The Fifth Knight(123)

“What’s that about my arse?” Henry’s face popped up over the partition between stalls.

Palmer colored redder than he ever had in his life. “Y-your Grace.” He bowed deeply and lowered the saddle to the floor. “A thousand apologies, sire. I didn’t know you were there.”

Henry snorted with laughter. “Obviously.” He emerged from the stall, a leather apron tied round his large gut. “Don’t worry about it, sir knight. I’ve heard a lot worse in my time.”

Palmer gaped, unable to find words.

Henry looked down and patted his apron. “You’re wondering about this, aren’t you?”

“Eh, yes, sire.”

“I like to get stuck in,” said Henry. “Can’t abide staying in bed more than an hour or two. Get nothing done. Grooming horses — now, there’s a real job. Makes something happen. Gives you time to think.” He fixed Palmer with his piercing gray eyes, slightly bloodshot from hard work and the early hour. “Good to see you’re not a slugabed. Or are you just keen to see your estate?”

“If I may, I would like to speak with you about that, sire.”

“Go on.”

“Your Grace, I would be more than grateful to accept this fine horse and saddle.”

“But?”

“But if it please your Grace — ”

“Oh, spit it out, man. You’re stuttering like a simpleton.”

“I don’t want the estate. Or the title.” Palmer swallowed. “Your Grace.”

“Hah!” Henry began to pace on the straw-strewn floor.

Palmer winced inside. He’d seen the King’s pacing build up to an astonishing rage yesterday. He didn’t want to be on the receiving end of another one.

“You interest me, Benedict Palmer. Last evening, I granted you a title. Wealth for life. Privilege. One of the finest steeds in the kingdom. Yet you reacted like I’d asked you to lick a leper. And now, this morn, you don’t want it, save for the steed.” He narrowed his eyes. “I have to ask myself, what’s the matter with you?”

“There’s nothing the matter, sire. I’m grateful to you and your generosity. I thought of nothing else last night.”

“Flat as a cowpat.” Henry stopped dead. “Why?”

“All I ever wanted was to be rich. Build high, fine walls around me. Keep sickness, hunger, death outside the door.” Palmer shrugged. “But that was a fool’s want. What matters is a place in the world where I can stay put, live out my life with a woman who loves and respects me for who I am, not what I own.”

“And what brought about this change of heart?”

“Sister Theodosia. All I want is her, and I can’t have her. So now all wealth would do is torture me with a long, comfortable life. More and more days to be plagued by the memory of her.” He shook his head. “I’ll go back to what I know, to fighting wherever I can. If God is merciful, I won’t last long. Then my grief will be over.”

“Hah!” Henry clapped him hard on the shoulder and made him jump. “I thought so. Lovesick young men are very easy to spot. Have you told her how you feel?”

“Indeed I have, sire. And she me. But all I’ve brought her is sin, and a doubting of her calling. And because of who she is, I have to give her up. I’ve no choice. And that’s how things are.” He suddenly remembered whom he spoke to. “If you see what I mean, your Grace.”

“Indeed I do.” To his surprise, Henry extended a hand. “Then I wish you Godspeed, Sir Benedict Palmer.”

“Thank you, sire.” Palmer shook Henry’s firm grasp, then bent to lift the saddle and flung it over the horse’s back. He adjusted the stirrups before leading the horse out of the stable.

He hoisted himself into the saddle and looked back to see his king stood in the doorway, his breath clouding in the freezing air.

Henry raised a hand in silent farewell.

“God save you, sire.” Palmer clicked to the animal and set off in the snowy dawn.

♦ ♦ ♦

Theodosia knelt in the chilly, deserted monastery chapel. Fingers tight on the wooden cross around her neck, she desperately called for God in her heart. But he didn’t answer. Oh, this was so hard. It had to get easier, it had to. She was gifted to the church afresh, just as she had been all those years before. Gifted by a king, her father. She had to obey his commands, go along with his decisions.

She was alone again, Benedict was gone. From her room high in the abbey, she’d seen him ride out with her own eyes. Gone. Now all she had to do was return to her state of holy solitude. She screwed her eyes shut to try and remember the words of the divine office. But not a word, a phrase, a syllable, would come. Her mind was as empty as the pagans’ fort on the hilltop. Not empty, her conscience said, only empty of virtue. Full, though, of thoughts of Benedict, of memories of his voice, his bravery. His touch. His smile. She opened her eyes to banish the image and started.