The Fifth Knight(56)
“You have no idea what I care for.”
“Oh, but I do — you never stop telling me. Your habits, your veils, your cross, your cell.” The fire crackled high and bright behind him. “Anything you can surround yourself with to keep the world at bay.”
His words stung. “Such a fool’s description means you know nothing of my calling.” Well, she could sting back. “Foolish like you were on the riverbank, dancing for Fitzurse’s gold. At least I’m not a thief.”
His face was like stone. “So now you judge me for a thief, what are you going to do about it?”
“I would that I would leave you here to rot,” she replied through clenched teeth. “But I cannot.”
“You cannot because…?”
“Because, God help me, I depend on you to get me back to the church.”
“Exactly. And, God help me, I’m stuck with you.” He rummaged in his bag and pulled out a stone bottle. “Unless you want to prate on at me some more, leave me to get on feeding and watering us. I need to melt snow so we can drink.”
She grabbed it from him. “I will do it. It saves me looking at you a minute longer than I have to.”
“Please yourself, Sister.”
She stormed off into the quiet of the trees, where the drifts were deeper. The snow rustled down, a quiet backdrop to the banging of her furious heart. How could he have done this to her, how could he, how could he? She hunkered down next to a smoothly curved drift, and her fingers quickly deadened as she tried to push snow into the bottleneck. She shook it hard, as if it were the knight himself. The snow melted to give a few drops in the bottom. This would take an age.
She pushed a palm across her face in frustration. Frustration at the stubborn snow. Frustration at her own stupidity in trusting a man of the world. Gilbert’s account of Benedict’s care had touched her, confused her, but she should never have let it. At bottom, Sir Benedict Palmer was a grasping ruffian.
As she shoved more snow in the bottleneck, the trickle of running water sounded through the quiet. If that was a stream, it would be ten times easier to fill her bottle. She followed the sound as it became louder, then the snow was carved in twain by a deep stream that flowed gently over scattered rocks and reeds.
Theodosia went to the low bank and crouched down carefully. The sooner she got this filled, the sooner they could be on their way, and she would be one step nearer to being rid of Sir Palmer. Careful to keep her numb fingers’ hold on the bottle, she tipped it on its side. It filled rapidly and she brought it upright to cork it.
As she raised her gaze to it, her eyes met another’s across the stream.
A huge wolf stood there, head lowered, with eyes that glowed orange against its gray-brown fur. It drew its lips back and bared long, pointed fangs. Its deep, deep growl vibrated through her bones.
The bottle fell from her paralyzed grasp with a splash into the stream. She didn’t care. She couldn’t take her eyes from this animal. Could it swim? Or jump across? She was sure it could. She’d heard tales of these beasts. Satan himself was said to take one of his bodily forms through them.
The growl changed to a snarl, the wolf’s long muzzle in a deep wrinkle. Still it watched her.
She rose to her feet, hardly able to breathe. “Benedict?” It was barely a whisper.
As she backed away, the animal lurched forward. She screamed in anticipation of its pounce. But it stopped short of the water’s edge and snarled even louder.
It didn’t want to go in the water. That was enough.
Theodosia turned and fled back the way she had come. “Benedict! Benedict!” The snow whirled round her, struck her face as she ran. She didn’t even know if she ran the right way anymore. Any second, the animal would find her, be on her, tear her to pieces. “Where are you?” Her scream pierced the woods, but she couldn’t see him.
Something brushed her shoulder. The wolf. “No!” She reacted with her fists, her feet.
“Stop it.” Strong hands grabbed hers. “It’s me.” Through the driving snow crystals, Benedict looked down at her with ill temper. “What are carrying on for?”
“By the stream.” She took huge, heaving breaths and pulled from his tight hold to point. “There was a wolf.”
His expression changed. “A wolf? Are you sure?”
A long howl echoed through the woods, echoed by several more.
Her heartbeat soared, and she clutched for the knight.
A terrified whinny came from Quercus.
“Back to the fire.” Benedict set off at a run through the woods, pulling her along with him.
The howls became louder, closer. The lying snow dragged at her skirts, clogged her shoes. She half-fell onto one knee, but he steadied her and dragged her with him. Falling snow drove into her face, heavier than ever. She couldn’t see the fire. Growls came from a thicket. “We’re lost.” She choked on a sob.