question.
As he walked down the corridor, the woman’s sobs faded away, mercifully no longer interfering with his thoughts.
If Henry thought he’d won today, if he really thought his son would be content with merely clearing up the mess that was Ireland, then the old man had made a grave mistake.
John took the stairs to his rooms, possibilities presenting themselves with every step. He marvelled at his speed in changing strategy .
That was what came of having a brilliant mind.
Chapter Two
The Palace of the Bishop of Salisbury, Sonning, Berkshire
2 8 March 1185
‘My wife and I wish to gain entry. On orders of the King.’ Si r Benedict Palmer held up the letter marked with Henry’s seal so that the monk at the gatehouse could see it, praying the man wouldn’t ask him to read it. Despite Theodosia’s best efforts over the years, Palmer still took an age to make sense of the written word. Yet his pride meant he didn’t want to have to pass it to her and make himself look less than the noble he appeared to be.
‘Of course, sir.’ The monk moved immediately from the small window to open up the gates with a clatter of bolts.
‘We’re in.’ Palmer let out a long breath of relief.
‘Yes, but in to what?’ Theodosia’s face was drawn, not only in tiredness from the many days she’d spent in the saddle but also from the strain of not knowing.
‘I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough.’ Palmer collected their tethered horses as the monk pulled open the gates. A stable hand already waited in the quiet, sun-filled courtyard.
‘Welcome to our holy house.’ The monk waved to the man to take their mounts. ‘Pray follow me; I am sure you will need refreshment after your journey.’
Theodosia went to speak. ‘Good brother, we would like to—’
‘Thank you.’ With a warning shake of his head to her to say nothing else, Palmer slipped Theodosia’s arm through his as they walked after the monk, the departing horses’ hooves a loud clatter on the cobbles.
She shot him a fierce look out of the monk’s sight and slowed their steps. ‘I do not want refreshment,’ she murmured. ‘I want to know what is going on.’
‘You must eat something or you’ll fall sick.’ Palmer kept his voice low in response. ‘That worries me far more than the fate of a king.’ He lowered his voice further. ‘Even if that king is your father.’
She opened her mouth to protest.
He put a hand to his chest in an overdone, pompous apology. ‘ I ut ter treason. I know, my lady.’
Finally, he got the smallest smile.
But he didn’t know what this might be about either. The last time they’d seen Henry had been nine years ago, when he’d granted them the security of a dead lord’s estate. The King had kept in occasional contact through a secure system of letters to check on their well-being and to let them know of his.
Then, without warning: this. The crackling parchment, safe again in Palmer’s belt pouch. A message of few words that had pulled them back out of the contented peace they’d come to take for granted.
Theodosia had been frantic, sure that it meant something terrible had happened or was about to happen to the King. Her pale face showed him she thought that still.
Palmer was more concerned that the letter had ordered that she come to this place too, so far from their home in the north, with no explanation.
The monk led them up a flight of stone stairs, opening the heavy door onto what Palmer assumed was the bishop’s hall. Fresh with the scent of the floor’s clean rushes, the fine room’s carved and waxed wood shone in the light from the tall windows. But neither bishop nor king awaited him and Theodosia.
Instead, to his shock, there stood a tall woman of the Church, whom he and Theodosia knew from their past.
Theodosia gave a soft gasp.
‘My lady,’ said the nun. ‘Sir Benedict. It gladdens my heart to see you again.’
‘Abbess Dymphna.’ Theodosia’s stunned glance met
As he walked down the corridor, the woman’s sobs faded away, mercifully no longer interfering with his thoughts.
If Henry thought he’d won today, if he really thought his son would be content with merely clearing up the mess that was Ireland, then the old man had made a grave mistake.
John took the stairs to his rooms, possibilities presenting themselves with every step. He marvelled at his speed in changing strategy .
That was what came of having a brilliant mind.
Chapter Two
The Palace of the Bishop of Salisbury, Sonning, Berkshire
2 8 March 1185
‘My wife and I wish to gain entry. On orders of the King.’ Si r Benedict Palmer held up the letter marked with Henry’s seal so that the monk at the gatehouse could see it, praying the man wouldn’t ask him to read it. Despite Theodosia’s best efforts over the years, Palmer still took an age to make sense of the written word. Yet his pride meant he didn’t want to have to pass it to her and make himself look less than the noble he appeared to be.
‘Of course, sir.’ The monk moved immediately from the small window to open up the gates with a clatter of bolts.
‘We’re in.’ Palmer let out a long breath of relief.
‘Yes, but in to what?’ Theodosia’s face was drawn, not only in tiredness from the many days she’d spent in the saddle but also from the strain of not knowing.
‘I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough.’ Palmer collected their tethered horses as the monk pulled open the gates. A stable hand already waited in the quiet, sun-filled courtyard.
‘Welcome to our holy house.’ The monk waved to the man to take their mounts. ‘Pray follow me; I am sure you will need refreshment after your journey.’
Theodosia went to speak. ‘Good brother, we would like to—’
‘Thank you.’ With a warning shake of his head to her to say nothing else, Palmer slipped Theodosia’s arm through his as they walked after the monk, the departing horses’ hooves a loud clatter on the cobbles.
She shot him a fierce look out of the monk’s sight and slowed their steps. ‘I do not want refreshment,’ she murmured. ‘I want to know what is going on.’
‘You must eat something or you’ll fall sick.’ Palmer kept his voice low in response. ‘That worries me far more than the fate of a king.’ He lowered his voice further. ‘Even if that king is your father.’
She opened her mouth to protest.
He put a hand to his chest in an overdone, pompous apology. ‘ I ut ter treason. I know, my lady.’
Finally, he got the smallest smile.
But he didn’t know what this might be about either. The last time they’d seen Henry had been nine years ago, when he’d granted them the security of a dead lord’s estate. The King had kept in occasional contact through a secure system of letters to check on their well-being and to let them know of his.
Then, without warning: this. The crackling parchment, safe again in Palmer’s belt pouch. A message of few words that had pulled them back out of the contented peace they’d come to take for granted.
Theodosia had been frantic, sure that it meant something terrible had happened or was about to happen to the King. Her pale face showed him she thought that still.
Palmer was more concerned that the letter had ordered that she come to this place too, so far from their home in the north, with no explanation.
The monk led them up a flight of stone stairs, opening the heavy door onto what Palmer assumed was the bishop’s hall. Fresh with the scent of the floor’s clean rushes, the fine room’s carved and waxed wood shone in the light from the tall windows. But neither bishop nor king awaited him and Theodosia.
Instead, to his shock, there stood a tall woman of the Church, whom he and Theodosia knew from their past.
Theodosia gave a soft gasp.
‘My lady,’ said the nun. ‘Sir Benedict. It gladdens my heart to see you again.’
‘Abbess Dymphna.’ Theodosia’s stunned glance met
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