The Fifth Knight(47)

Fitzurse nodded to the big knight, who yanked open the door.

He peered in, but his voice rumbled in surprise. “Empty.”

Fitzurse grasped Gwen’s arm. “If you have been lying to me — ”

“No!” She was shriller than ever. “I left them here.”

Fitzurse loosed his hold on her. He leveled his sword at Gilbert’s face, unblinking eyes like sapphire as he looked along the blade. “Where. Are. They.”

Gilbert waited for the terror, but he felt none. Only a wave of calm. “Gone from here.” His heart beat fast, then slow, in his chest, but he cared not.

Gwen flew at him, slapping at his face. “You idiot! Tell them! Tell them so I can have my money!”

Gilbert shook his head. His chest suddenly had no air. Funny, that.

Fitzurse transferred his gaze to Gwen. “I will give your husband a count of ten, then I will chop his fingers off.”

“Wait.” Gwen ceased her onslaught. “The woman. In the street.” She turned to Fitzurse. “I saw a woman. In a dress. Exactly the same as mine: chestnut, with a yellow shawl. Down this street. I thought nothing at the time. But it was made special for me.” She wheeled back to Gilbert. “They’re wearing our clothes, aren’t they? Tell Sir Fitzurse. Where are they gone?”

Gilbert watched her expression change to surprise as he sank to the floor. The stone was cold against his cheek, but so very, very soft.

Gwen’s shrieks, Fitzurse’s threats, all faded together until there was only silence.

“Dad-dad?”

He moved his eyes to the door. There stood his Isobel, in her primrose-yellow linen frock. She waved her special wave, her little fingers making a twinkling star. He scrambled up and ran to her, his old limbs moving as they had as a young man.

“Izzie!” He grabbed her and swung her into his arms.

Her hands went tight around his neck, and he buried his nose in her soft, sweet curls.

“Gilbert?”

He looked up at the sound of the young woman’s voice. One he had not heard in a long, long time.

Framed in the light, waiting at the door, was Catherine.

“It’s time to come home, love,” she said.

♦ ♦ ♦

Palmer retraced his recent path, every sense alert for a call he’d been seen.

The furrier’s house and shop came into view. A noisy crowd surged around it, all the shops and stalls abandoned as people tried to see inside.

Near to Palmer, a couple of cooked-meat stalls stood empty. Beneath the metal cooking griddles, bright orange embers glowed and sputtered from drips of melted fat. Maybe he could set a fire, cause a distraction.

Hat low over his face, he moved to the back of the crowd, careful to keep out of the line of sight of the shop.

Rumor and opinion about what might be happening in there buzzed around him.

“I saw a sword behind the counter earlier, I swear on my mother’s life,” said a fat man.

A horse-toothed woman jabbered to a group of two or three others. “That knight, the one that killed de Morville, I’ll wager he’s killed in these parts before. Jane’s cousin said the man who murdered her husband had black hair.” They shrieked.

“I’ll bet Gwen charges them to search the house,” said a large man who held a tankard of ale, much to the mirth of his friends.

Palmer wanted to shout at them, pummel some sense into their heads. A man could be being tortured, killed in there, and they cared not a whit. He craned his neck to catch a glimpse, catch the slightest sound.

Nothing. The crowd filled the place with their noise.

Desperation began to take hold. If he were to act, he’d have to do so blind. And in full view of all here.

Should he be recognized, Fitzurse’s order would have him torn to shreds by the crowd’s bare hands. “A crown for every piece of him.” It would be only a matter of minutes before Theodosia was found. Then Fitzurse would have her to torture to death at his leisure. The nightmare of her smooth, delicate skin, roasting and melting like the meat on the griddles nearby, flashed before him. But unlike the animals cooked on there, Theodosia would still be alive. He couldn’t do it. Whatever Fitzurse might do to Gilbert, it would be swift. Fitzurse needed his information urgently.

Gilbert, my man. The bed of heaven to you for your courage. Forgive me for abandoning you. Your death is on my soul. The old battle prayer gave Palmer no comfort. He turned to leave, sick to his heart though he knew it was the right decision.

“Excuse me, mate.” A stocky man in a shoemaker’s apron bumped against him as he too made his way out of the crowd.

He fell into step beside Palmer and gave a loud sniff. He rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “Look at me, blubbing fool.”