A faint rustle sounded from within. Palmer thought he saw a glimmer of cream wool amongst the shiny dark-green leaves.
“Sister? Answer me. I order you.”
Complete silence.
“Any luck?” Fitzurse’s call came nearer as he picked his careful way along the opposite riverbank.
“Not yet, my lord.” As Palmer forced his way in through the branches, brambles and ivy tangled round his legs. With such a small moon, the darkness in here made his sight of little use. He would have to rely on his ears. A rustle by his boots came from a mouse or water rat in the muss of dry, dead leaves. The constant roar of the water at the weir. Nothing else. He went forward, progress slow through the tough tendrils that laced the bushes. A twig snapped close ahead. He made for the sound, face and hands ripped by sharp branches and hooked thorns. The bushes thinned. Bent double, he propelled himself forward toward the weak moonlight and out from the thicket.
“Looking for aught?” De Morville stood above him to his left, sword drawn. Pointed at his head.
Palmer raised his hands. “Drop your sword. It’s only me. The sister is still hiding.”
De Morville didn’t move. “I know she is, Palmer. And I’ll find her. Soon as I’ve finished with you, you traitor.” He swung his sword in a deadly arc.
“No!” Palmer’s forearm shot up by instinct to parry it. His eyes closed unbidden at his last thought. Killed by your own greed. You fool.
The blade thumped into its target. No pain.
“Drop it, you mare!”
Palmer opened his eyes to de Morville’s shrill yell of rage.
The knight’s sword was buried in a stout dead branch, held fast by Theodosia. “You killed my lord Becket. You will kill no more.”
“When I have my blade, you’ll lose those pretty eyes.” De Morville yanked hard to free it.
“Leave her.” Palmer unsheathed his dagger and leapt for de Morville.
The knight’s ready boot cracked into his jaw, and Palmer fell to one side over the gnarled roots of a dead tree.
A thick holly bush broke his fall. He pushed back from the spiny leaves onto his feet, dagger firm in one hand.
Theodosia still grasped the branch as de Morville shook her from side to side. “No!” Her feet slid beneath her on the slippery mud.
Palmer closed in on them again, dagger ready. “Let go of her.”
“A sound instruction.” With a vicious shove of his sword, de Morville pushed Theodosia closer to the foaming river’s edge. He punched his free left fist onto her clasped grip. She cried out but didn’t let go.
“Curse you, you bitch.” De Morville drew back his fist for another blow.
As Palmer surged forward to sink his dagger into the knight’s scrawny neck, the sodden mud path quivered beneath his driving step.
“Forcurse it. The path. Save yourself, Theodosia!”
Her panicked gaze flew to his. “I can’t.”
The ground gave a tremendous shudder. Palmer flung an arm around a thick branch and made a desperate lunge for her.
Too late. The towpath burst into the river in a wave of useless soil. De Morville and Theodosia plunged into the racing water and disappeared beneath the surface.
CHAPTER 8
The sudden cold bit like an animal. Theodosia sank through the mud-filled water as bubbles boiled around her, robbed her of hearing, direction. The river rolled her over and over, in a pull she couldn’t stop. Water forced itself up her nose, down her throat. She had to open her mouth. Earthy liquid rushed in and she gagged. More followed. Her whole body convulsed as she tried to stop it. She could not. God was taking her.
Then the water fell away and her head was out in the air. She coughed, snorted, gulped for precious breath. The racing torrent churned yellowed foam high all around her, sucked hard at her skirts, her legs. But she didn’t sink back, not yet. She gasped and gasped with cold, couldn’t shout for help.
Another pale head floated in the thick froth next to her.
“Get away from me, don’t touch me!” She thrashed at it with her hands as it bounced against her chest. Harmlessly. The thing was her woolen chemise, stretched in an air bubble by the current. It couldn’t last long, and her limbs numbed fast. The banks — she had to get to one side.
Icy water splashed up through the foam and over her face again. Coughing hard, she twisted her neck around. Her stomach fell.
Fitzurse. No more than a few yards away, across the boil of yellow and brown water. He stood on an old tree stump that jutted into the channel. The river swept her straight toward him.
“Come on, Sister.” He gestured to her with an outstretched hand. “I’ve got just the thing to dry you out.”