The Fifth Knight(7)

As she prepared to climb back down, a sudden movement at the doorway to the Episcopal Palace caught her eye. With the loudest bang yet, the door caved in and light spilled out, illuminating a group of knights who stood there with weapons drawn.

One of the young monks stood in the doorway, gesturing to the strangers that they could not enter. Then the biggest stranger pulled back his massive broadsword and ran the young brother through. The monk doubled over the blade that pierced him, then fell to the ground as the knight yanked it back out.

Theodosia stifled her scream of horror with her sleeve.

The first four knights surged in through the door, stepping on the lifeless brother. Only one of the group hesitated, the last broad-shouldered one. He paused and looked down at the murdered man, but then stepped through after the others.

A raid. Every man and woman of God knew of such terror, where men intent on murder, rape, plundering, descended on houses of God and destroyed everyone and everything within. Her vow of silence could be broken in a dire emergency — she had to warn the monks. She stepped over to her internal cell window and wrenched the curtain back. Yellow light pierced the gloom.

“Brothers!” Her voice, quiet for so long, made a feeble plea. “Brothers!” Louder, but still unheard. She knocked against the metal bars, but the dull clinks were no match for the choir in full worship. “Listen! I beseech you. The cathedral is under attack.”

The monks’ voices soared into the next psalm of the service, and it echoed back from the vaulted ceiling. They sang that God would hear them, that He would help those in distress.

“Can anybody hear me?” She hit her balled fists harder on the rusty bars, hammering as loudly as she could, though her knuckles split and tore. “Brothers!”

The monks sang on, as if mocking her pleas.

Theodosia shrank back from the window and slid to her knees, the strength gone from her legs. Her fate, all of their fates, were in God’s hands now. Her bloodied fingers fumbled for the crucifix tucked beneath the neck of her habit as she tried to join the prayer.

But the sacred words deserted her, her dry mouth unable to form a single one. She knelt in frozen terror, listening out for the next shout.

♦ ♦ ♦

Palmer stepped over the young monk’s body into the high-ceilinged hallway of the Archbishop’s palace. He brought up the rear of the group with rapid steps, his footsteps echoing with the other knights’ on the red-and-black tiled floor. These rules of engagement surprised him. The monk had been defenseless, unarmed. A hard shove with a shoulder would have got past him.

“You there!” Fitzurse broke into a run.

Another brother peered out past a partially opened door in the far corner of the hallway.

Fitzurse stopped before him. “Take us to the Archbishop. At once.”

This monk was old but did not try to flee. He stepped out into the hallway, staring at Fitzurse’s raised axe, his drooping chins quivering. His horrified gaze went to the crumpled body at the front door, and he crossed himself. “What errand of the devil are you on? We are all men of God in here. No one will fight you, sir knight.”

To Palmer’s unease, Fitzurse brought the edge of his axe blade to the old man’s throat. “Take us to Thomas Becket. Now. Or you can join your young friend in Paradise.”

The monk shook as if gripped by fever. “He is that way.” He raised a cautious pointed finger to a shadowed passageway to the left.

Fitzurse lowered his weapon and jerked his head for the knights to follow him. The monk sagged against the wall, his breath a terrified rattle in his thin chest.

The red-bearded de Tracy gave a shout of laughter and hauled at the front of the old man’s robe, lifting him to the tips of his toes. “Paradise not so appealing when you think you’re going there, eh?”

“Please, have mercy,” said the monk.

“Put him down,” said Fitzurse. “We have a task to finish.”

De Tracy flung the monk to the ground and dealt him a savage kick to his ribs as he moved on. “All yours, Palmer.”

Palmer ignored de Tracy and went past the old man, shamed to see him flinch when he met his eye.

Fitzurse stopped before a paneled closed door, hand on the metal-ringed handle. “I’ll wager our prize is close by, gentlemen.”

Agreement rippled through them, and Palmer added his.

His prize. This was a task ordered by the King, with a purse to match. He tightened his grip on his sword.

Fitzurse kicked the door open to reveal a simply furnished study, lit by a lively fire in a carved stone fireplace. Archbishop Thomas Becket stood before it, dressed in a gold-edged, dark-green cassock. A tall monk stood beside him, wearing the workaday black of the rest of the monastery.