Palmer took a last look back at the two men bent low at their backbreaking task. There would come a day when they couldn’t do it anymore, when illness or old age or a slipped billhook would rob them of their pitiful livelihood. He settled himself onto the hard seat again. He wouldn’t have to face that fate, not anymore. Once he’d finished his work for Fitzurse, he’d never know poverty again.
♦ ♦ ♦
Dusk sucked the last of the daylight from the sky as they made steady progress through Canterbury’s muddy, narrow cobbled streets. A hoarfrost white-edged the steeply pitched red roofs. Above them, the gray stone arches and towers of the cathedral rose to five, six times the height of the tightly packed half-timbered houses. Palmer had to lean right back to see how far they reached. “Happen they tried to build all the way to heaven, eh, le Bret?”
He got a grunt in reply.
The few people out and about hurried to their hearths, with their noses buried in cloaks and shawls. By the time Palmer and his companions arrived at the neat grassy area next to the huge church, they were alone. Leafless tall oaks and sycamores surrounding the cathedral patterned the sky in the fading light to the west. Dark-feathered crows filled the branches, settling for the night.
“Dismount.” Fitzurse’s rapped order sent the birds calling and fussing into the air. As he swung himself from his horse, he turned to address his men. “Our first task is to track down the Archbishop.” He nodded toward the Episcopal Palace, with its brightly lit mullioned windows. “I have been told we will find him there.”
Palmer secured the cart’s pair to a post alongside the others. Excitement surged within him. Here he was, a workaday mercenary knight, about to deliver the King’s displeasure firsthand. About to arrest the Archbishop himself.
“Forward, men,” said Fitzurse. He pulled a double-headed axe from his belt in a swift movement. “Let valor be your watchword.”
Palmer tightened his hand on his sword. He was used to fighting. But being part of this group was true power. Something new, something special. The quick thump of his blood through his veins told him how much he liked it.
Fitzurse arrived first at the closed heavy wooden door of the palace. He pounded hard on it with his fist. “Open up, in the name of King Henry!”
Silence but for more cawing from the crows.
“Open up, I say!” Fitzurse hammered again on the door. It remained unopened. He turned to le Bret. “Break it down. Now.”
♦ ♦ ♦
Theodosia knelt in prayer in her cell as the choir of monks in the cathedral sang their way through Vespers. It used to be her favorite Hour, the one that closed the day, with scores of candles lit to defeat the gloom. Now it signaled the start of the night, and its long, dark hours where she would be at her weakest and wide open to temptation.
At least she had remained unmolested last night. Brother Edward had been full of praise when she made her confession earlier. While she’d been grateful for his encouraging words, she couldn’t claim a purer heart or stronger resolve. Her repose had been a deep, dreamless sleep, so exhausted she had been from her penitential rosary on top of Vigils. But now another night faced her, a night where Satan could slide in and tempt her with sunshine and flowers and music and men. How could she fight against him?
As if God heard her fears, the monks’ voices echoed in reverence in the sung psalm: “Domine, clamavi ad te: exaudi me; intende voci meae, cum clamavero ad te.” “I have cried to thee, O Lord: hear me; hearken to my voice, when I cry to thee.”
She rested her hands on her open Book of Hours, not needing to read the familiar text. The words could be sung for her ears only. She closed her eyes and lost herself in the powerful message, her lips in silent echo. “Incline not my heart to evil words; to make excuses in sins.”
A faint thud interrupted her contemplation. She opened her eyes.
The monks sang on to the next psalm, but she was behind now. Refusing to indulge her irritation, she traced a finger along the sacred phrasing to try and catch up.
Another thud. She rose and pressed her ear against her curtain, lit from beyond by the candles in the cathedral. Nothing.
A louder bang came this time. Again, the choir prayed undisturbed. It must be from outside. She heard a male shout through the tiny outside circular window that gave her cell some air and daylight. Was a soul in distress, desperate to seek help from Mother Church? A further call sounded.
She got to her feet, but what help could she be? If she looked out, she might be seen, a grave offence, the graver if seen by a man.
A third loud thump decided her. Her beloved cathedral, her sacred shelter, might be being desecrated. She could not stand by and allow such sacrilege. Most of the daylight would be gone; no one would see her at the rounded opening in the dark stone. She pulled her little table below it and climbed up to have a look out. All seemed quiet. Whatever was afoot, it ceased and so would be of no further distraction to her.