E. M. Powell by The Fifth Knight Read Free Book Online

sobs.
    He followed her line of sight and saw Fitzurse’s boot had left a trail of bloody footprints down the nave. “Do as you’re bid,” said Palmer. “And be thankful it’s not your blood spilt.”
    He hurried her down the darkened nave, her struggles feeble against his tight grip.
    “Murderers!” The venomous cry came from the transept. Palmer looked back to see the injured Brother Edward Grim kneeling beside the dead Archbishop in the flickering candlelight.
    The monk leveled an accusatory finger as le Bret wrenched open the front door of the cathedral and led the way out into the cold, black night.
    Edward’s voice followed them. “I bear witness to this savagery and to your abduction of the Church’s holy anchoress. Mark my words, your sins will find you out.”
    The slain Archbishop, the sobbing girl he held prisoner, the monk’s shouted warning. This mission was not a noble one, Palmer didn’t need his battle sense to tell him that. But, noble or not, he would see it through to its end. His payment was on completion, and complete it he would.
     

CHAPTER 4
    Palmer sat in the back of the cart, the thin roof and sides of stained tarpaulin swaying in its steady progress through the night. Dim light shone from the guide lamp hung over the driver’s seat. Le Bret sat up there, hunched forward in his job of keeping them on the icy roadway. The wooden wheels crunched and scraped on the frost-hardened mud road below.
    Opposite Palmer, his prisoner huddled away from him on the rough floor planks, head down over her bent knees. His prisoner? Faith, she was a young nun, a small bird of a girl. She didn’t need guarding. He could be sat up next to le Bret, or better still on horseback like the others. Not cooped up like a dunderpate. But Fitzurse had ordered him in here as they’d made their escape from Canterbury, with a look that let no argument.
    He couldn’t even use his sword; he’d not got the room in the tight space. He’d pulled his dagger from his belt and held that ready instead. It was likely his own fault he was in here — Fitzurse’s punishment for his poor work in the cathedral. The altar of Our Lady, where the nun and that monk had hid, touching distance away from him. And he’d not found them. If it hadn’t been for this girl and her foolhardy attempt to save Becket, they might have remained hidden. Fitzurse’s mission, whatever that might be turning out to be, could have failed, and the money not been paid out. A quiver of anger passed through him. He, Palmer, would have stayed penniless. And it would have been her fault.
    He watched as the nun moved her black rosary beads through her cut and dirty fingers, head bent over her joined hands. Where are the whore and her bitch? Fitzurse had asked Becket. Well, it looked like they had the bitch. But at what cost? The King had ordered Becket’s arrest, wanted the Archbishop to account for his meddling. Not have his head taken off his shoulders. Palmer tapped his dagger blade against his knee. No mind. He wasn’t paid to make sense of things; he was paid to do as he was told.
    A set of hooves sounded loud beside the cart, and the tarpaulin lifted partway to reveal Fitzurse astride his stallion.
    The girl sat bolt upright, face pale in terror.
    “Is Sister Theodosia giving any trouble, Palmer?”
    “None, my lord,” said Palmer.
    “Good.” Fitzurse rapped on the wooden side of the cart. “We have no further need of this. It slows us too much. Even at a hard ride, it’s five days to de Morville’s castle in Knaresborough. De Tracy has ridden ahead to an inn to secure a couple of fresh horses. You’ll ride with Palmer, missy.” He dropped the tarp again.
    Theodosia stared set-faced at Palmer.
    “That’s me.” He pointed at his chest. “Sir Benedict Palmer.”
    Her expression didn’t alter.
    “And don’t think that you can struggle and jump off. It’s a long way down from the back of an animal. You’ll likely break your neck. You