“Your Grace.” The Archbishop moved to the door and bowed as he opened it.
Henry stepped into the broiling sun, and the roar of the crowd swelled in volume and climbed in pitch. His bare feet, delicate as a maid’s from years of wearing the finest shoes, hit against every bump of the cobbles in a painful jar.
The line of eighty black-robed monks waited, scourges in hand. Sweat poured down their faces from their wait in the sun.
Henry blessed himself and set off on his slow journey. The first scourge landed across his shoulders and drew a gasp from the watchers. It stung like a serpent, but Henry walked on, praying aloud. Another scourge cracked down, and he continued despite the pain.
The crowd grew more subdued. Many took up the rhythm of his prayer. Others raised their voices in solemn hymns. Still others wept as they saw his suffering, his humiliation on the public streets.
His progress was slow, difficult. The scourges bit, his skin tore. But it was for Thomas, the martyr, the saint. Tonight he, Henry, would spend all night at the ornate shrine in the cathedral, the one built on the very spot where the murdering knights had felled Thomas.
“God bless you, sire. You know He will.”
A voice he knew well. A woman’s voice.
Henry turned his head to see who spoke. In spite of his pain, he smiled.
Dressed in simple peasant dress, her face tanned from the summer sun, freckles across her nose, was Theodosia. Her belly swelled with a babe who’d be here by autumn.
Next to her stood Benedict Palmer, his shoulders even broader from his near on four years as a farmer.
Palmer nodded his sympathy, and his dark eyes said more than words. Sat on his shoulders, small mouth round in astonishment, was a little red-haired lad of about three. Palmer raised a hand. “The blessings of Saint Thomas Becket upon you, sire.”
It was as if his pain had lifted.
Henry smiled in return, squared his shoulders, and continued on his pilgrimage to Canterbury Cathedral.
THE END