E. M. Powell Read Online Free Page A

the window and slid to her knees, the strength gone from her legs. Her fate, all of their fates, were in God’s hands now. Her bloodied fingers fumbled for the crucifix tucked beneath the neck of her habit as she tried to join the prayer.
    But the sacred words deserted her, her dry mouth unable to form a single one. She knelt in frozen terror, listening out for the next shout.
    ♦ ♦ ♦
    Palmer stepped over the young monk’s body into the high-ceilinged hallway of the Archbishop’s palace. He brought up the rear of the group with rapid steps, his footsteps echoing with the other knights’ on the red-and-black tiled floor. These rules of engagement surprised him. The monk had been defenseless, unarmed. A hard shove with a shoulder would have got past him.
    “You there!” Fitzurse broke into a run.
    Another brother peered out past a partially opened door in the far corner of the hallway.
    Fitzurse stopped before him. “Take us to the Archbishop. At once.”
    This monk was old but did not try to flee. He stepped out into the hallway, staring at Fitzurse’s raised axe, his drooping chins quivering. His horrified gaze went to the crumpled body at the front door, and he crossed himself. “What errand of the devil are you on? We are all men of God in here. No one will fight you, sir knight.”
    To Palmer’s unease, Fitzurse brought the edge of his axe blade to the old man’s throat. “Take us to Thomas Becket. Now. Or you can join your young friend in Paradise.”
    The monk shook as if gripped by fever. “He is that way.” He raised a cautious pointed finger to a shadowed passageway to the left.
    Fitzurse lowered his weapon and jerked his head for the knights to follow him. The monk sagged against the wall, his breath a terrified rattle in his thin chest.
    The red-bearded de Tracy gave a shout of laughter and hauled at the front of the old man’s robe, lifting him to the tips of his toes. “Paradise not so appealing when you think you’re going there, eh?”
    “Please, have mercy,” said the monk.
    “Put him down,” said Fitzurse. “We have a task to finish.”
    De Tracy flung the monk to the ground and dealt him a savage kick to his ribs as he moved on. “All yours, Palmer.”
    Palmer ignored de Tracy and went past the old man, shamed to see him flinch when he met his eye.
    Fitzurse stopped before a paneled closed door, hand on the metal-ringed handle. “I’ll wager our prize is close by, gentlemen.”
    Agreement rippled through them, and Palmer added his.
    His prize. This was a task ordered by the King, with a purse to match. He tightened his grip on his sword.
    Fitzurse kicked the door open to reveal a simply furnished study, lit by a lively fire in a carved stone fireplace. Archbishop Thomas Becket stood before it, dressed in a gold-edged, dark-green cassock. A tall monk stood beside him, wearing the workaday black of the rest of the monastery.
    “Fitzurse,” said Becket. “I might have known.” His glance met the monk’s. “See, Brother Edward? Send the worst to do the worst.”
    Palmer’s every instinct was to bow before this revered man of the church. Though Becket was well into middle age, he stood almost as tall as Palmer himself, with his hair still dark. His finely featured face held a well-humored look, while his eyes burned with a fierce intelligence. But none of the other knights so much as nodded his head as they entered the room, weapons ready.
    Fitzurse strode up to Becket. “Strange, then, that the monarch thinks I am the best.” He leveled his axe directly at Becket. “Now tell me: Where are the whore and her bitch?”
    The question flummoxed Palmer. Not so the other knights. Nor Becket.
    “Do you really expect me to answer that?” Only the Archbishop’s slight stutter betrayed his dismay.
    “I do.” Fitzurse’s voice was ice.
    The monk stepped between Becket and the raised blade. “Sir knight, you cannot threaten the Archbishop of Canterbury. Please leave this place in