Into the Dim (Into the Dim, #1)(79)

“Priest.” Sister Hectare pushed herself up on wobbly legs. The queen rushed to support her old friend. Frail, her back bowed, the little nun shook off the queen’s arm. Exuding a magnificent dignity, she hobbled across the floor until she was standing directly before Becket. Her wavering voice gained volume and strength as she proclaimed.

“‘Then the Lord saith unto me, the prophets prophesy lies in my name: I sent them not, neither have I commanded them, neither spake unto them: they prophesy unto you a false vision and divination, and a thing of nought, and the deceit of their heart.’”

Fury ignited Becket’s gaunt features. With a movement too quick to see, his arm reared, striking the small, fragile nun in a backhand blow to the face that sent her reeling to the fur covered floor. Crossing himself, he hissed down at her prone, crumbled form. “Witch! You dare quote scripture to me? Our God has blessed Lady Alvarez with the gift of true sight.”

Teeth bared, Bran took a furious step forward. “But you are the only fool who believed her.”

Becket glared at Bran for a long moment. Then, lifting his chin, he mastered his rigid control.

He snapped his fingers as the thugs ranged behind him. “Search them, and bring me the dagger. I must away to the king. Secure the others in the Tower, but return Lady Babcock to her chambers.” He made a mocking bow in my mother’s direction. “I’m sure her husband would have words with her upon his return.”

Mom whimpered, cradling her round belly. My jaw clenched so hard, I thought my teeth would shatter.

Eustace Clarkson mumbled something to the priest. Becket glanced down his long nose at the kneeling Rachel. “Yes, yes,” he said, dismissively. “You may have the Jewess for a time. Do what you will. Then she goes into a cell with the others.”

A throaty, animal rumble came from William as Eustace stroked Rachel’s hair. With a sweeping bow in his queen’s direction, Thomas Becket slipped to the door.

“Becket.” The queen knelt by her barely conscious friend. When she spoke, her voice sounded raw, dangerous. “We are enemies now, you and I.”

“Your Grace,” he said quietly, “do we not already walk that path?”

As Becket opened the door, the queen of England slowly got to her feet. “Priest,” she called. Regal and brilliant and cold as the moon in her fury she said, “The day will come when I shall see your blood spilled for this, Thomas Becket. This is my vow.”

Tiny hairs prickled on the back of my arms as Bran and I exchanged a stunned look.

Had we changed history, or only aided in its inevitable outcome? If we had never traveled here, would Henry still one day call for Becket’s death? Or had we only changed the catalyst which would drive Henry to murder, pitting wife against friend? I had no time to process this. Eustace Clarkson had dropped the heavy beam across the door. Collum reached for the plain, serviceable blade Bran had procured for him. Bran withdrew his curved blades, while William lunged forward and seized Rachel’s tied wrists. With a twist, he wrenched her to her feet and flung her in my direction. I caught her, and in seconds Phoebe had sawed through Rachel’s bonds.

William ripped his sword from its scabbard as Eustace Clarkson’s eyes followed Rachel. When he yanked a heavy gladiator blade from his belt, the tendons in Collum’s neck went tight.

“That sword,” he said, “belongs to me.”

Eustace grinned, little baked-bean teeth showing between his thick lips. “Then come and claim it, thief.”

The world held its breath. Though dozens of candles lit the room, not even their tiny flames dared to flicker. I looked to the queen, who held the barely conscious Hectare in her arms. With a hiss of hatred, William Lucie launched himself at Eustace.

While Eustace parried the blow, Collum and Bran engaged the other guards. Sparks erupted where steel met steel. A table tumbled over. A writhing mass of limbs bashed into one of the large braziers, sending it hurtling to the ground. Red-hot coals skittered across the floor and smoked on the animal skins.

Eleanor dragged Hectare away from the fray, protecting the old woman as she shrieked for her guards, calling for help that would not come.

“Hope!” Phoebe raised my mother to her feet as the clash of blades filled the room. “We have to get Sarah out of here. Now.”

“What?”

I ripped my gaze from the fight to see my mother staring at me with terrified eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

“What are you talking about, Mom?”

“There’s . . . there’s something I should’ve told you,” she said.

Too distracted by the battle being waged only feet from us, I didn’t have time for confession. I waved her off. “It’s all right, Mom.”

“No, Hope,” she urged. “You must—”

She cried out and bent double, hands white-knuckled on her bulging stomach. Beside me, Rachel made a low hum of distress. Jerking on my arm, she drew my attention to the floor beneath my mother’s feet.

I looked down. What I saw nearly sent me to my knees. There, spreading across the flagstones, was a growing pool of pink, watery fluid.

“Mistress Hope,” Rachel said. “The babe, it is coming.”





Chapter 39


NO. NONONO. NOT THIS. NOT NOW.

A shout jerked my attention back to the other side, where Bran had just sidestepped one of the guards. With his lithe cat’s grace, he spun and brought the hilt of his weapon down on the back of the man’s skull. The man dropped like a bag of sand. Collum was slashing furiously at a red-haired giant, who battered at him with superior muscle power.