The Fifth Knight(15)

As Fitzurse led his stallion to a pile of fresh hay, Palmer turned back to the cart.

Theodosia climbed out and down with the aid of the wooden step. She scanned the yard without looking at him, and he recognized the set of an animal about to bolt.

He circled her right wrist with one hand, and she stiffened under his hold.

“Palmer.”

He glanced around to see Fitzurse leave his horse to its repast and walk over to them.

Fitzurse continued. “A task for you while we get our mounts refreshed. News of Becket will travel fast, and I don’t want us hindered on our way.” He pointed at Theodosia. “With her appearance, the girl could draw attention to us. Take her round the back of the stable block and get rid of her veil and habit. Do what else you like — I don’t care.” Fitzurse returned to his horse’s side.

Her sharp intake of breath gave away her intent to call to the groom for help.

“No, you don’t.” Palmer yanked her to him and choked off her cry. His bandaged hand stifled her screams as he dragged her to where Fitzurse had ordered.

The back of the stable block had no windows. A couple of piles of firewood and the inn’s frozen, heaped midden hid them from sight. She kicked harder at his shins through her long skirts, struggled to break from him.

A sharp heel to his kneecap almost made him lose his hold. “Curse you, lady.” Hand tight on her mouth, he loosed her arm and grabbed for his knife. He raised it to her line of vision, and she froze. “I’m warning you,” he said, his voice low, “you set about de Morville in the cathedral, but don’t think you can try me in the same way. One move, one shout, and I’ll cut you.” He released her to turn to face him. “Take your clothes off.”

Theodosia shook her head as she kept her terrified gaze on his blade. “I have vowed my chastity to God. By taking it from me, you commit mortal sin.”

“Your chastity?” He snorted. “No wonder you fought me so hard. I’m not interested in your chastity, just your clothes. Take them off.”

Still she trembled. “Then you despoil my modesty, another grave sin.”

“Off.” He gestured with his knife. “And hurry up.”

She loosed the leather belt that held her rosary and slipped it from her waist. “At least let me have my rosary. Please.”

“I said to hurry.” Palmer shook his head as he took the belt from her. The softest of good leather, the dark, shiny beads that hung from it made of jet. Holy folk never changed. Disgusted, he threw the belt onto the clumps of yellowed grass, grinding it underfoot onto the frozen churned mud.

Her black wool dress hung loose about her waist. With a stifled sob, she crossed her arms and began to pull it off over her veiled head, for all the world the same way he pulled off his own surcoat. But where he wore chain mail, she wore a cream wool shift that fitted tight to high, firm breasts and a narrow waist.

His groin tightened. Mouth dry, he took the dress from her. Its heavy weight and fine quality put down his urge. “Take off that black skirt too.”

“It’s my undersk — ”

“Take it.” With his blade steady, he cut down hard through the thick black wool he held, strip by strip, to the sound of her sobs. He watched her disrobe further as he flung the cloth on the ground.

She wore another underskirt — cream, this one. That could stay. He snatched the black undergarment from her. “Leave those pale clothes on.” He shredded the skirt as he spoke.

Theodosia watched him, hands to her face, tears streaming from her eyes.

One last thing remained. “Your veil, Sister.”

“You cannot. It is my life.”

He itched to slap her for her whining. “Forcurse it, it’s cloth.” He dropped the last of her torn skirt to his feet and stepped over to her. “On your knees.” He grasped her shoulder with his free hand and forced her to the frozen ground.

“You take my life.”

“It’s only a head cover, not your skull.” Palmer slashed down with his blade, and she caught back a scream. His expert cut went through the close-fitting white wimple that fitted round her face and covered her hair. One hard pull cast it off with her veil. A white linen band secured her hair cap beneath. He made a quick slash and it fell away too. “See? Not a scratch.”

But she gave him no thanks for his skill, scrabbling across the black earth for her torn clothing and raking it into her arms. A long, low keening broke from her as she clutched it to her chest. “These were my modesty, my wedding dress for Christ.” She rocked in open grief. “My humility. My poverty.”

Her prating riled him to his boots. “Poverty, is it?”