Palmer nodded a response.
“A disgrace, that’s what it was.” The man continued as if Palmer had replied. “Kicking their way into Gilbert’s home like that, frightening the daylights out of him. I couldn’t hear nothing clear, not with all the yelling. But when he fell down, and him an old man, no one went to help him.” He sniffed richly again.
“Was he all right?” asked Palmer.
“Naw. Went down like a tree. Didn’t move. I know a dead man when I sees one. My granddad went the same way.” The man palmed at his watery cheeks. “God save us all from such a fate. Good day, stranger.” He peeled off from Palmer’s side and went to a nearby shop piled with neatly paired boots and shoes.
Palmer carried on, desperate to hurry and frustrated he couldn’t. Yet his spirit soared for Gilbert, for the valiant, brave man who’d answered his battle prayer from the gates of heaven itself. And with any luck, Saint Peter had readied the knighthood.
CHAPTER 11
Theodosia stood near the back of the hat stall, a tall basket filled with peacock feathers shielding her from plain sight of the street. She pretended to examine them with deep interest, lest the stallholder wonder why she stayed for so long. She risked a peep through the bright fronds back up the street. No sign of Benedict. The pattern on the feathers mocked her, for all the world like eyes accusing her of stupid rashness, of quickness of mood. She’d no right to force Benedict’s hand the way she had, to send him back into mortal danger. What if he were being torn apart right now? A terrible end, and one that she had caused. The blue feathers shimmered in her trembling touch. Brother Edward had chastised her over and over for her impetuousness, her inability to keep herself contained. Gwen’s betrayal had brought her own sinful anger forth in a heartbeat, with Benedict paying the price.
Still no sign. Fitzurse must have him. Her stomach turned over. Then it would be her next. Should she go, go now, while she still had a chance? That’s what Benedict had told her. Her stomach turned harder at her base cowardice. She’d no right to flee her own death if she’d sent Benedict to his.
There he was. Her knees weakened with relief, to the point she might drop. He made his way through the crowd at a measured pace, calm as the day. But only him. She stepped out from behind the feathers to meet him, damp hands locked on her two packages of their old clothes.
She looked past him to check if anyone followed. “Gilbert?” she whispered as she handed him his bundle.
He shook his head. “He’s dead.”
With a soft gasp, Theodosia crossed herself. “May God have mercy on his poor soul. Who performed this foul deed? Fitzurse?”
“No, he went with the strain. His heart stopped.”
She scanned his face, looking for his lie. “You are humoring me.”
“It’s the truth, I swear,” he said. “One of his neighbors was a witness. I left quick as I could.”
She crossed herself again. “His virtue was rewarded with his merciful release. He will have even greater reward in the next life, bless his soul.”
“Bless Gilbert indeed. Thanks to him, we’re still alive.” Palmer took his package of clothes from her. “And his sacrifice will be for nothing if we don’t get away from here.” He offered her his arm.
She took it, her knees still like water. “I should not have sent you back. It was a decision based in anger. I am sorry.”
“You didn’t send me; I went.”
Not exactly. Theodosia prepared to argue but fought it down. Containment. “Then I stand corrected. Where are we going to go?” She kept her voice low, but it mattered little. The crowds were louder and denser than ever as the street ahead opened out into a wide square, surrounded by tall half-timbered inns and shops. Canvas-topped traveling stalls and wagons filled the central area, with people thronging around them.
“You’re going to tell me,” said Benedict.
Music echoed in the air: a fast hurdy-gurdy, the pipe of tin whistles.
She glanced up at him, bewildered. “I don’t understand.”
“Posewore.”
She stopped dead to an impatient tut from someone behind her. “What did you say?”
“You heard.”
A cheer came from one area, and a man in a jester’s hat appeared on a wobbling ladder, then collapsed back down again to howls of laughter and loud applause.
Her heart raced in her chest. How could he conjure up a name from her past, a name she’d never breathed to anyone?
“I’m waiting.” His dark eyes did not leave her face.
She drew herself up and tightened her hands on her bundle. “Unless you tell me where you heard tell of this place, you can wait until the crack of doom.” She gave him her fiercest look. “For only a spy or a traitor would know.”