The Blood of the Fifth Knight by E.M. Powell

Author:E.M. Powell [Powell, E.M.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Thomas & Mercer
Published: 2014-12-31T11:00:00+00:00

Palmer sat on a narrow, upright wooden pew before the altar in the chapel at Godstow Nunnery, the newly falling rain battering against the tall, arched windows. He stretched out his legs, keen to shed his boots and get some food and drink. His arrival with the rest of the group had been dealt with with the briskness he’d experienced when dealing with houses of God before.

A cluster of black-robed nuns had gathered to help Rosamund to her chambers. The Abbess, a tall, raw-boned woman called Dymphna, her voice edged with the softness of the Celts, greeted Geoffrey with all the respect due to a bishop. She ushered him to his chambers while she pointed the way to the stables for Palmer, Stanton and the carriage driver.

His horse sorted, Palmer had asked the groom about his own quarters.

‘Not ready yet,’ had come the reply from the door. Abbess Dymphna.

How she’d managed to be near in two places at once, Palmer couldn’t figure. But her firm suggestion that he go and pray awhile in the chapel while he waited asked for no argument.

Aside from the noise of the rain, the grey-stoned chapel was silent, cold. The altar was no match for the riches on display in the King’s chapel at Woodstock. Only a square of white linen covered it. A simple cross, fashioned of iron, sat on its centre. That was more like it. Folk shouldn’t need gold to bring out their prayers. He shivered, chilled already from sitting still. He got to his feet to bring the warmth back, as well as for something to do, bored and cold after half an hour. How Theodosia had spent years in places like this, praying for hour after hour, he’d never know.

Theodosia. It had been so many days since he’d seen her, held her, touched her. He missed her with a deep, constant ache that he hadn’t thought possible. And unlike most pains, it didn’t lessen as the days went by, but grew and grew.

He walked past paintings on the walls, the lives of saints, of Christ Himself. But to Palmer, none had life or movement. The flicker of candlelight from a side altar caught his eye in the gloom. He went towards it, curious to see what merited the only light.

Gold glowed as he stepped before it. Of course. Henry’s donation to Godstow that Geoffrey had spoken of. The blood of Saint Thomas Becket. A glass vial held the actual blood. But the vial sat in an object of wonder: a gold frame, inset with the finest jewels Palmer had ever seen.

Resting on a carved metal stand, padded white silk filled the frame to show off the darkness of the blood. The stones caught the poor light, throwing out a gleam of their own. But it was the dark, dark blood that Palmer couldn’t take his eyes from. He’d seen it himself as it broke from the Archbishop’s skull, stained the altar at Canterbury. Blood spilled from a man; now people worshipped it as shed from a saint.

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