Theodosia tried to kick out, change her course, but her long skirt wound around her legs, trapping them. She flailed her dead arms in useless splashes. Her course continued. She had one hope left. “Sir Palmer!” Her scream was a thin echo, hidden beneath the water’s roar. Nothing. He’d gone.
“Try and get to this side.”
Her heart leapt at his call. She turned her head, and a clump of floating dead leaves washed into her face. She raked them away with a cry.
On the bank opposite Fitzurse, Palmer dangled from a willow tree’s long branch, one arm extended to her. “I can’t reach you.”
“A shame, some would call it,” came Fitzurse’s mock.
Theodosia hauled her sight back to her tormentor.
He squatted now on the stump, low over the racing water, to pluck her from the Nidd, blue eyes fixed and unblinking.
She beat at the water with numb hands, tried to twist, turn, haul her woolen float to change direction. To no avail. The water carried her to within his grasp.
“Stay away from me!” The current spun hard beneath her, and her skirt untangled. She kicked out, and her feet met the stump’s submerged roots.
Fitzurse reached out and grabbed a handful of her hair. She flung a hand up and dug her nails into the back of his hand.
“You little shrew.” He let go for an instant, and she pushed at the root with both feet. It was enough. The current pulled her back out of his reach and swept her away.
Fitzurse’s shout echoed after her. “De Morville! Get her, man!”
“I will, my lord.”
As she bounced and spun in the freezing, choking torrent, she held her head as high as she could. The water’s surface broke on the weir only yards ahead, before arcing over and down. Thunderous rumbling and a haze of spray told her how long the drop was. Worse, clung to the weir was a soaked de Morville, his thin face rapt in anticipation of where she would be swept to.
Theodosia scanned the banks, the bushes opposite, her head full of the water’s roar. She couldn’t see Sir Palmer anymore. With a huge boom, the river surged against the weir and smacked her against its thick rock. Blood tasted iron in her mouth from her bit tongue. The water battered her, kept her pinned tight. Yet she felt nothing now.
De Morville gave her a slow nod and started to maneuver his way across to her, hand over hand.
The only escape was down, to let the river take her. Theodosia shook her wet hair from her face and looked over the edge of the weir. Her stomach seemed to fall with it. Tons of water hammered down, roiling in lumps of foam as it set off faster than ever.
De Morville called to her. “You don’t want to go down there, Sister. Very dangerous.”
She looked back up.
He was almost able to reach her, but he kept his movements small and cautious as the flow of the torrent increased at the center.
“Theodosia!” Another voice.
She tore her gaze from de Morville and looked down once more.
Sir Palmer stood on the riverbank below, waiting by the bottom of the weir. “Jump! You must.”
“I can’t, I’ll drown!” She looked back.
De Morville was inches away.
“I won’t let you.” Palmer’s call floated up to her.
“Don’t worry. I’ll soon warm you up. Start between your thighs.” De Morville’s few teeth had the green patina of old bronze, and the putrid scent of decay wafted with his words.
She’d rather drown. She took a deep breath and flipped her senseless limbs over the weir.
The roaring water pummeled her body, her head, drove her down and down into total darkness. She felt something give and put a frantic hand to her front. The bubble in her undershirt had burst. Her only hope now was Sir Palmer. Her chest ached, then burned for release. My God, please take me quickly.
A knock to her ribs. She clutched hard for the object, and her deadened hands found something solid. As she took a clumsy hold, it tugged upward, then, with a sudden pull, her face broke free of the water again.
“I’ve got you.” Sir Palmer stood above her on the bank, pulling her to him with the broken-off sapling he held. She took shuddering breaths, coughed up mouthfuls of soil-tasting water. But she could breathe, thank the Lord, she could breathe.
He hauled her up to him, her chest, stomach, then legs bumping against the stone-filled muddy bank. With a final drag, she was out.
Theodosia collapsed on the ground at his feet, chest searing, soaked clothing plastered to her. She was cold no longer. Strange. But very nice. “God be praised. Thank you.” She looked up at Sir Palmer and recoiled. “Behind you.”
De Morville stood there, leather strap in hand.
Palmer dropped the sapling, but de Morville flung the strap round his neck.