The woman looked surprised at such a quick decision and named a sum way over what the ugly thing was worth.
Edward didn’t question it, but counted out the correct amount from his coin purse.
The woman pocketed the money, wrapped the kirtle into a bundle, and secured it with some hairy string.
“Good day to you, mistress.” Edward took it from her and tucked it under one arm. “Let’s be on our way, Palmer.” As he walked off through the press of people, the crush parted like he had a mystical power.
“Come back again, Brother.” The woman’s call rang out as Edward walked away. She jingled the coins in her pocket and gave Palmer a bold stare as he went after Edward.
The old jealousy seethed within Palmer. The monk had status, money, while he, Palmer, his life in jeopardy countless times over these last weeks, had been cast aside like the lowest beggar. He had nothing to give Theodosia — everything would come from the monk.
“The women will wonder where we’ve got to,” said Edward as Palmer joined him. “But I’m sure Sister Theodosia will forgive us when she sees our worthy replacement for her habit.”
Palmer doubted that a lot. The habit he’d shredded that first night at the back of the inn had been the finest quality.
Palmer bumped into someone, paused, as Edward walked on. “My pardon.”
“God bless you, sir,” said a young, tired-sounding voice.
Palmer looked down.
A starved-looking girl held out an armful of simple wooden crucifixes, hung from thin leather loops. Hope lit her dull eyes. “Buy one, sir? They’re from the Holy Land itself, made from pieces of the one true cross.”
And I’m John the Baptist. He took in her rags, her filth. Nearly seventeen years since he’d been in the same state, begging for a crust, a brownish apple. Anything to try and feed his starving mother and sisters, anything to try and keep his dying father alive. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I have no money.”
The girl’s thin white fingers played over the little crosses as her face crumpled in disappointment. “Oh. I’m sorry to have troubled you, sir.”
A faint wail came from beneath her clothing. His heart lurched as a baby’s small head burrowed out and bumped against the girl’s chest in the vain hope she’d suckle it.
“Hush,” she begged it, distracted from Palmer.
A child with a child, living their lives starving on the dockside. That he had Edward’s deep purse. But the monk strode many yards ahead on his way back to the hostel.
“No trouble.” Palmer rummaged beneath his torn cloak and pulled out his dagger.
He wouldn’t have thought it possible, but her face whitened even more.
“Don’t fret,” he said. He held it out to her, handle first. “Take this for one of your crosses.”
She took it from him and examined it closely. “This is a fine weapon, sir.” She held it out to give it back to him. “It’s worth far more than what I’m selling.”
He pushed it to her. “I don’t think so. Aren’t your crosses made from the one true cross?”
Her mouth lifted in the trace of a smile, dried skin stretched across her peaked cheekbones. “Then God will bless you, sir.” She handed him a crucifix. “He truly, truly will.”
Palmer gave her a nod and set off on his way. If he stayed here one more moment, he’d give her his new clothes too. He looked at the crudely carved wooden cross in his hand.
Well, he could at least replace Theodosia’s cross. But it was the poorest of replacements, a reminder to her that she was a king’s daughter and he was a cotter’s son. He sighed and tucked the cheap trinket away in his pocket. He was fooling no one, not even himself.
Palmer picked up his pace at Edward’s wave and shout. At least he’d see her again soon.
♦ ♦ ♦
Fitzurse’s words shot through Theodosia. There was no mix-up, no error. She and Mama were still the quarry.
“Then what foul mission are you on, sir,” said Amélie, “that you would threaten the lives of the King’s real wife and his daughter?”
Fitzurse ran his fingers along the edge of his sword to test its sharpness.
“At least have the decency to give us a reason before you take our lives,” said Theodosia, desperate to waste time, to give Benedict and Edward a chance to return.
Fitzurse adjusted his sword in his grasp. “Very well. To carry out the wishes of the monarch, of course.”
Amélie’s mouth rounded in shock. “After all these years, Henry has changed his mind — ”
“Oh, spare me your ignorance.” He gave her a pitying look. “Not Henry, a useless windbag who couldn’t organize a group of privy cleaners. I mean Eleanor, the real monarch, who would burn in hell rather than see her four boys bastards. So she sent four knights to do the killing. Four in place of her four sons, and a fifth knight to be her champion.”