Title: The Blood of the Fifth Knight
Author: E.M. Powell
Publisher: Thomas & Mercer
Pages: 355
Genre: Historical Mystery/Thriller
Format: Paperback/Kindle/Audiobook
England, 1176. King Henry II has imprisoned his rebellious Queen for her failed attempt to overthrow him. But with her conspirators still at large and a failed assassination attempt on his beautiful mistress, Rosamund Clifford, the King must take action to preserve his reign.
Desperate, Henry turns to the only man he trusts: a man whose skills have saved him once before. Sir Benedict Palmer answers the call, mistakenly believing that his family will remain safe while he attends to his King.
As Palmer races to secure his King’s throne, neither man senses the hand of a brilliant schemer, a mystery figure loyal to Henry’s traitorous Queen who will stop at nothing to see the King defeated.
The Blood of the Fifth Knight is an intricate medieval murder mystery and worthy sequel to E.M. Powell’s acclaimed historical thriller The Fifth Knight.
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About the Author
E.M. Powell is the author of medieval thriller THE FIFTH KNIGHT which was a #1 Amazon Bestseller. Born and raised in the Republic of Ireland into the family of Michael Collins (the legendary revolutionary and founder of the Irish Free State) she now lives in the north west of England with her husband and daughter and a Facebook-friendly dog. She is a member of the Historical Novel Society, International Thriller Writers and Romance Writers of America. She is a reviewer of fiction and non-fiction for the HNS. Find out more by visiting www.empowell.com. You can also connect with her on Facebook, Twitter, and Goodreads.
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Chapter 1
Canterbury, Kent, England, 12 July 1174
A
king’s flesh tore like any man’s. Sir Benedict Palmer knew it would, but still
it shocked him to see it.
He
stood among the many hundreds of pilgrims and gawkers that crammed the winding
streets of Canterbury, watching the penitent King Henry make his tortured way
towards the cathedral. The shouting crowds stood ten deep, twenty in places,
pushing for a better view.
‘Can
you see him?’ came the close whisper from Palmer’s wife, Theodosia.
He
met her fear-filled grey eyes. ‘He’s nearly here.’ Though Palmer could see with
ease over the crowd, his small-boned Theodosia could not. Not yet, but very
soon. And the sight would horrify her.
The
broiling sun overhead lit the red that remained in Henry’s greying hair, and he
wore the blackened ash mask of the sinner. The sweat on his face carried dark
streaks of ash and a different red down his naked upper body. Blood stained the
royal flesh, flesh white and soft as a turnip root. A line of sweating,
black-robed monks followed him, scourges in hand, delivering this brutal public
penance for the murder of the cathedral’s Archbishop, Thomas Becket.
Theodosia’s
hand tightened on Palmer’s arm. He knew she had longed desperately for this
day. Longed for it as much as she dreaded it.
Another
crack echoed above the noisy mob, and
the black coils of a scourge striped Henry’s bare chest and shoulders again.
Folk gasped, women screamed. A group of white-robed monks raised their voices
in a noisy hymn.
Theodosia
gripped harder.
‘Confiteor Deo omnipotenti, istis
Sanctis et omnibus Sanctis.’ Henry continued to recite his penance, his thin voice
cutting through the horde’s buzz.
‘Beg
for forgiveness!’ yelled an unseen man. ‘Saint Thomas Becket is all forgiving!’
A
new din of yells, whistles, and cries broke out.
‘By
the glorious Queen of Heaven and the angels, repent!’ A hatchet-faced man flung
up his hands.
‘Beg
for the mercy of the Almighty!’ wailed a pockmarked priest.
‘Repent!’
A woman held tight to the cloak of her witless, drooling son, a cross shorn
into his hair. ‘Repent now!’
All
in this mob blamed Henry—blamed him as surely as if he had held the sword that
had smashed Archbishop Thomas Becket’s skull on that freezing December night
three and a half years ago. The night that Palmer and Theodosia had both
witnessed, that had near cost them their lives too. The night that the
cathedral had become Becket’s tomb, where his lifeblood had been splashed
across its stone floor.
But
today, the huge grey cathedral towers stood against a searing sun in a blue
sky, marking Becket’s triumph from Henry’s martyr to a holy saint. Today, Henry
the sinner stumbled low on the hot, brutal streets of Canterbury, begging for
forgiveness from the man he’d had cut down, his own flesh shredded and torn.
Already he looked as if he might fall.
‘A
godly dead man is worth more than a living knave!’
Another
rage-filled scream.
Palmer
licked the salt of sweat from his top lip and held his reactions in check. The
King was no knave, yet the world had to think so.
