E. M. Powell (40 page)

She brought her ear to his face again. Silence. This couldn’t be happening. She brought her hands to his face. She might as well be touching the stone floor of the cathedral. He’d gone. Gone. And it was her stupid, selfish fault.

A brutal, harsh keening seared her throat. As her tears fell, they splashed on his face, made him look as if he wept too, with tears that caused the wound on his poor face to run.

She choked back her sobs, wiping his face dry with the cloak. “You should have let Edward kill me. I deserved it, I’m the one who caused all this death. Not you. But you always knew better, didn’t you?”

Pinheads of blood appeared in the wound again, beaded larger and larger.

Her breath stopped.

The beads grew still more, then slid down his cheek.

Dead men didn’t bleed.

“Oh, dear God. Benedict.” She ripped her dress off over her head and climbed in under the coverlet. Her nakedness was the best warmth, the only warmth she had. She locked her body around his, willing him to take heat, life from her. “Come back to me, please. Come back to me.”

Benedict’s blue lips parted, then he drew in a shallow breath. Opening his eyes, his gaze found hers and he gave a feeble nod.

♦ ♦ ♦

Theodosia held her Benedict, rubbed his body, covered him with her own. She did not dare to stop, no matter how much her arms and shoulders ached, no matter how weary she became. At times, the worst, terrifying times, he barely seemed to know her, looked at her as if she were a stranger, muttered words that made no sense. Holding back her desperation, she redoubled her efforts, forcing life back into him.

Time meant nothing. There was only the dim cabin, the roll of the ship, and her own frantic efforts to keep him breathing, living. But it seemed to be working. Praise God, it seemed to be working.

A loud rap came at the door. “Theodosia?”

Mama.
“Yes?”

“You’ve been in there for hours, my blessed. You must let him go now. The good Captain Donne will take care of him.”

“One moment.” Theodosia slipped her dress over her shoulders. She shoved the chest aside and opened the door to her mother.

“Come now,” said Amélie, her face drawn in exhaustion. “We shall pray for his soul together. I have already been doing so.”

“But, Mama, we don’t need to.” Theodosia swallowed the lump of overwhelmed tears in her throat. “I’ve saved him. He’s alive.” She clutched her mother’s hands in joy.

“What?” Amélie thrust her away as if she’d been burned. “You mean to tell me you’ve been in here all of this time with a man?” She cast a horrified glance past Theodosia. “And please do not tell me that man is naked, for if he is, then you have committed mortal sin.”

Theodosia stared at her mother in disbelief. “He’s not just a man. He…he’s Benedict. He’s the man I love, a man who nearly died, and might still, trying to save my life. Your life too.”

“If he drags your soul to hell, he has saved nothing.” Amélie’s nostrils flared in disapproval. “Better he had sunk to the depths of that ocean, or that you had listened to us all when we told you to leave him to — ”

“Mother!” Theodosia’s yell shocked Amélie to silence. “Stop it. Now. Can’t you hear yourself? You never find anything in me except wrongness, sin. Even when we were at Canterbury, when I was too young to want anything other than to please you, to have you love me as a mother should. But you never did. You’re so unyielding, so unforgiving, so…” She threw her arms up, dropped them again. “Cold.”

Amélie turned white. “How can you speak to me so? All I ever wanted was to protect your soul.”

“Because you were so busy concentrating on my soul, you forgot about my heart. Your own heart.” Theodosia put a hand to the door. “You’re not a mother, not to me. You never were.” She slammed it shut before Amélie could say another word.

♦ ♦ ♦

Benedict lay in her arms, in a peaceful, natural sleep. Theodosia stroked his thick dark hair, rejoiced in every strand, drank in every inch of his sleeping features. They’d lain like this for hours, as the ship made its rolling progress. She wished they could stay here forever, cocooned from the world, where it would just be the two of them in warm, sensual bliss.

He stirred and opened his eyes with a smile. “There you are,” he murmured.

“I hadn’t gone anywhere,” she said.

“I dreamt I was being kissed by an angel,” he said.

“Then you must be sorely disappointed.”

“I’m not disappointed.” He raised himself up on one elbow and looked down at her. “Not at all.”

“You should be. I must look a fright.” She waved a rueful hand at her shaved head.

He cupped her face in one large hand. “The angel couldn’t hold a candle to you.” Again, a gentle smile. “And waking with you is better than waking in Paradise.”

