Gilbert drew breath to reply that in his years as the tanner, he’d prepared hundreds of items like those on sale, with hours of backbreaking and foul-smelling work — he was entitled to go easy.
Gwen’s expression changed his mind.
He let the breath out again. “It’s past dinnertime. Let’s have some food. We’ll need plenty.” He nodded toward the back room, where the young strangers still slept.
“What?” A bubble of spit flew from her mouth, such was the strength of her response. “You don’t expect me to feed them too, do you?”
“They need so — ”
Gwen peered past him. “What’s going on?”
A group of apprentice lads assembled at the end of the main street, shouting and calling amongst themselves. Two or three broke off from the group and headed off down the side alleys, still shouting.
The hubbub spread from them like a wave, with people stopping and gathering to exclaim and chatter.
“Oi,” Gilbert called to a shoemaker he knew, whose stall was close to the fuss. “Tell us the tale.”
The man hurried up, apron wound round his large belly, leather-cutting knife still in hand. “Unbelievable, Gilbert,” he said. “De Morville’s dead, slain by a strange knight, tall fellow by the name of Palmer. Some girl helped him with the crime, can’t recall her name. Teresa or summat, ragged-looking, she is. The guards are going round the whole town. There’s fifty crowns going for her, and the reward for the knight is to be by the pound.”
Gwendolyn gasped and fixed her gaze on Gilbert. She opened her mouth, but Gilbert interrupted. “Why did he kill de Morville?” he asked.
“No idea,” said the man. “But I tell you, that knight’s done this place a favor. Fingers crossed we’ll get a lord who doesn’t beggar us all with taxes, eh, mate?” With a wave, the shoemaker returned to his shop.
Gwendolyn squared up to Gilbert, her fury barely contained in her low, vicious tone. “Oh, well done, Gilbert. You’ve only gone and dragged us into a murder. Not just any old murder, neither. Only the murder of the lord and master of Knaresborough.”
“Hold.” Gilbert looked around to make sure no one could overhear them. “No one knows they are with us. We need to keep it that way, at least for the time being.”
“Have you taken leave of what little sense you have? We need to report them. Now.”
“Suppose there’s more to it? De Morville has bled this place for years. Think of all the money he’s had from us.”
Gwendolyn stared at him for a long moment, then leaned close to him, her eyes flitting from one stranger to another as they passed by. “Very well, I’ll give you that one.”
Gilbert congratulated himself on his appeal to her mercenary side; it had worked a treat.
“Come, husband. Let’s wake them and tell them what’s occurred. We need to make sure they stay hidden.”
♦ ♦ ♦
Theodosia surfaced from a deep sleep on soft, warm wool. But she couldn’t move. She hated these awakenings, where a Satan-sent homunculus would keep her paralyzed from her dreams, keep his hold on her even though she woke. She opened her eyes. It was no demon that held her in the dim light, but thick sheepskins piled over her. She stirred, and dull pains throbbed from every part of her body. Her hands found her woolen underwear, no habit. She put a hand to her face. No veil.
But Palmer had taken her habit, her veil. The man called Fitzurse had ordered him.
Head spinning, she half rose, the covers a dead weight. Where was this place? Light framed a closed door directly in front of her.
“You’re back to health, Sister. Good.”
She turned her head, and it swam as she made out Sir Palmer, standing by a tall pile of pelts.
He stood fastening his leather belt over his surcoat and mail.
She pushed herself upright. “There’s no light. No windows.” The gold. The riverbank. Fitzurse. “You’ve locked me up again.” Her head whirled as she tried to rise.
Palmer dropped to his haunches and took her shoulders in his powerful hands. “You’re not locked anywhere. You’re safe. We’re still in Knaresborough, but not in the castle. A man called Gilbert and his wife, they’ve given us shelter here in their shop.”
An image of an old man hovered at the very edge of her memory, a snippet of a middle-aged woman’s voice. No more. She shook her head. “I cannot recall it.”
“You’re still addled from your time in the water.”
The water?
“You fell in the river. With de Morville,” he said quietly.
Her hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, Iesus Christus, have mercy on his soul.” A violent trembling seized her as it all came back. “You killed him. Killed him in front of me, with your bare hands, when I pleaded with you to show mercy.” She pushed him off. “Don’t touch me.” She clambered from the pelts and rose to her unsteady feet.