The Fifth Knight(125)

They walked out of the chapel and into the bright, dazzling dawn, headed across the deep snow for the stables.

“Will you say good-bye to Mama for me?” said Theodosia. “I would do it in person, but I fear we would only be harsh with each other. She would hate my choice.” She heard the bitterness in her own voice. “For her, virtue and nobility are always first. Not even a child is more important.”

Henry said nothing, just reached into his apron pocket again. He handed Theodosia a tiny Book of Hours.

She stopped dead as Henry halted too. It was the one Mama had had all those years ago in Canterbury. Tiny, exquisite: Mama had kept it with her at all times, hadn’t even left it behind when she went away to Polesworth.

Her father put a hand over hers and gently guided her to open it at one particular page. On one side was a picture of Our Lady, the Christ child as a baby on her lap. On the facing page, a verse from John: “When a woman is giving birth, she has sorrow because her hour has come, but when she has delivered the baby, she no longer remembers the anguish, for joy that a human being has been born into the world.”

The ink was faded, the edges of the page stained with a thousand touches. And marking the page was a baby curl: a dark-blonde feather, secured with a thin strand of white silk.

Sudden tears blurred Theodosia’s sight.

“Don’t judge her too harshly,” said Henry quietly. “She did what she thought was right, which is what all loving parents do. It cost her dear.” He closed the book and left it in her hands. “She wants you to have it, with her blessing, and to think of her more fondly when you have children of your own.”

Theodosia’s tears spilled over.

“Now come,” said Henry. “You’ll need to be swift if you’re to catch Benedict up.”

♦ ♦ ♦

Palmer rode at a steady trot through the snow-covered woods, the gelding easily eating up the miles.

Watery winter sun had turned the sky a washed-out blue. He had a sudden yearning for spring, for warmth, for the sun on his face, for long, sun-filled evenings.

Yet he’d face them alone. His joy would have been to share them with Theodosia, to have her call to him for supper made with her own small hands, for him to bring her flowers from the fields. He could hear her voice now. He shook the imaginary sound from his ears.

But there it was again.

“Benedict! Benedict! Wait! It’s me!”

He turned in his saddle. And there she was, galloping after him apace, cloak streaming out behind her. He halted his mount and secured it to a tree as Theodosia raced into the clearing.

She pulled up her mount and flung the reins round a bush.

“What are you doing?” he asked as he dismounted.

She jumped down from her horse and approached him, breathless from her ride. “Are you ready for Paradise?”

“You talk in riddles — ”

But she cut off his words with her lips, fastening them on his as she pulled him tight to her.





CHAPTER 34

Canterbury, Kent, July 12, 1174

The streets of Canterbury teemed with people. Henry had known it would be thus.

From his view out a ground-floor window at the Episcopal Palace, they lined the streets, shoved their heads through casements, sat up on walls. All to get a better look. The excited clamor reminded Henry of massed birds in a feeding frenzy, all waiting to get their fill and screaming till they did.

The sight of a king doing public penance was unheard of. Every citizen who could had made the journey so they would witness it for themselves, tell it forever to those who hadn’t. But Henry wasn’t doing it for them. He did it for his own soul, and as the only way he knew to express his deep, enduring sorrow for the death of his dear friend Thomas Becket.

He turned to the waiting new Archbishop, Becket’s successor. “I’m ready.”

The Archbishop nodded. “Here is your sackcloth, sire.” He held up the rough garment as Henry stripped to his waist.

Successor? Perhaps, but no match for the great Becket. The world would not see his like again. A glance down showed Henry’s own corpulent spread, the gift of middle age. How soft his skin had become from his life as king, with the muscle of his vigorous youth softening to useless flesh. It wouldn’t be too many years before even that soft flesh gave way to shriveled skin and creaking bones. But at least he still had the gift of life. Because of him, Thomas did not. Henry took the sackcloth and slipped it over his head, glad to embrace his penance.

Next, the Archbishop produced a dish of blessed ashes.

“Do you wish me to apply these, sire?”

“No.” Henry dipped his fingers in the nearby holy-water font, then into the dusty softness of the finely ground ash. He smeared his face with the black paste to give himself the mask of the sinner. “Let us proceed.”