“There is no other, Fitzurse.”
Fitzurse raised his sword over Becket’s hand once more. “Dear me. Back to where we started.”
“Stop it, I beg you,” said the nun.
Palmer clamped the girl hard to him again, in case she made another attempt at Becket’s captors.
She tugged at his forearm as she fought for breath. “You must believe him. As God is my witness, there is only me here, I swear to you.”
With a wary eye on Palmer’s sword, Brother Edward hovered at the edge of the circle, face drawn in torment. “It’s true what Sister Theodosia says. I beg you also, sir knight. Leave his lordship be. There is no one else to be found. No one.”
“Then our work here is almost done.” Fitzurse stepped away from Becket, sword by his hip once more. “Palmer?”
“Yes, my lord?”
“Take the girl outside and put her in the cart.”
“No.” The nun backheeled Palmer’s legs, clawed at his arm as he started to haul her across the transept.
“Unhand me!” Becket struggled like a man possessed against the three who held him, pulling de Tracy and de Morville near off their feet and making le Bret grunt with effort. He dragged his head from the pillar and looked directly at Palmer. “Let her go, sir. Don’t let Reginald Fitzurse make you a pander.”
Fitzurse’s nostrils pinched in fury at the insult. “Wait, Palmer. I’d like her to see something.” Fitzurse moved back to Becket as Palmer halted. “Leave him.” He nodded to his other three knights. Surprise writ on their faces, they loosed their hold on Becket. The Archbishop stepped away from the pillar to face Fitzurse.
“Oh, thank you, sweet Jesus.” With her murmured prayer, the nun sagged against Palmer in relief.
Fitzurse pointed a finger at Becket and jabbed him hard in the chest. “Kneel before me.”
The nun gasped, echoed by the watching Edward.
Becket regarded him with rage. “Do not dare to touch me, you who owes me faith and obedience. Leave this place, you and your fellow fools.”
Fitzurse’s punch was a blur, and Becket was on his knees to a scream from the girl. “I don’t owe faith or obedience to you,” said Fitzurse. “Only to the monarch.” He pulled his sword up and swung.
Palmer flung his other arm across the girl’s face as he saw the blow’s arc.
Becket ducked, but Fitzurse’s blade caught him at his crown and crunched through the bone. A shard of Becket’s skull flew off and splintered on the stone floor to a roar from the knights.
“Help us! The Archbishop is being murdered!” Edward rushed forward as Fitzurse gave the sprawled Becket another blow to his head that glanced off and caught the monk on one arm, sending him yelling against a pillar.
The girl in Palmer’s hold screamed and screamed as if she voiced a banshee. He kept his hold rigid; she couldn’t see such sights.
“He’s up, Lord Fitzurse,” said le Bret, as the mortally wounded Becket attempted to rise, watery blood soaking his face and neck.
“In the name of Jesus and in defense of the church, I am willing to die,” gasped Becket. “But leave the girl alone.”
“Willing or not, you’re dead.” Fitzurse’s breath too came fast and deep. “Finish him, le Bret.”
Le Bret took his sword grip in both hands. Blade pointed down, he lifted his weapon high, then brought it down on Becket’s skull. His savage thrust went clear through to the floor beneath, smashing the Archbishop’s skull in two and shattering his sword.
Palmer’s captive’s screams turned to wild sobs, and she scratched helplessly at his hands to try and loose his hold.
Edward cowered by the pillar, face pallid, fist to his mouth.
“Devil take it.” Le Bret cast the ruined handle aside.
“Don’t know your own strength.” De Morville grinned and raised his sword to a cowering Edward.
A chorus of shouts built from outside.
“Leave him. The other monks must have summoned help,” said Fitzurse. “We need to make our escape.” He looked over at Palmer. “But first, let Sister Theodosia see what happens to those who cross me.”
Palmer reluctantly lowered his arm from in front of the anchoress’s eyes, steeling himself for a fresh struggle. But she stopped her cries, went completely still. He felt her give a huge gulp and knew she fought her vomit.
Fitzurse watched her face intently. Then, still watching, he placed a boot on Becket’s mangled head, crushing out the whiteness of the brains to mix with the growing puddle of the Archbishop’s dark-red blood.
Still she didn’t make a sound.
With a shrug, Fitzurse gestured to the others. “Away, knights. Becket will not get up again.” He looked at Palmer. “Bring the girl.” He set off toward the transept steps as the others acted on his command.