The Fifth Knight(11)

The horror in his green eyes affirmed hers.

Her whole body weakened, shook. They came for her. For her. But why?

Edward’s raised a hand as a wordless message of comfort, even as he gave an imperceptible shake of his head.

Then he did not know either. She watched the broad-shouldered knight called Palmer take one of the candles from the transept holder and descend the steps. The stone floor echoed under his metal-booted tread. He walked swiftly past their hiding place down the nave, toward her cell, bearing the light aloft.

Her cell. Her precious cell. Her refuge, her protection. Or so she’d believed in her weak foolishness. Somehow her lord Becket had known, had been told by God to make her leave. But she’d tried to resist. Had she succeeded in her sinful disobedience, she would still be in there. Her innards twisted to sickness.

Palmer’s surprised voice called back up the nave. “The cell door’s open. There’s no one here, my lord.”

“What?” Fitzurse ground out the word.

“It looks as if there has been,” continued Palmer. “And recently. There’s a bed. A half-eaten loaf of bread, and it’s not that stale. Water. And some holy-looking books.”

With a suppressed oath, Fitzurse stepped closer to Becket, axe raised. “What have you done with her?”

“Sh-she’s gone.”

Theodosia’s heart fell at Becket’s trip on the word. It always happened when his well-checked emotions ran high, when he spoke from his heart. Every soul in the kingdom knew it.

Fitzurse knew it too. He gave a slow smile. “Methinks Thomas has sung for his supper. Palmer, de Morville, de Tracy: search this cathedral. I want that nun found. Le Bret, you stay here.”

“Courage,” came Brother Edward’s tiny whisper in her ear.

But she had none. A search was on for her, a search by men who’d sliced a sword through another in the blink of an eye. But why her? What had she done to be hunted like this?

The thinnest of the knights and the red-bearded stocky one made their way down the steps. The thin one headed for the confessionals that lined the walls, the other made for the choir stalls. The one who was near giant stayed with Fitzurse, looming above Becket in the transept.

Becket, his composure restored, looked straight ahead, as if the strangers’ presence in his church was beneath contempt.

“You’ll need lights.” Palmer’s call floated up from the back of the church, where he continued his search.

“Bugger those,” came the reply from the red-bearded one. “The point of my sword will find her far quicker than your peering about.”

The loud rattle of his steel blade on the wooden choir stalls made Theodosia start, bite back a scream. The sound of confessional doors being slammed open joined the din. A glow of light from the left showed Palmer was on his way back up the nave.

“Check the altars, Palmer. De Morville and de Tracy can deal with the rest.”

The altars. Like the one she hid beneath. She risked a glance at Edward. A trickle of sweat at his temple showed he shared her terror. A sword thrust through the front of the carved altar would pierce their faces, rupture their eyes.

As the crashing from the other two continued, Palmer came into her sight across the nave at the altar of Saint Joseph. Candle aloft, he looked behind columns, beneath altar cloths, using his sword to prod and pry.

“We haven’t got all night, gentlemen,” said Fitzurse. But his gaze was on Becket.

“I’m almost done, my lord.” Palmer turned and approached the altar of Our Lady.

They were surely lost. She clamped her jaws more tightly on her fingers to keep her silence.

He stopped in front of the altar and seemed to look right into Theodosia’s eyes. She lowered her hands as she moved to give herself up, before the steel, the pain. Edward’s warning grip stopped her.

The knight’s gaze traveled away from her and over the altar. Even holding the light, he could not have seen her through the tiny holes. Despite Fitzurse’s order to use his sword, he continued his perusal of the tableau before him, dark eyes searching for anything out of place, a subtler approach that could yet find them out.

To her horror, he stepped over the altar rail and approached the statue above them. His tanned skin showed rugged from a life outdoors. Thick, dark hair escaped the hood of his chain mail, and his angled cheekbones were shadowed from lack of shaving. Broad, mud-stained hands, one with a dirty bandage, circled the handle of his sword and the candle. His long, chain-mailed legs were now inches from her and Brother Edward’s faces. It was as if Satan stood over her again, but this was no dream. The stone statue above them rang out as he tested it with his sword. Then, dear God, no. He raised a boot and gave the altar front an almighty kick. She shot back, knocking her head against Edward’s jawbone. The altar front held firm, gave nothing to suggest it could be opened.