“You were nearly there.” She stroked his hand with her own. “I only did what you’d done for me.”

“Have you stolen a cross from me too?” He teased her with a kiss on her forehead.

“No. You’re a heathen, remember?” she teased back.

“And you’re a king’s daughter.” He lay back down next to her and sighed. “We’ll be docking in France soon, won’t we?”

His question needed no explanation. Once they saw Henry, their paths would separate. She’d return to the protection of the crown, hidden from the world, under the pretext of a religious calling. He would live out his own life.

“We still have a couple of hours.” He kissed her softly.

“Then we have time.” She held his gaze, heart fast in her chest. “I want you. Completely.”

“But we’ve spoken of this — ”

She stopped his protest with the light press of her fingertips to his lips. “My battle is over, Benedict. The day is done. If I have you, know you, if only this once, then I can bear the lie my life has to be.” She lowered her hand. “For I will hold the truth of you, of me, of us, in my heart till the day I die.”

He looked at her for a long, long moment. “I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve this.”

“You’re you, Benedict Palmer.”

“And you’re my Theodosia, my gift from God.” He lowered his mouth to hers.

♦ ♦ ♦

Theodosia lay sleepless as Benedict again dozed beside her. Her body ached, stiffened, but in a way she’d never known existed. The pleasure Benedict had pulled from her body, over and over. His lips, his hands, his tongue. His hard flesh inside her. She drew in a deep, shuddering breath, utterly spent but utterly at peace. No wonder Grim had hated women who dared to love, to lust, as he’d damned it. It made a woman rejoice in her body, as Benedict had with her.

A faint shout came from abovedecks. “Land ho!”

Theodosia turned to Benedict as he stirred. “In my heart. Forever.”

“Mine too,” he murmured. “Mine too.” He kissed her softly. “But now we have to face the King. Your father.” He kissed her harder, deeper, as if he would devour her.

Then she knew it was the last time.

CHAPTER 32

“His Grace asks for a few minutes while he washes from his journey.” The abbot of Abbaye Saint-Pierre cast a final glance over Theodosia, her mother, and Benedict as they waited outside the abbot’s parlor.

They’d arrived at this holy house almost three full days ago, directed by Captain Donne. Her mother had assumed complete control the minute they crossed the threshold, speaking in private with the abbot, sending Benedict to separate quarters. Ordering, fixing. Bringing her daughter back into the fold, with no mention of what had happened on the ship.

Theodosia pulled the sleeves of her new, thankfully barbless, habit straight. She cast a sideways glance at Benedict, whom she’d not seen since they’d arrived.

Dressed in fine dark green wool breeches, a long leather belted tunic, and tailored linen shirt, with his dark hair combed, he could easily pass for gentry. Longing tugged deep inside her, but she pushed it aside. They were here to honor Thomas’s memory, to lay the truth before the King. Her father, summoned here in secret by the monastic post.

“Come!” A muffled voice from within.

The abbot opened the door and held it as they filed in.

Theodosia steadied her rapid breathing as she entered the room with her mother. Benedict followed after, silent and respectful.

The abbot closed the door behind them, leaving them in private.

A man stood before the lit fireplace, facing them, arms folded. With his luxuriously clothed stout build, fiery countenance, and keen gray eyes, it could only be the King himself.

“Your Grace.” Amélie dropped into a deep curtsey, and Theodosia followed.

Next to Theodosia, Benedict bowed low, though he still soared head and shoulders over the shorter Henry.

“Rise.” Henry’s voice had a tremulous quality unexpected in such a robust man. Then he looked at Amélie and held out his hands. “My dear one.”

Amélie hastened to him and dropped before him in another curtsey. “Not as dear as you are to me, sire.”

Henry took her hands in his. “You’re not harmed?”

She shook her head. “Frightened only, your Grace.”

“Praise God. Now rise. You have no need of such ceremony with me.” The King helped Amélie to stand. A smile of great tenderness played on his lips as he loosed his hold on her.

“Thank you.” Amélie flushed like a girl as she met his gaze.

Motioning for Amélie to stand next to him, Henry sought out Theodosia. “Our baby, Laeticia?” he said to Amélie, eyebrows raised. “Surely not.”

Amélie nodded. “It seems impossible, but yes.”

