The Fifth Knight(111)

“It is indeed godly, plain food,” said Edward. “Surprising when you think what an unholy place Southampton is. I’ve never seen so many strange folk.”

“Happen you look strange to them,” came Benedict’s sharp response.

Theodosia raised her gaze.

Brother Edward’s green eyes narrowed at Benedict, and Theodosia tensed for his reply.

“Well, it was certainly strange to us, Sir Palmer,” Amélie intervened quickly. “But you must have seen many places like it.”

“More than I’d ever want, Sister Amélie.”

Theodosia relaxed a mite as Benedict responded to her mother with courtesy.

He took a long drink before he continued. “As a working knight, I’ve had to go wherever I’d be paid. I’ve been where the snow and ice could bury a man. Where the sun’s so fierce, it’s burned the people black.”

“You mean like a Saracen?” said her mother, eyes wide.

“No, much, much darker,” he said.

She shuddered. “Poor things.”

“They seemed happy enough,” he said. “But they spoke in strange tongues, so it was impossible to know.”

“Then they’ll be heathens,” said Edward. “Happy in this world, maybe, but in the fires of hell for all eternity.” He too took a long drink. “Burned even more, with no end to it.”

Benedict smacked his beaker down onto the tabletop. “You know what’s in every man’s heart, do you? How God will judge them?”

“I know that only the godly can be saved. No one else will.” Edward shot him a glance. “Until you mend your ways and repent, that means you too, Palmer.”

“Then I’ll see out eternity with the Saracens and the savages. I’d prefer their company to yours any day.”

Edward looked thoroughly shocked, but Benedict laughed aloud as he took another drink. “Faith, Edward, you’re an easy man to rile.” His dark eyes crinkled at the edges, as they always did when he smiled, and he pushed back his unruly dark hair. In this light, his teeth glowed white against the shadows of his weathered skin.

A sudden wave of utter longing swept over Theodosia. Benedict was like the sea: wild, untamed. A force of nature. Edward was the direct opposite. Calm, controlled, contained. Like she was once and had to be again. Mortified at her flash of desire, she stabbed at her bland fish with her eating knife. Her choice was made, and she should rejoice in her soul that she’d chosen wisely.

“I’m not even going to answer such fool’s talk,” said Edward. “How is your food, Sisters?”

“Most welcome,” said Amélie. “Well prepared, and a modest amount, with no inflaming herbs.”

Theodosia nodded her agreement, though the stuff was foul.

“As we are well prepared,” said Edward. “We will be with the King the day after tomorrow. I’ve already written the account of Becket’s murder to present to him.”

“I pray it will be kindly received,” said Amélie. “But, knowing Henry, there will be no fear of that.”

“There’s never a fear of truth,” said Edward. “God will indeed be on our side.” He refilled his goblet and leaned to top up Benedict’s once more.

“When did you write it, Brother Edward?” said Theodosia, keen to distract herself from her treacherous thoughts.

“Over the last ten days,” said Edward. “I did it as quickly as possible. I think the soul of my lord Becket himself guided my hand.”

Theodosia considered his words. “You have given a correct account of Sir Palmer’s involvement?”

Edward paused, spoon halfway to his mouth. “Are you questioning my competence with the quill, Sister?”

“No, not at all.” All eyes were on her and flustered her. “Only that Sir Palmer’s part…changed as events unfolded.”

“You don’t need to worry on Sir Palmer’s account,” said Edward with irritation. “I’ve spent many hours compiling it.”

She opened her mouth to question again. “But — ”

“Oh, Theodosia, give the man his due,” said Benedict, words slurred around the edges from drink. “He might not be able to use a sword, but he’s an expert at wielding a quill.” He made a crude mime with a cramped hand, eyes in an exaggerated squint.

“Thank you, Palmer. I think.” Edward raised a hand. “And remember, she’s Sister Theodosia.”

“My apologies, Brother.” Benedict bowed in exaggerated contrition. “You’ll have to forgive me now. You’ll be worn out from it.”