducked to one side with an oath.

“Me, a caitiff?”

“Yes. A yellow-breeched page, Fitzurse called you. He was right.” She scrambled to her feet on the soft ground.

Benedict rose to his feet too, a deep frown carved into his brow. “You’re a convert to Fitzurse now?”

“How dare you!” She launched herself at him in fury, ropes whipping as she tried to land a blow. “You betrayed me, you traitor, you coward. You’re as bad as he!”

He grabbed at her weapons and yanked them from her grasp, flinging them to the ground in a scatter of dried needles. “Then why am I back?”

“Because you saw an opportunity. Sneaking, following, not willing to lift a finger. Waiting until you could grab Fitzurse’s animal, worth ten times the beast you sold my precious cross for.” Shame lit his eyes, and she knew she’d hit true.

She pressed on, anger a wrongful, sinful, delicious hot urge as it tore through her, burning away her self-control. “You left me, to die without hope and, worse, to bring death to my mother too. But what do you care? You saved your shameful skin, turned a profit from stealing my cross. You’ll boil in oil in hell for your avarice, Benedict Palmer. I shall take the greatest pleasure in watching for all eternity.”

“Boil in oil? Are you sure you’re not Fitzurse’s disciple?”

She pointed to her neck, the noose’s welt a painful lump on her skin. “Does this look like I am?” she hissed.

“And neither am I a coward, or a thief.” He reached beneath his cloak and thrust a leather pouch into her hand. “That’s the rest of the money. It’s yours. So will the horses be, once we get to Polesworth.” His dark brows drew together in disdain. “I’d never have traded your cross, but I had to. I told you that.”

“Oh, easy, easy words.” She shook the pouch at him. “Along with your most generous gift — a gift that is mine by rights anyway.” She shoved the pouch into her skirt pocket with a shake of her head. “You abandoned me when the danger got too great, simple as that.”

“Of course I did.” He nodded hard. “You’re right, Sister, as always.” He folded his arms and put his head to one side, as if pondering a weighty question. “Then answer me this. Why did the wolves attack de Tracy?”

“His own foulness. Whatever spoil he had in his saddlebag.”

“And what if the spoil was the meat you bought at the market?” His gaze bored into hers.

Theodosia brought a hand to her mouth. “You mean — ”