The innkeeper took an exaggerated look around the heaving room and returned his gaze to Fitzurse. “Only half a dozen, my lord.”
Fitzurse itched to strike the buffoon’s face, but he didn’t want to draw unnecessary attention to his presence, in case Palmer was within. “I wasn’t clear enough. The man’s around his twenty-third year. Tall, broad. The woman’s younger and very fair.” He went on to describe their clothing.
The man considered the request for a moment. “Not staying here. But there’s that many through here,” he said with a shake of his head.
“Think, man.”
The innkeeper looked askance at Fitzurse’s sharp tone, but it got his full attention. “A woman who might be the one was outside earlier. Very bonny.”
Fitzurse scanned the room as if his gaze could summon his quarry there. “And the man?”
“Never saw her with anyone. Only with them three over there.” The man pointed out three middle-aged men dressed in long woolen sclaveins, with their broad-brimmed felt hats discarded on the tabletop.
“Pilgrims?” said de Tracy.
“Aye,” said the innkeeper. He picked up empty beer mugs. “I’m sorry, sirs, but I can’t stand here yapping all night.”
De Tracy drew breath to admonish him, but Fitzurse stayed him with a warning hand. “Thank you, my man.” With a nod to de Tracy, Fitzurse led the way to where the three pilgrims sat at the end of a bench. They were clearly the worse for wear. One looked ready for sleep and swayed where he sat, while the other two argued with the loudness of the truly drunk.
“Gentlemen.” Fitzurse stood before them and gave them a tight smile.
They nodded at him without recognition, clearly annoyed at having their row interrupted. Then one came to his senses.“Yes, sir knight?” he asked.
“I’m trying to catch up with a friend of mine,” said Fitzurse. “A goodwife. Her name is Theodosia Bertrand.”
“Never heard of her, sir,” said the second, drunker one.
“You may not know her by name, but the innkeeper says you had a conversation with her this very evening.”
All three looked at him blankly.
“Small-built,” said Fitzurse. “Plenty of means, expensively dressed. Very comely.”
The foggy expression cleared on the second man’s face. “I recall ’er.” He dug his friend hard on the arm. “Gorgeous titties.”
The third one’s eyes slid closed and flew open again.
“’Course. I remember her now,” said the first. “She asked about Polesworth Abbey, of all places. We was only there last Easter.”
“Polesworth, did you say?” said Fitzurse.
The man nodded. “Aye. Near Warwick.”
“Was she going there?” De Tracy’s voice had a barely concealed tremble of excitement.
“Far’s I know,” said the man. “She left awful quick. Shame. But we didn’t want to tangle with her husband. Big bloke, he was. Had a big gelding.”
His friend snorted a laugh. “Bet he does.”
“Quite.” Fitzurse inclined his head. “I thank you, good sirs.” He shot a glance at the third pilgrim, who was now asleep on his friend’s shoulder. “Godspeed for your pilgrimage.”
The two who were still awake gave solemn bows. “We’ll need it,” said the first. “Canterbury is a long way.”
Fitzurse exchanged a glance with de Tracy. “Why Canterbury?” he asked carefully.
“An’t you ’eard?” said the second. “T’Archbishop hisself’s been murdered. Miracles have already started. Got to get in quick if you want one.” He brought a finger to the side of his nose and near poked his eye out.
“Perhaps the dead Archbishop will cure your sight. Good evening, gentlemen.” Fitzurse led the way outside without any need for further time on these fools.
“Cure their hangover, more like,” muttered de Tracy.
Fitzurse was having trouble controlling his breathing. “Palmer and the girl can’t be that far ahead, de Tracy.” He raised his chain mail hood against the large, soft snowflakes.
His companion nodded, with eyes that gleamed in anticipation. “Not with one horse between them, no.”
“Then let us get ours and make all haste.” A couple of snowflakes settled on his lashes, and he flicked them away with a short laugh.
“What amuses you?” said de Tracy.
“Becket’s pilgrims. So even a traitor can have devotion once he’s dead.” He summoned le Bret with a shout. “Who knows? If we find the anchoress, we might even have to go back to Canterbury to give thanks for our own little miracle.”