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

— ”
    “Take it.” With his blade steady, he cut down hard through the thick black wool he held, strip by strip, to the sound of her sobs. He watched her disrobe further as he flung the cloth on the ground.
    She wore another underskirt — cream, this one. That could stay. He snatched the black undergarment from her. “Leave those pale clothes on.” He shredded the skirt as he spoke.
    Theodosia watched him, hands to her face, tears streaming from her eyes.
    One last thing remained. “Your veil, Sister.”
    “You cannot. It is my life.”
    He itched to slap her for her whining. “Forcurse it, it’s cloth.” He dropped the last of her torn skirt to his feet and stepped over to her. “On your knees.” He grasped her shoulder with his free hand and forced her to the frozen ground.
    “You take my life.”
    “It’s only a head cover, not your skull.” Palmer slashed down with his blade, and she caught back a scream. His expert cut went through the close-fitting white wimple that fitted round her face and covered her hair. One hard pull cast it off with her veil. A white linen band secured her hair cap beneath. He made a quick slash and it fell away too. “See? Not a scratch.”
    But she gave him no thanks for his skill, scrabbling across the black earth for her torn clothing and raking it into her arms. A long, low keening broke from her as she clutched it to her chest. “These were my modesty, my wedding dress for Christ.” She rocked in open grief. “My humility. My poverty.”
    Her prating riled him to his boots. “Poverty, is it?”
    The anger in his voice stopped her noise, and she looked up at him in fear.
    “You God-botherers, you’re all the same, with your playacting at being poor,” he said. “Your belt, your beads, your precious habit: most folk could work for a lifetime and still not afford them. Weep and wail over a dress if you like. Folk in the real world save their tears for death and disaster. You should be thanking God you’re still in one piece.”
    “Have you gone asleep, Palmer?” Fitzurse appeared around the corner of the stable block.
    “No, my lord. Just finishing,” said Palmer, blood still quick from his anger.
    Fitzurse stopped in front of the huddled Theodosia. He reached down and roughly raked her short, combed-down hair into dark-blonde tangles around her face. He pushed her from him and she stayed crouched, still hanging on to her holy garments.
    “Nicely done, Palmer,” said Fitzurse. “She looks common enough now.”
    “Thank you, my lord.”
    “Now bring her round; the horses are ready.” Fitzurse left them, calling for his own animal.
    Palmer looked down at Theodosia. She clung to her clothes, head bent over them, crying and murmuring into them as if they were a dead child. He gave an impatient click and bent to her.
    “No,” she cried out as he yanked the bundle from her and threw it behind him.
    He pulled her to her feet and jerked his head toward the yard. “Get moving,” he said. “Our horse is waiting.”
    Shoulders down, she went past him, stumbling like she took steps in sleep. With her bowed head, tangled hair, and thin wool clothing, she could be any luckless peasant.
    Palmer cared not. What happened to her was no concern of his. His task was to get her to Knaresborough Castle, keep her secure there. And do whatever else Fitzurse asked of him.
    ***
    “We’ll pause here for respite.” Fitzurse’s call came from the front of the group of mounted knights.
    “Aye, my lord.” Sir Palmer’s response came loud in Theodosia’s ear, and she flinched.
    Seated before him on this wide-backed horse, his sinful hold secure on her, she shared every breath he took, every word he spoke.
    Fitzurse had called their halt in the midst of thick, deserted woods. Dead leaves surrounded the bases of bare-branched trees, and not even a bird broke the quiet.
    Sir Palmer loosed his unwelcome grip on her waist. He dismounted, as did the other knights, landing with a