“Fitzurse,” said Becket. “I might have known.” His glance met the monk’s. “See, Brother Edward? Send the worst to do the worst.”
Palmer’s every instinct was to bow before this revered man of the church. Though Becket was well into middle age, he stood almost as tall as Palmer himself, with his hair still dark. His finely featured face held a well-humored look, while his eyes burned with a fierce intelligence. But none of the other knights so much as nodded his head as they entered the room, weapons ready.
Fitzurse strode up to Becket. “Strange, then, that the monarch thinks I am the best.” He leveled his axe directly at Becket. “Now tell me: Where are the whore and her bitch?”
The question flummoxed Palmer. Not so the other knights. Nor Becket.
“Do you really expect me to answer that?” Only the Archbishop’s slight stutter betrayed his dismay.
“I do.” Fitzurse’s voice was ice.
The monk stepped between Becket and the raised blade. “Sir knight, you cannot threaten the Archbishop of Canterbury. Please leave this place in peace.”
“Or?” said Fitzurse.
“Or we will defend his lordship to our last man.” The monk’s green eyes showed surprising valor for an unarmed man of the cloth.
Becket put a hand on his shoulder and moved him to one side. “Brother Edward, please do not endanger yourself on my account. These knights’ quarrel is with me only. I can promise you that.”
The clink of weaponry underscored how that fight would be conducted.
“Now, Becket,” said Fitzurse, “I will ask you only one more time: Where are the women?”
Becket crossed himself slowly.
De Morville’s nasal whine rose in protest. “Have we time for prayers now?”
“Maybe you should.” Becket dropped to his haunches and grabbed the unlit end of a large burning log from the hearth. He turned and swung the flames at Fitzurse, who ducked out of the way.
“Get him!”
Palmer rushed forward with de Morville. Becket swung the log again and caught de Morville on one shoulder. Palmer dodged to one side as sparks flew up and showered across the room.
“Help me, I’m afire!”
Palmer moved to beat out the lines of flame flicking along de Morville’s cloak and hair, de Tracy helping him.
“Quick, my lord,” the monk called from an open door behind the wide desk at the back of the study.
Becket swiped, then thrust the log at an advancing le Bret and Fitzurse, halting them for a stride. Then he dashed the log to the floor with another burst of sparks and heat. Making for the door, he stumbled against the desk and half tipped it, scattering papers and rolls of parchment. Edward shot out a long arm and pulled him through the doorway.
Fitzurse rushed it, but it slammed shut. The clunk of a stout bolt engaging brought a string of oaths from him.
“Forcurse it, we’ll be fried.” Palmer kicked the red-hot log away from a charring bunch of papers. Le Bret ground the broken-off chunks of glowing wood into smoking black across the polished floor tiles.
Fitzurse’s nostrils pinched in fury. “They’ve headed for the cathedral,” he said. “We’ll get him there. By the time I’ve finished with him, he’ll tell me everything I want to know. Palmer, le Bret. Break that door down. I want Becket, and I want him now.”
Palmer stepped up to the secured door as ordered. He raised his weapon for his turn as le Bret landed the first blow to the old waxed wood.
Nothing made sense. Becket’s disagreements with the King were power struggles, politics. Had been for years.
Palmer struck at the panels, but the blow bounced off a rusted hinge to a snort from le Bret. He struck again. The door stood firm as le Bret landed another blow, still without success. Becket was to be arrested, to be brought to account before Henry. But instead Fitzurse was demanding to know where two unknown women were, and threatening Becket with his very life to get the answer.
No matter. His reward would be the same, and he had to make sure he earned it. Summoning every pound of strength, Palmer raised his sword and brought it down in a double-handed blow. The door’s planks split in two. “We’re through, my lord Fitzurse.”
♦ ♦ ♦
Male shouts came from the other side of the shut door that led to the cloisters. Theodosia’s breath came faster, in noisy gasps. The marauders had found a way in.
Out in the cathedral, the choir faded to a questioning halt as the calls got louder.
The crash of the door bouncing back on its hinges shot through her bones. She tucked her crucifix out of sight beneath her vest and gabbled out a last confession, words half-formed.
“My dear brethren! We are under attack!”