“Impossible until I look in a mirror and see an old man gaping back at me.” Henry gave a laugh, which only Amélie joined him in.

Theodosia ventured a smile. A glance at Benedict confirmed him paralyzed with deference.

The King did not seem to notice as he spoke to Amélie. “Inside we might feel as the day we met. The outside world would judge us otherwise.”

“Yet I cherish those memories far more than I mourn the loss of my youth,” came Amélie’s reply.

“Of good spirit, as ever.” Henry brushed a hand against her cheek before turning his full attention to Theodosia once again. “Come forward, Laeticia.”

Theodosia did as instructed, eyes cast down demurely.

“You’re a beautiful young woman,” he said. “Yet you chose the cloth?”

“Thank you, your Grace, but the cloth chose me.”

Henry’s eyebrows arched as he transferred his gaze to Benedict. “And you are?”

“Sir Benedict Palmer, your Grace.”

“Duped by Fitzurse and a witness to poor Thomas’s demise,” said Amélie swiftly. “Neither Th — Laeticia nor I would be here today if he had not come to our aid. Isn’t that so, Laeticia?”

Her mother gave Theodosia a gracious smile, as if the harsh exchange on the boat had never taken place.

Theodosia simply nodded.

“Then I will be forever in your debt, Sir Palmer,” said Henry. He indicated to two red velvet–padded settles by the fire. “Now please, be seated, all of you. The letter that came to me hinted that there is much to tell, and I need to hear it all.”

“It will take some time, sire,” said Amélie as they took their places, she next to Henry, Benedict beside Theodosia.

“Then take it,” said Henry. “No one will dare disturb us.”

♦ ♦ ♦

It took nigh on two hours to tell Henry the full tale. He listened well but barked short, sharp questions at several points. His interrogation showed a keenly incisive mind, and impressed and terrified Theodosia in equal measure. Her father he might be, but she could think of him only as the monarch.

Now they’d finished, they sat in silence before the glowing embers of the fire while fat snowflakes rustled against the window.

Henry held Grim’s manuscript unrolled on his lap and shook his head slowly, face ruddy with fury. “I always knew Eleanor loved my power and not me. But I never thought she’d stoop to these lows.”

“The lust for power makes people do some terrible things,” said Amélie. “She will be judged before God, like everyone else.”

“If only she were like everyone else.” Henry sprang to his feet and rolled up the manuscript.

Theodosia too scrambled to her feet, Benedict quicker than she. Amélie also rose politely.

“No, no.” Henry waved for them to sit. “I’m thinking, thinking. Walking helps me think.”

As they complied, he paced before the hearth, slapping the roll of vellum hard on his other open palm as he did so. “Knowing Eleanor, she won’t worry about the Almighty’s judgment. She’d more likely try to oust the Almighty so she could take his place.” His face reddened more in his anger. “Curse her!”

His sudden shout made Theodosia jump, and Benedict started beside her.

Pausing before the fireplace, Henry took the manuscript in both hands and struck it against the stone mantel over and over. “Curse her, curse her, curse her!”

Theodosia sat utterly still, not wanting to draw the King’s wrath. Now she knew where her own flashes of fury came from. At the edge of her vision, she saw Benedict’s actions mirrored hers.

“What am I supposed to do with such scurrilous lies?” Henry wheeled around and waved the manuscript aloft. “Murder in my name! A good man, nay, a great one, slain! Betrayal by my own queen! Devil take her, and devil take those sniveling little curs spawned from her rancid loins. Devil take them all!” Specks of foamed spit flew from his mouth as he shouted.

Did the King need help? His rage was fearsome. Theodosia caught her mother’s eye, but Amélie appeared calm, like she had witnessed this behavior before.

Henry flung himself back into his seat beside her mother, his hands trembling violently. “Edward Grim is a lucky, lucky man to have died so easily. He wouldn’t have had as swift a passage if I’d got hold of him.”

Amélie placed a steady hand over his convulsing ones. “Your passion for truth, for righteousness, shows in your anger, sire. But do not let it make you ill.”

The King snorted but seemed a mite calmer. He looked at the manuscript and snorted again, wiping his mouth with the back of one hand. He stared into the fire, lost in his own thoughts.

Amélie patted his hands gently. “You have the truth now. You hold it in your hands.” She looked at Theodosia and Benedict and gave a light laugh. “Indeed, sit beside it. For we three are living proof of it.”