The Fifth Knight(39)

“N-n-noo.” She ground out the word through chattering teeth. “Cold is good. Keep your food cold. Your heart cold. Keep your life cold. Cold is pure. Pure. And I have my cross.”

“You do.” Faith, she was truly scattered. She might not come back from this. He carried on rubbing, kneading her skin.

“Good. Mama gave it to me. My mama was pure. Said keep it, so I wouldn’t forget her. When she went away.”

Mama. The woman Fitzurse would roast Theodosia alive to find. His heart tripped fast. “Where did she go?” Faster as he waited for the answer.

“Got…jewels on. I cried.”

Palmer kept his tone low, calm, though he wanted to pull the answers from her. “I’m sure you cried. Did she go a long way?”

“Mmm.” She drifted toward sleep, her flesh warmer under his hands, her shivering almost stopped. “Becket took her.”

“Really? Took her where?”

“Posewore.” She yawned again.

“Where on God’s green earth is that?”

“It’s secret.”

“But you can tell me.”

“No. Don’t know.” She nestled back to his chest again. The rise and fall of her shoulders told him she’d slipped into her dreams.

Heart racing, Palmer watched the candle sputter to its end in a puddle of wax, He’d found the information Fitzurse had been so desperate to get from Theodosia. What it meant, he didn’t know. But it mattered more than Becket’s life, Theodosia’s life. Faith, his own life too. He had to find out, find out where Posewore was and find Theodosia’s mother. It was the only way to end this. Fitzurse might not know where he and Theodosia were right now, but he would never give up.

For a start, Palmer had to get the anchoress out of Knaresborough. They would have to wait until darkness fell again. And then what? Escape as fast as possible. That would take a horse. You needed money to buy a horse. Lots of it.

Palmer lowered the top of the sheepskin to reveal the cross again. It wasn’t money, but it was a start. His fingers went to Theodosia’s neck, and he fumbled for the catch. It sprang open, and he slid it off.

She didn’t stir.

He held it up in the dim light. It swung gently, the rubies’ glow like blood in the dying candlelight. He should wait until she came to her senses. It was worth a fortune. More than that: it was a mother’s gift. Stop prating like a fool. A mother’s gift it might be, but it didn’t have four swift legs and a broad back.

After tucking the cross into his own folded chain mail, he settled back down. The warmth of the sheepswool seeped through him, and the sleeping Theodosia fitted perfectly in his hold. Gilbert was right. He needed to rest, no matter how much he wanted to act. The candle flared, puttered, flared again, then died.

Palmer looked into the sudden dark and waited for sleep to take him.

♦ ♦ ♦

The monastery bells rang out the call to the midday office as the market-day crowds thronged past Gilbert Prudhomme’s skin-and-pelt shop. The crisp winter sunshine dazzled but had little warmth, as he stood outside to catch trade. He blew on his raw hands and looked over at Gwendolyn, busy with what she did best.

“That’s my final offer. Take it or leave it.” Gwendolyn eyeballed the male customer and folded her arms across her chest.

The man shot a glance at Gilbert, obviously hoping that he would intervene. Gilbert gave a slight shake of his head to indicate the futility of trying to outbargain her.

The customer caved in and opened up his leather belt-bag.

Gwendolyn shot out her right hand, palm up, for fear the money wouldn’t materialize. Once the coins were counted out into her hand, she pushed the sheepskin bundle to the man with her foot.

He picked it up and slung it over his shoulder. “Drives a hard bargain,” he said to Gilbert as he went on his way.

“Thanking you.” She sounded in great good cheer as she clinked the coins into a cloth bag under the wide wooden window shelf.

Money was the only thing that brought such color to her pinched cheeks, that brought a glint to her eye. She was already back on the street, calling her wares and stopping people for custom.

Catherine had never been like that. Funny how he could think of her now, even after all these years. He’d had her for only ten months, till giving birth to Isobel had killed her. If she’d lived, maybe she would have been like Gwen. A woman of advanced years is often not similar to how she was at twenty. He winced as Gwen tested a suspect coin with her long teeth. No, Catherine would never have been Gwen, no matter how many years might pass.

Gwendolyn came over to him. “Are you just going to stand there and let me do all the work, as usual?”