“Enough!”
At Becket’s shout, Eleanor advanced on him. “When my husband hears of this . . .”
“Oh, but I suspect he will not hear,” he said with a condescending leer. “For if he does, will you not have to explain how two of your servants committed treason?” As he skimmed across the floor toward our little group, he pointed at Collum. “And that you concealed a thief under his very roof?”
Becket’s men moved up behind him as he flipped the hood back from Collum’s face and stepped back. The queen stiffened, but Hectare reached for her sleeve and pulled her down to whisper in her ear.
“And”—Becket’s saturnine smile widened as his gaze sharpened on me—“that you parley secretly with the French as well?” He pivoted toward the queen with a bark of laughter. “Oh ho, milady. I think His Grace would be most interested to learn of the company you keep, don’t you?”
The queen paled, her mouth pressed into a thin line. Without a sound, Bran moved to Collum’s side. With only the briefest hesitation, William Lucie joined them, creating a wall between Becket’s men and the rest of us.
“Madam,” Becket said, “you have taken an item presented to our king by the Jews of London. A jeweled dagger.”
I forced myself not to look at the bag at Collum’s waist.
“His Grace doesn’t realize the value of the blade. He believes it naught but a pretty bauble. I’ve convinced him to gift it to the church.”
“Oh really?” Bran muttered through clenched teeth. “You claim the dagger belongs to the church. Yet I know you promised it to Lady Alvarez. Which is the truth?”
Thomas Becket studied Bran. “Ah, the traitorous son. Your mother will be most pleased to see you.” A fanatical light shone in Becket’s eyes. “Lady Alvarez is blessed with holy prophesy. I’ve seen the evidence myself. This dagger holds an object of great evil. One cursed with pagan magic. Only Lady Alvarez can take it from here and destroy it.”
“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.”