The Fifth Knight(26)
Palmer continued to search the pitchers. He glanced at her. “No, not like that. Put it around your head and shoulders, make a cloak.”
She did as he said, the stained cloth reeking with splashes and stains of a hundred meals.
He thrust a jug patterned with glazed green leaves into her hands. “Drink some of that. Wet your clothes with it too.” He moved quickly over to the range.
Theodosia stared at it. A sheep’s face fashioned into the clay as a spout stared back. “Wine is a pleasure of the flesh. I cannot sip a drop.”
He hurried back to her with a deep scowl. “You won’t have any flesh left if Fitzurse gets hold of you.”
She took a deep breath and raised it to her lips. The sharp liquid flooded her mouth, and she spewed it from her lips in disgust.
Palmer made an impatient sound. “Put some of it on your clothes.”
Splashing it across her, she wrinkled her nose at the foul fumes. She was as foolish as the animal on the jug to carry on like this. She’d agreed to follow a madman. Replacing the beaker on the table, she looked up at him in trepidation.
He brought his hands to her cheeks, and she twisted in his hold as he rubbed her skin hard.
“What are you doing?”
He let go of her and showed her his hands, filthy with ash from the range. “You look as dirty as these, Sister.”
Theodosia brought a hand to her face and looked at her fingertips. She was indeed smeared with new filth. “Sir knight, you have no intention of saving me. You only want to play some horrid jest. I was a fool to follow you.” She looked toward the door, waiting for the dread figures to show there.
“I thank you for your trust in me.” He grasped her by the elbow.
“Why should I trust you?” She shook him off. “I am not doing anything else until you tell me what your plan is.”
“It’s simple.” Palmer gave her a humorless smile. “We walk out the front door.”
♦ ♦ ♦
No bloody drink left. Sir Hugh de Morville shoved at the dead ashes of the hall’s fire with the heel of his boot. No bloody heat, neither.
He was supposed to be lord of this castle. Instead he sat here like a turnip-headed peasant, without sup nor warmth. At least bed would bring one of those. Rising to his feet, he swayed to balance.
Fitzurse had not long since retired, with his stuck-up “Go easy, my friend” as he’d gone abed.
De Morville hawked on the floor in disgust. He was in charge here, it was his castle, his land. Not Fitzurse’s. Who did Fitzurse think he was, issuing orders all the time? We’ll have Palmer, we’ll do this, we’ll do that. You’ll not do the girl.
De Morville went toward the door with careful steps. He cursed Fitzurse for the arrangement to meet at dawn in the forge. Up with the bloody cockerel, and nothing to do except watch Fitzurse take up the castle blacksmiths’ expensive time with some metal bull.
“Some bullshit would be more like,” he muttered to himself. His own joke set him off into a long wheeze of a laugh, and he clutched the doorjamb for support.
He finished in a spasm of coughing as he considered Fitzurse’s plan. It would get the information they needed from the girl, no question. Fitzurse would get his pleasure too. The gleam in his pale eyes as he’d described the workings of the bull meant only one thing.
De Morville shook his head. His own pleasures were much more straightforward. He liked a virgin more than anything, especially one who fought her taking. The girl wouldn’t be up to much fighting if she was half-cooked. He belched long and hard. Then why not do her now, eh? Pissed as he was, his cock warmed in his breeches. It might take her mouth first to get him fully up, but he’d have no problem with that.
He staggered toward the stairs. It was all his: his castle, his dungeon, his prisoner. He could do what he bloody well liked.
♦ ♦ ♦
The door that opened out from the deserted corridor squeaked loud on rusty hinges as Sir Palmer pushed it open, revealing a covered porch. Despite the dirty cloth that muffled her face and neck, Theodosia’s flesh pimpled with cold in the frigid night air.
She looked across the courtyard. Mercifully empty though it was, the high walls surrounding it linked even higher towers of forbidding yellowed stone, enclosing it completely. The main doors stood at the opposite end, the dark, metal-studded wood three times the height of Sir Palmer and shut tight.
“How can we get out this way?” she asked, voice low.
Palmer pointed to the gates. “Like I said. Out the front door.” He reached a long arm around her waist and tugged her to him, hip to hip.
“Do not hold me so.” Her sharp whisper had no effect, and she squirmed. “What you do is sinful.”