The Cross Legged Knight by Candace Robb Read Free Book Online Page B

king’s service in France. Emma honoured his loyalty and courage. As it had been her father’s dream to go on crusade against the infidel, she had ordered his effigy carved as a cross-legged knight, which was the style of many crusaders’ tombs, with heart in hand, which now gave it a terrible poignancy. The face was very like Sir Ranulf’s, even down to the way he squinted his left eye. Emma must have stood by the carver as he worked on the face. Thoresby found it disturbing.
    He wondered whether she regretted the accuracy. He glanced at her. ‘Your father was fortunate in his daughter.’
    The silk of her veil whispered against the fur trim on her collar as she turned to him. The clothing was too festive for the face. ‘He would not be proud of his family. There has been so much rancour, even at theminster doors. There was little love among us as we knelt for your blessing.’
    Thoresby had noticed. Only in blaming William of Wykeham for abandoning Sir Ranulf were the family united.
    Emma leaned forward and stretched out a hand to the tomb. ‘I no longer know what to feel about the king. How can I honour a man who so abandoned one of his most faithful servants?’
    ‘The king did not abandon Sir Ranulf. The Bishop of Winchester was in negotiations –’
    ‘Do not speak to me of his laggard negotiations!’ Her voice rang out in the church. ‘I would have done better had I gone myself to France,’ she said in a quieter tone. ‘No wonder Wykeham is no longer chancellor.’
    This would not do. ‘You must be chilled and exhausted, my child. Even mourning should be done in moderation. Your family will suffer if you sicken. Come to the palace and rest yourself.’ Thoresby rose.
    Emma did not move.
    Several chantry priests and a handful of lay worshippers now stood outside the openwork wooden screen. Word of Emma’s outburst would spread through the city, tongues would be wagging in the market, in the taverns, in the communal dining halls of the Bedern. She was usually more sensible than this.
    ‘You say you are fighting for your father’s honour,’ Thoresby said in a quiet voice that he hoped only she would hear. ‘But look at the crowd you have drawn.’
    She glanced over at the doorway. ‘ Deus juva me .’ She rose, genuflected, crossed herself.
    Thoresby led the way past the growing crowd, responding to their bows and curtsies with a slight nod of his head. In the sunlight he realized how pale Emmawas and offered his hand. Hers was cold as she rested it in his.
    ‘I thank you, Your Grace.’
    Together they walked through the palace gardens at a measured pace. Thoresby thought he felt her hand warming, either from the sun or his own warmth, it did not matter. He was glad of it.
    Thoresby’s recollection was interrupted by the creaking of the parlour door.
    Brother Michaelo poked his head round it. ‘Forgive me, Your Grace. I feared you had fallen asleep.’
    ‘Are all the others abed?’
    ‘Yes, at long last.’
    ‘Bring me some brandywine.’
    Michaelo bowed and departed.
    In his mind, Thoresby returned to the day of the funeral, he and Emma Ferriby crossing the garden. When they entered the palace she had withdrawn her hand as Wykeham came forth to greet them, his elegant robes flowing, the jewels on his fingers winking in the shafts of sunlight coming from the high windows.
    ‘My Lord Bishop.’ Emma did not bow, but held herself straight. Her head trembled, her colour rose.
    ‘May God be with you on this day of mourning, my child,’ Wykeham said.
    ‘You must excuse us,’ said Thoresby. ‘Mistress Ferriby was overcome just now in the minster. I have brought her here for comfort.’ He swept her through the door of his parlour that was held open by a servant, ordered wine. Only when the door was safely shut did he look again at Emma. ‘I did not expect him to be in the hall’
    ‘I had forgotten he was your guest. I had imagined him at his own home in Petergate. I should not have come here.