The Fifth Knight(113)

She spotted a neatly folded cloak atop a small chest. Brother Edward’s. So he had this fine room to sleep in. Better he should have offered this to Mama. Never mind. She crossed to his bundle of possessions and found his razor tucked into a leather pouch. The tiresome string around her waist fell away in one cut. She winced as she put her hand to her flesh. Relieving the pressure made for a different type of pain. As she put the string in her pocket, her fingers met the little wooden cross Benedict had given her. She pulled it out and looked at it with a fresh pang of regret. For all his faults, he had a good heart, was a good man. The kind of man she would have been blessed to find, had that been her path. Oh, here it came again: the temptation that every thought of Benedict brought. Such thoughts were dangerous — she had to stop. She put the cross back in her pocket, replaced Edward’s blade, and tidied his bundle. Now she could go and sleep.

As she turned to go, her eye lit on a rolled scroll, fastened with a length of thin red silk. Edward’s account of the murder for the King. Everything neat and in order, as she would expect of him. She thought back to the conversation at dinner. He would have told the truth about Benedict, of course he would. But Benedict was one of the group of knights who carried out the murder. What if Henry were to punish Benedict for the crime, despite his subsequent bravery, despite his saving her life over and over?

She should take a quick look, see how Edward had given his account. If Benedict was going to put himself at risk by appearing before the King, then she should at least warn him. He may have been an occasion of sin to her, but she owed him that much. Then it would be his decision, a decision made with all the facts.

The silk tie slid easily from the new vellum, and the document unrolled in her hands. Edward’s neat script lay before her, small and precise as ever, headed with the slightly larger The Murder of Thomas Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury.

He must have described every detail, as the lengthy account covered the entirety of the document.

She bent her head to read it.

The murderers were named Sir Reginald Fitzurse, Sir Hugh de Morville, Sir William de Tracy, and Sir Richard le Bret. They arrived at the holy cathedral of Canterbury and hid their weapons under a sycamore tree beside it.

Theodosia frowned. Where was Benedict’s name? Ignorant of their purpose though he was, he was part of the group. As for hiding their weapons, the knights had come to the door of Canterbury fully armed. She’d seen them, watched as they’d murdered a brother in cold blood. Puzzled, she scanned down the text, the script recording the retrieval of the weapons. Then:

They broke into the sanctity of Canterbury Cathedral and sought out the lord Becket with rapid pace. Swords drawn, these four brought dread to the holy place as they shouted, “Where is Thomas Becket, traitor of the King?”

Four? Still no Benedict, who’d made five. It didn’t make sense.

The monks were giving glory to God at Vespers and begged the lord Becket that they would protect him with their lives. Yet he sent them away, like Jesus with his disciples on the eve of His crucifixion. Only one brother stayed to face the four evildoers, Brother Edward Grim, in whose hand this is written. Their cries became louder, but the lord Becket stood firm and steadfast upon the altar, with Brother Edward at his side. When they came through the door, the lord Becket showed no fear, without a drop in gaze or a tremble to his tone. He said, “I am a servant of God. Why do you seek me?”

The four rushed to the steps and brandished their hideous weapons aloft. “You have excommunicated the good from the church and sent yet more away. The King demands you return them to the fold.”

Theodosia stared at the words as she willed them to form into something else. She read them again. Of course they didn’t alter. Didn’t alter to mention Benedict. Or her. Or the truth of what was said and done that evening. Sweat broke out all over her body as she fought down a desire to fling the thing from her grasp and go and find Benedict. Instead, she forced herself to read on. She had to read it all. She had to know the truth.





CHAPTER 30

Palmer watched Edward pour yet another measure of wine into his drinking vessel. “I don’t think I should be having any more, Brother.” His words made bare sense as he fought to get them out.

The monk smiled. “What’s the harm, Palmer, what’s the harm?” He raised his own glass. “God created grapes for a reason, did he not?”

Palmer nodded. It was easier than speech, but not much. This wine kicked like an enraged stallion. He’d had a skinful, but nothing he couldn’t normally handle. Yet he could hardly feel his hands and feet, and his mouth and tongue stung in a strange way. He really didn’t want any more, but the monk seemed keen to drink on. And talk. Forcurse him, the man could talk.