The Fifth Knight(118)

“Any luck?” said Donne.

“We found one,” said the first crewman as they pulled alongside.

Theodosia craned over the edge. Her heart leapt. A man lying in the bottom of the boat, long legs clad in breeches. It had to be Benedict. Edward wore robes.

She dared to hope. “Is he all right?”

The crewman looked at her as if she wasn’t in her senses.

“I’m afraid not, Sister,” said the captain.

“Oh, dear God. No.”

Her mother spoke to her, but she didn’t hear a word.

The rowboat was hoisted to the side, and the crewmen battled to lift out her dead knight. They laid him on the wet planks of the deck, his eyes closed, dark wet hair plastered to his forehead, a red slash down one cheek from Grim’s blade.

She sank to her knees, cradled his cold, cold face in her hands, sobs tearing from her throat.

“We should pray for him, Theodosia,” said Amélie, bending to her.

“I don’t want to pray for him. I want him. Can’t you see that?”

Her mother shook her head slowly and crossed herself.

“He’s gone, Sister,” said one of the crewmen. “There’s no heartbeat, nothing.”

She could hardly see through her tears, breathe through her grief, as she stroked and stroked his face.

“He was barely alive when we got to him,” said the second crewman. “We was too late.”

“Tried to get a word out, though,” said the first.

“Aye,” said the second. “Made no sense to us.”

“What did he say?” said Theodosia. Please let it be a last message of love to her. Please.

“Sounded like ‘Knaresborough’ to me,” replied the second man.

She stared at the man, tears stemmed with hope. Knaresborough. Where she’d almost frozen to death. But Benedict had brought her back, told her how. She shot to her feet. “There might still be a chance,” she said. “Take him below to Edward’s cabin. Now.”

“Oh, Theodosia.” Her mother shook her head.

“Sister, he’s dead.” The captain’s face reflected the view of all present that she’d taken leave of her senses.

“Bring him below. At once! Do you hear me? Now, God rot you! Now!”

Madness and rage brought their own authority. Gaping, the men hoisted Benedict’s body between them and climbed below.

Theodosia pushed into the crowded cabin as they placed him on Edward’s mattress.

Amélie squeezed past the men to the bedside. “We should cover his face.” She went to match her words with actions.

“No. Get out, Mama. All of you. Get out!” Theodosia hustled them all out and slammed the door shut behind them. With a hard shove, she barred the door with the small chest.

She hurried over to the bed and ripped Benedict’s soaked shirt from his body. His chest remained utterly still. No breath in or out. She put her ear close to his mouth and nose, hoping against hope for a tiny stir of air. Still nothing.

His trousers were next. His male nakedness didn’t shock her, it made him seem abandoned, vulnerable. She choked back a sob as she grabbed the bedcover, rubbing him hard all over to dry his skin, warm it somehow. She grabbed Edward’s heavy woolen cloak and laid it over him to try and bring some warmth. Dear God, I’m only a sinner. Hear my prayer. Let him live. Please. Please.

She brought her ear to his face again. Silence. This couldn’t be happening. She brought her hands to his face. She might as well be touching the stone floor of the cathedral. He’d gone. Gone. And it was her stupid, selfish fault.

A brutal, harsh keening seared her throat. As her tears fell, they splashed on his face, made him look as if he wept too, with tears that caused the wound on his poor face to run.

She choked back her sobs, wiping his face dry with the cloak. “You should have let Edward kill me. I deserved it, I’m the one who caused all this death. Not you. But you always knew better, didn’t you?”

Pinheads of blood appeared in the wound again, beaded larger and larger.

Her breath stopped.

The beads grew still more, then slid down his cheek.

Dead men didn’t bleed.

“Oh, dear God. Benedict.” She ripped her dress off over her head and climbed in under the coverlet. Her nakedness was the best warmth, the only warmth she had. She locked her body around his, willing him to take heat, life from her. “Come back to me, please. Come back to me.”

Benedict’s blue lips parted, then he drew in a shallow breath. Opening his eyes, his gaze found hers and he gave a feeble nod.

♦ ♦ ♦

Theodosia held her Benedict, rubbed his body, covered him with her own. She did not dare to stop, no matter how much her arms and shoulders ached, no matter how weary she became. At times, the worst, terrifying times, he barely seemed to know her, looked at her as if she were a stranger, muttered words that made no sense. Holding back her desperation, she redoubled her efforts, forcing life back into him.