He held her tight. “It might be shameful for a nun,” he said, “but not for a whore.”
Now she understood his actions, the lecherous caitiff. “You had no plan at all. That you would trick me so for my virtue.” She pulled against him, to no avail. “Then I would rather die.”
Palmer hauled her round to face him. “Not to be a whore, Sister. Only to act like one. For the next few minutes.” He gripped her arms tight. “And we’ve no more time for questions. You do as I say. Or I’ll leave you here.”
His glower told her he meant it.
She gave a stiff nod.
He pulled her to his side again and descended the steps from the porch. They set off across the icy courtyard, the knight’s boots echoing against the stone flags.
“Come on, wench.” He said it with full voice.
He made such a noise, he’d wake the whole castle. Theodosia pulled at his surcoat. “Quiet!” she hissed. “Someone will hear you.”
Instead, he took a hefty stagger almost to one knee and pulled her down with him. “Bollocks to this ice.”
As she struggled to keep her foothold, a voice rang out from the shadows by the main gate.
“Who’s there? Show yourselves in the name of de Morville!”
The call shot through her soul. Palmer had roused the guards.
♦ ♦ ♦
“Guard! Open up the bloody door.” Sir Hugh de Morville shouted his order as he rounded the last corner of the passageway that led to the dungeon.
He stopped in surprise as the door came into view. All in order, closed tight. But no one stood watch. The torch flickered on an empty post.
De Morville made the last few steps and tried the door. Locked, of course. He swore and spat richly on the damp floor. Where could the knave be? Doubtless sat on the privy, or other such time wasting. Worse, the man might be curled up in a warm corner, using the deserted castle and late hour to sleep off his watch.
Wherever he was, it meant de Morville’s pleasure was thwarted, leastways for the time being. He dealt the door a hefty kick. “Raise yourself, Sister. Once I have the key, you’ll be at my bidding.”
A muffled voice came from within.
De Morville halted his next kick in surprise. That were no maid’s voice. He put his right ear to the door. “What are you up to, you mangy dog? Unlock this bloody door and come out. You’ve no business in there.”
“I can’t, sir. He’s locked me in, took the key. Chained me up too. Can hardly breathe.”
“Who has?”
“One of the knights, sir. He went with the prisoner.”
“Which bastard knight?”
“Called himself Palmer, sir.”
Rage sobered de Morville as quick as a bucket of icy water over his head. “I knew it.” He kicked the door so hard he near broke his foot, but the wood remained solid. “You fool, soldier. I’ll deal with you later.”
“Very sorry, sir.”
“Don’t worry. You will be. Sorrier than a gelded goat if I have anything to do with it.” De Morville gave the door the punch he wanted to give to this oaf’s face.
Then he turned and sprinted back toward the stairwell.
♦ ♦ ♦
“Show ourselves? Have you no eyes, man?” Sir Palmer slurred his words as he lurched toward the gate.
Theodosia staggered too, half pulled off her feet by the knight’s tight hold on her waist.
The thickly clothed sentry looked askance at them as they approached and drew his sword in readiness. “Stop where you are.”
Theodosia tried to respond to the clipped command, but Sir Palmer paid no heed. “I’ll thank you to have some manners, soldier.”
“Stop. Now.” The sentry held his sword in readiness.
Theodosia grasped at Palmer’s arm as hard as she could. They would be cut down.
The knight carried on, halting only a couple of steps away from de Morville’s man and his sharp metal blade.
Her heart pounded in her chest, and she feared her knees would give way.
“I’ll thank you to open that gate, soldier,” said Palmer.
The sentry’s unimpressed look swept over them both. She could strike Palmer for his foolishness. Had he stayed quiet, they might have had a chance.
“And I’ll thank you to explain yourself, you insolent swillbelly.” The sentry gave a loud sniff. “I can smell the drink from here. Sir de Morville will want to know how you and your trollop got hold of his supplies.”
Palmer drew himself up and took a step toward the sentry. “I am Sir Benedict Palmer, returned with Sir Hugh from his recent mission. He poured his supplies into my glass with his own hand. How does that make me a swillbelly?”
The sentry paled and lowered his weapon. “My lord, apologies — ”