The Fifth Knight(34)

A sleepy low came from a windowless, thatched stone building that backed onto the quiet alley.

Palmer stopped and put his face to a narrow gap in the moss-covered wall. The heavy odor of animal dung met his nostrils.

“Through here.” He led a reluctant Theodosia around to the door of the byre, which led off a small yard. No lights showed in the attached two-story, half-timbered building.

Palmer quietly slid back the well-oiled bolt and pulled the door open. A stocky brown cow stood in the gloom and chewed on a mouthful of hay from a half-full iron rack on one wall. Dry straw piled on the floor, with a couple of fresh cowpats in one corner.

Palmer pulled Theodosia in after him and pulled the door to. The cow chewed on, unbothered.

“Why do we come to my cell? And why is there such a smell?” She swayed as she stared at him, testy as a drunk.

“Hush.” He took his knife and eased the bolt shut again through a gap in the door planks. Turning back to Theodosia, he dropped to his haunches and drew her down with him. He tested her skin with the palm of his hand. Still like marble.

His eyes adjusted to the darkness, helped by the open row of bricks under the thatch that let in air and light for the animal.

Theodosia took the darkness as a different signal. She sank to the floor and stretched out on her side in the tumbled heaps of cow bedding. “Jus’ want…sleep.” Her eyelids slid shut, wet hair plastered against her cheek.

“Theodosia.”

“Hmm.”

“Wake up.” He kept his tone sharp but low.

“Soon.”

“Now.” He shook her hard. Nothing. He gathered her into his arms and rubbed her body vigorously with his palms, brought his breath to her neck. Still nothing. He rubbed harder. “Come on. Come on.”

Theodosia remained still, her breathing shallow. He held her tighter, and her chill seemed to soak into his own bones.

He raised her eyelids with gentle fingers, and her set pupils stared back. His innards lurched. She was in mortal danger. He needed to get her soaked woolen clothing off, get her covered with straw. He laid her back down on the floor. Even as he started to loosen her skirt, he knew it was useless. But he had to try.

The bolt rattled in its barrel, then the door creaked open. Lamplight flooded in.

Palmer’s hand went to his dagger as he peered through the cow’s brown legs.

“Good morning, Mistress Marigold,” said a sharp, matronly voice. A red skirt rustled against the straw as the woman stepped inside. “Mind, no fussing when I take your milk this morn.”

Not Fitzurse. But still the threat of discovery. He crouched low, his arms circled around Theodosia.

The light danced across the low-beamed ceiling, with a couple of metallic tings as the woman secured the lamp. “There. You won’t be able to kick it over, no matter how hard you try.” The sound of her palms rubbing together told him her task. With a wooden-pattened shoe, she pushed a three-legged milking stool to the cow’s side and sat down. As she tucked her wiry, graying hair under her linen cap, her eyes met Palmer’s. She jumped up with a shriek. “Gilbert! A robber!”

She clattered out the door.

They had to get out before the woman returned with help. Palmer went to gather Theodosia into his arms.

The door creaked once again. Whoever Gilbert was, he’d responded quickly. “Show yourself.”

A male voice, with the quaver of advanced years. Easy to get past, but not carrying the unconscious Theodosia. Palmer stepped around the cow’s hairy haunches. He unsheathed his dagger as a threat.

A thin, white-haired man faced him, tall once, but now stooped with his years. Dressed in neat black jerkin and breeches, he held a rusted curved tanner’s knife aloft. The blade was pitted and uneven with age, but his grip rested sure. His wife, square-faced and plain but younger than he, shielded herself a step behind him.

“Lower your weapon, you wastrel,” said Gilbert. “Then get out. That is my animal.” His watery blue-gray eyes had the mettle of a man quarter his age.

“I don’t want your animal, sir,” said Palmer. “I only came in here to seek warmth.” He gave the cow a firm push, and she stepped away with a low of protest.

Gilbert’s look turned to surprise as Theodosia’s form was revealed on the floor.

“I was trying to revive my wife,” continued Palmer. “We were traveling by the river, and the bank gave way. She fell in, and it was many minutes before I could get her out. I fear the cold has its hold on her and her life’s at risk.”

The man’s look softened, so Palmer pressed on.

“Please, let me keep her in here. Otherwise, she’ll die.” He dropped his dagger at Gilbert’s feet. “Have my weapon. I mean you no harm.”