The Fifth Knight(60)

A horse snorted in the distance.

Palmer went rigid in the saddle. This could be they.

A male voice, not taking any care to lower or hide it. De Tracy. It had to be.

He kept his gaze fixed on the direction of the sound.

Another grunt of a voice. Le Bret. Surely.

Then he saw them, the three knights on their fine mounts, riding in single file. And before Fitzurse, slung across the saddle, Theodosia’s still form, her wrists and ankles secured like a prize hog’s at a fair.

Palmer’s fists clenched to hold back his rage. They’d killed her, the bloody, bloody, damnable cowards. It was all his fault. He’d abandoned her, the woman who’d had the rash, foolish courage to stay and fight for him against de Morville.

But he’d had to. He’d had a split second to make a decision when the knights had stepped from the bushes, and he had made it. His battle sense, he called it. It had never failed him before. Now it had. And how.

Palmer’s hand went to his dagger. He was going to make them pay. He’d take at least one out, maybe even two if luck fell his way. If he was killed, so be it. He’d no right to walk this earth while she rotted cold in the ground.

The group passed by, unaware that he watched. Their voices echoed over to him, full of cheer at their devilry.

Palmer caught a familiar word. Polesworth. So they knew. He looked at Theodosia’s body, trussed so carelessly to Fitzurse’s horse. What had they done to her to make her tell? He should do for them now, the bastards. But he held back.

He needed to see if his plan worked. If it did, there’d be no need for his weapon. No mind. Either way, he was going to avenge the woman who’d fought so bravely for him. Fought, but lost.

♦ ♦ ♦

Theodosia’s head throbbed from being tipped half upside-down. Fitzurse’s bonds, tight when he first made them, tortured her more with each stride of the animal beneath her. Her arms cramped right down to her fingers, and her bound breasts bumped hard against the saddle with each step the horse took.

Fighting down the pain, Theodosia asked God in her soul for mercy. Asked, asked, asked. Begged. Not for release from this awful journey slung on Fitzurse’s horse, but for her mother’s escape. But God wasn’t listening.

One of Thomas’s sayings came back to her. “He always listens, my child. It’s just that we don’t always get the answer we want.”

But why wouldn’t God listen about Mama? True to his dreadful promise, Fitzurse had told her the first of his depraved options, describing it in minute detail, with the unspeakable agony that could be inflicted on a woman’s body. The Pear of Anguish. Sickness roiled through her stomach at the hideous pictures Fitzurse had planted in her mind, and she swallowed hard. If it were her fate only, she could understand. She’d sinned so badly, disregarded her vows. Mama had given her to God, and she’d spurned that generosity. Instead of passing on the gift of holiness, she’d squandered her gifts in wild, foolish actions. She deserved God’s abandonment. But Mama? Her pure, noble Mama. Why should she be rent apart by these men? She had to keep praying. She focused on the monotonous snowy ground that Fitzurse’s horse traveled over. She would ask Our Lady, a woman and mother who might intercede if offered up a sacred rosary.

Theodosia blinked hard. Now her vision played tricks, with dark red blobs appearing on the virgin snow. She opened and closed her eyes several times, but they remained, some tiny, others large as a spoon.

She turned her head to the right as much as she dared. De Tracy rode directly in front. A corner of his canvas saddlebag had a dark stain. As she watched, it dripped onto the snow to form another blob. It looked like —

Another followed.

It looked like blood.

♦ ♦ ♦

Palmer tracked the group, tensed for action, staying well hidden by the trees. His plan had failed. The woods were silent again. The wolves must have moved on, forcurse them. What bad fortune had led them to him and Theodosia? No doubt the same bad fortune that had led the knights. There was no point in blaming fortune. His own poor judgment had finished Theodosia.

He caught sight of her lifeless body before Fitzurse again. Regret lumped in his throat. Cursing himself for carrying on like a maid, he set his will and prepared to make his attack. A shadow flicked at the edge of his sight. He turned to look and caught his breath.

One wolf, then another, and another, ran down the trail of blood that dripped from de Tracy’s saddlebag. Noses to the ground, they ran faster toward the unaware knight.

“Come on, Quercus.” Palmer urged his horse forward. Some of his plan could still work. Just not the part that could have saved his brave Theodosia.