The Fifth Knight(45)

“Don’t think I’d want this performance every time I got dressed.” Benedict held his chin up out of the way. “Give me chain mail and a surcoat any day.”

“Do not speak,” said Theodosia. “It makes it twice as hard to do this up, and we have little time.” She had to stand on tiptoe to reach the top two. When the ends were secure in a double knot, she stepped back as Gilbert loosed his hold with a long breath.

“Will I do?” Benedict screwed up his face as he shifted in discomfort in the tight doublet.

“I suppose so. But I am more accustomed to men concealed in the modesty of robes.” Not parading every muscle. She stepped to one side and bent over to put her shoes on. The unwanted flush was back — she’d cut her throat if she thought she could stop it.

“It’s the fashion, Sister,” said Gilbert. “Most folk would near kill for a well-cut shirt and hose.”

“Well, more fool them.” Shoes buckled, she straightened up.

A heavy brown wool, fur-trimmed cloak was now fastened across Benedict’s shoulders. He pulled a loose black velvet cap onto his head with gray-gloved hands. “Come, stand next to me.”

Theodosia picked up a mustard-colored woolen cloak and placed it over her shoulders, then moved to Benedict’s side. “What do you think?” he asked Gilbert.

The old man shook his head in disbelief. “Who’d have thought it? The whole town is looking for a knight and a ragged girl. No one is looking for a visiting townsman and his lady wife. Besides, it’s market day; the whole town is full of strangers.” He smiled. “Maybe not all as fine-looking, but certainly as well-dressed.”

“Then it’s time to go.” Benedict went and picked up the bundles of their old clothing.

Theodosia took hers from him, mouth dry. This was like being back in Canterbury again. Safe within walls, but forced to go out, to leave the peace of enclosure for a wild, dangerous world.

She followed Gilbert and Benedict to the door.

As the old tanner unlocked it, Benedict extended a hand. “Our most grateful thanks to you and your wife, sir. We owe you our lives.”

Gilbert shook his hand. “’Twas nowt. Anyone would have done the same.” He pulled the door open.

Bright winter sunlight flooded in, along with the sound of dozens of voices, of footsteps on the street. The voices and footsteps of people who sought her and Benedict, who would claim them for the huge prize in a heartbeat.

“Godspeed, my friends,” said Gilbert.

“May God keep you,” whispered Theodosia. “You’re a good, good man.”

Benedict stepped out into the street and looked up and down. “Come, my dear.” He crooked his free arm for Theodosia to take.

“Is that necessary?” she asked.

“It’s what real people do,” he said.

Theodosia stepped out and took his embrace, her bundle clutched in her other hand. The pale sunlight fell sharp on her eyes after so long indoors, and she scarce dared to breathe. Surely someone would guess, someone would shout? But no. Like Benedict had predicted they were invisible. They set off down the street with the same measured pace as the other market shoppers. Underfoot, rubbish cast aside by stallholders and shoppers crunched beneath her shoes and stirred against her skirts.

Lines of shops and stalls stretched on either side along the street. A shoemaker’s, with the scent of leather on the air and the steady blow of his hammer on the awl. Candle stalls, with rows of fine beeswax tapers hanging high out of reach, and piles of smelly tallow lights in baskets at the front. Dried flowers and lavender at one, the scent not as pure as fresh blooms, but still welcome sweetness from the displayed posies. A heavy-armed woman stood holding out handfuls, others arranged in her apron pocket. “Sweet your air! Sweet your air!”

Theodosia breathed more easily as they made their way along. It was so easy, so simple. It was working. Praise God. “Now tell me. Where are we going?”

“It’s not a place — ” He broke off. “Forcurse it.” His gloved hand tightened on her wrist.

“What are you doing?” She tried to shake him off.

He propelled her to look at a stall hung with dozens of woven straw bonnets.

The stallholder was busy with two young women who were making each other shriek with laughter by pulling faces as they tried hats for size.

“Explain yourself,” she hissed.

He put down his bundle of clothing and picked up a ribboned hat. Bringing it close to both their faces, he said, “Keep your back to the street. Gilbert’s wife is on her way back.”

“Then we should say good-bye to her, thank her.”