The Fifth Knight(114)

“Nature is God’s own bounty, Palmer, remember that.” Edward embarked on a lengthy speech about God’s provisions and God’s larder.

Palmer fixed his gaze on him, but his eyelids drooped. He must be falling asleep, nay, dreaming.

Edward’s features changed shape, his eyes looking big, then small. His face turned pale blue.

With a hard shake of his head, Palmer pulled himself upright in his seat.

Edward’s appearance became normal again. A huge yawn broke from Palmer, and he apologized as clearly as the wine would allow.

The monk gave a dismissive wave. “No need for apologies. Now drink up, man.” He held up Palmer’s bottle. “There’s still some more left in this.”

♦ ♦ ♦

And the lord Becket shall receive his reward amongst the angels and the saints, in the glory of God forever. Amen. This by mine own hand, Brother Edward Grim, Canterbury, the Year of Our Lord 1170.

Theodosia lowered the scroll with shaking hands. Lies, deception, untruth. Edward had written a fictitious account of the terrible events in the cathedral. One that put the blame for Thomas’s murder fairly and squarely at Henry’s door. According to this awful fabrication, she and Benedict simply didn’t exist. Wiped from history. Which was what Eleanor had sent the knights to do. Remove Theodosia and her mother for good.

Fitzurse’s words came back to her with a terrible clarity: “Eleanor sent four knights to do the killing. Four in place of her four sons, and a fifth knight to be her champion.”

The fifth knight was Brother Edward Grim. Not Benedict, an honorable man caught up in terrible circumstances.

She folded up the document and shoved it in her pocket. She had to get out of here, get this scroll out of here. Tell Benedict. He’d know what to do. He always did. Sick with fright, she opened the door.

All seemed as before. With a long breath of relief, she started back along the passageway. The wooden planks beneath her feet groaned and squeaked as if demons were in them, with the sway of the craft more pronounced. They must be well out to sea by now. She put a hand out to the pile of sacks to steady herself.

“Then sleep well, Sir Palmer.”

Terror stabbed her heart. Edward. On his way to his room, with her like a rat in a trap, his scroll in her pocket. She looked around frantically. The only place for concealment was a narrow gap between two piles of sacks. She squeezed right into it, hardly able to breathe. She hoisted her dress up to cover her head and shoulders, and pulled her hands inside it also. She could still see through the coarse fibers of the fabric. Not a second too late.

Edward approached, with a grunt and a stumble from the sea’s pitch. His pale hand landed right next to her as he grasped a sack for purchase. His eyes seemed to meet hers through thick weaved cloth. He paused for a moment, and her knees almost gave way. He’d seen her. But no. He fumbled for another handhold and went on his way, unnoticing of her, a shadow amongst shadows.

She had to make haste. He’d see his scroll was gone in a matter of moments. Easing herself from her hiding place, she hurried back to where they’d eaten. Empty. Wine stained the tabletop, red as spilled blood. Edward had wished Benedict goodnight. But she didn’t know where Benedict slept. The captain? He could tell her. She made her way to a steep ladder that led up to the decks. With her skirt hoisted out of the way, she started to climb up, her hands slippery with urgent sweat.

A hand closed around her ankle and tried to yank her from the rungs. “Where are you going in such a hurry, Sister?”

She looked down into the blazing green eyes of Edward Grim. One pale hand locked around her right ankle. The other held his razor. He brought it to the flesh of her inner thigh.

“Please. Don’t.” Her voice wouldn’t go beyond a whisper.

“If you do as you’re told,” he said, “you might survive. Climb up to the deck. Slowly. I’ll be right behind you with this efficient blade. We don’t want any accidents, do we?”

Theodosia went up, hand over hand. Please don’t let me fall. Please. The cold night air met her and she hauled herself out onto the bow deck, her breath in rapid gasps. She looked around to see if she could signal to Donne, but the cargo of piles of hewn wood made a high barrier between the fore and aft decks. She was alone. Trapped.

Edward emerged right behind her, his blade a dull gleam in the weak moonlight.

“You can harm me if you want,” she said. “But Benedict will find you out, you mark my words.”

“Palmer?” Edward gave a snort of laughter. “He’s already halfway to hell, if not already there.”

Her stomach dropped. “What you mean?”