Palmer
glanced down at his silent wife, fearing her collapse more than the King’s. The
high buildings trapped the stink from the near-solid run-offs from the privies,
as well as the noise and heat. He hadn’t wanted to come to witness this ugly
spectacle, but she’d insisted.
They’d
travelled for weeks from their distant village of Cloughbrook in Staffordshire.
Weeks without much food, as they walked in a praying, singing throng of every
kind of pilgrim, which grew with each day they neared Canterbury. Now they
stood here as the sun climbed, fiercer by the hour, without the relief of shade
or water. Fiercer still, the mood of those watching Henry’s agony. The
fierceness of the righteous. Palmer knew it well.
And
Theodosia stood beside him, with her stomach big, the baby she carried expected
by autumn. But he needn’t worry about her fainting. Despite her heat-cracked
lips and freckled skin, he saw the clamp of her jaw, the firm set of her gaze.
She wouldn’t yield: she waited for her King. Yet her gaze flicked to their
small red-haired son, edging forward through the knot of legs and skirts,
curious to gape too.
‘Tom.’
Her quick order brought him back to Palmer’s side.
Palmer
laid a hand on the lad’s slender shoulder. ‘Stay with us, eh? Can’t have you getting
lost.’ Not much chance of that. Becket himself could come down from the clouds,
and Theodosia would still have an eye on the boy.
There
was a crack as another scourge met
the royal flesh. The crowd let out a fresh roar, drowning Henry’s cry of anguish.
Hands,
fists and staves pressed at Palmer’s back, tried to force past him to gape
closer. He swung his son off his feet and plunked him on his shoulders as he
held Theodosia to him with his other arm.
He
turned to those behind him. ‘Stop your shoving, you hear me?’
A
fat pilgrim with an even fatter wife glared at him. ‘You ignorant farmer.’ With
his breath a blast of tooth rot, the man’s face shone with rage and heat. ‘I
can’t see past you and your—’ He caught the full force of Palmer’s look.
And
shut his noise.
‘Benedict.’
Theodosia pulled at his arm. ‘Not here. We are on a holy pilgrimage.’
Palmer
gave the silenced man a final glare and turned back to see the King’s approach
along the street. ‘You ignorant farmer.’ Yes, he resembled one in his worn, patched
clothes. He had to. If the pilgrim knew—knew who he really was, what he, Sir
Benedict Palmer, had done: half those here would run screaming from him; the
other half would tear him to pieces. No matter that King Henry knew the truth,
that Henry would say Palmer’s actions had been justified. Henry himself was so
close to losing his kingdom, losing his crown. Many said the King did this
penance to make amends with God, before he lost power to Queen Eleanor and her
ferocious sons, rising in rebellion against him. And all Palmer and Theodosia
had been through would have been for nothing.
‘Make
way for his Grace. Make way!’ Canterbury’s guards forced the watchers back with
drawn swords.
Shoved
aside too, Palmer took a half step to steady his stance.
Tom’s
small hands clutched tightly at Palmer’s hair.
‘Alright,
son?’
‘Yeh.’
His
son’s high voice hardened his resolve. Forget knighthood, kingdoms, battles.
The murder of Archbishop Thomas Becket in Canterbury Cathedral, the murder that
Henry now did penance for. The murder that he, Sir Benedict Palmer, had been
present at. What mattered now was to keep his family safe.
But
if a king could fall, if a king could be swept aside, then where did that leave
him?
My Review
The Blood of the Fifth Knight continues the story started in The Fifth Knight. Sir Benedict Palmer and former nun,Theodosia are now married and have two children and live a quiet life, far away from the court of Henry II and all of it's intrigue. King Henry has his wife Eleanor of Aquitaine imprisoned for attempting to overthrow him. Rosamund Clifford is the king's mistress and after a failed assassination attempt, King Henry enlists Sir Benedict to protect her. Is Eleanor behind these attempts? Good question and it is up to Sir Benedict to make sure nothing happens to Rosamund. Sir Benedict is ordered by Henry, and is reluctant to leave his wife and children, but feels they would be safer where they are, not with him. Nothing could be further from the truth as an enemy has penetrated the Palmer household and Theodosia and her children are at risk from this new enemy.
Even though Sir Benedict does all he can to protect Rosamund, he is not successful and is accused of her death, beaten and imprisoned waiting to be hung. At the same time Theodosia is also imprisoned, along with her children for being in league with the devil. While this is not true of course, it makes for a harrowing course for Benedict and Theodosia. Can they both be acquitted of their supposed crimes? Well that is why you need to read this book, to find out what happens in this medieval thriller.
The amount of research that went into this novel is evident in the writing. She has put a voice to the characters, whether real or imagined, that makes this book a page turner. I hope that there will be another book with the continuing of a great read. I thoroughly enjoyed it.
I received a copy of the book for review and was not monetarily compensated for said review.
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