She addressed the furrier. “Kind sir, your shop has crucifixes on the walls, and you have a well-kept altar to Saint James in the corner. You are a man of God?”
He nodded.
She looked at Benedict. “Then tell him. Tell him what has happened to us.” She crossed herself. “To Archbishop Becket.”
♦ ♦ ♦
Gwendolyn marched along the crowded streets of Knaresborough, cursing people silently and aloud as they blocked her path.
“Excuse me, mistress.” A youth stepped in front of her, legs and back bent under a basket of muddy turnips. She was tempted to dash them to the ground, but she didn’t want to be delayed by the ensuing commotion.
She waved him past, pulling her woolen cloak tight on her shoulders. All round her, the air buzzed with one topic: the murder and the knight who’d done it.
“Chewets! Coffin pie!” A huckster stood on a corner with a tray of steaming pastries that made her empty stomach growl. Never mind. Plenty of time for that later.
Her path clearer, she set off again, scanning the crowds for the uniformed castle guards. She wanted to bring her information right to the horse’s mouth. Otherwise some scoundrel was bound to present her information as his own, and rob her of her fifty crowns for that strumpet and whatever she’d get for the knight. She smirked at the memory of the mail-clad Sir Palmer. He’d be worth more than a stud stallion.
At last. She spotted the dull-gray conical metal of a castle guard’s helmet. She pushed her way through the knots of people who gawked at stalls like they’d never seen an eel or a set of pins in their lives.
“Guard.”
The man turned with reluctance from whomever he spoke to, to see who it was had interrupted so rudely. When his eyes lit on Gwendolyn, they glazed with the utter disinterest of a young man for a middle-aged woman. He returned to his conversation.
Gwendolyn tapped him sharply on the shoulder.
The guard stepped back to view her with some ire. “I’m busy, mistress. Very busy.”
The man to whom he spoke also viewed her with considerable irritation. A knight in full chain mail and immaculate surcoat, he had the noble features of an ancient statue and eyes bluer than the winter sky.
“Begging your pardon to interrupt,” she said. Something about the knight made her dip in a quick curtsey. “But I have news about Sir Palmer.”
The guard rolled his eyes. “In your closet too, madam?” He winked at the knight. “That’ll be four so far.”
The knight didn’t respond to the guard but focused his attention on Gwendolyn. “Go on.”
“The girl is with him.”
The knight hissed in a sharp breath.
“Short, dark-blonde hair. Skinny. Pale. Soaked to the skin when I found her.” Gwendolyn allowed herself a little preen. “But they have duped my blockheaded husband, got him to do their will. They’re still with him at our shop.”
The knight muttered a set of instructions to the stunned-looking guard. “Now, mistress.” An angelic smile played on his fine lips. “Take us there. With all due haste, if you please.”
EPISODE 3
CHAPTER 10
As Benedict finished his rapid account of the Archbishop’s murder and their pursuit by the murderous knights, Gilbert crossed himself.
“I can’t believe there’s such evil in the world,” he said. “To think a man so holy would be struck down. In his own church.” His faded eyes met Theodosia’s. “To think a knight like Reginald Fitzurse would inflict such an end on a holy woman.” He shook his head.
“Now, sir,” said Benedict. “You said you had information that could save our lives?”
“Aye.” The old man looked from Theodosia to Benedict. “Everyone is looking for you. Word has come from the castle that there’s a price on your heads.”
“How much?” said Benedict.
“Fifty crowns for Sister Theodosia. He’s not said she’s a sister, though.”
She caught her breath. People would hunt her to the ends of the earth for such a huge sum. “I hope you are not tempted by that reward, Benedict.” She gave him a knowing look.
He flushed, but Gilbert gaped at her, aghast.
“Sister Theodosia, it’s hardly my place to say it, but how can you make such a cruel jest about Sir Palmer?”
Benedict raised a hand to him. “Ignore it, Gilbert. I deserve it.”
“No, you do not, Sir Palmer,” said the furrier. “Sister, if you’d seen the state Sir Palmer was in when I found him in my byre. With you in his arms, him that beside himself with worry, ’twas no wonder I believed you were married.”
“Gilbert,” said Benedict. “Pay it no mind.”