The Lord of Ireland (The Fifth Knight Series Book 3)

by E. M. Powell

  He was of royal blood.

  ‘You have no need to weep.’ John did up his braies as the woman lay on the floor where he’d taken her, her white-faced maid cowering speechless in the corner. ‘I have taken only what is my due.’

  Powerless. Both of them.

  Just as he had been so rendered by his father and the council before the Patriarch. He allowed himself a small sigh of satisfaction. Now someone else shared a little of how difficult life was for him, day after ceaseless day. Yet he carried that burden with noble fortitude. He would carry on that wearisome journey tonight and join his father’s feast with smiles and platitudes.

  As he walked to the door, the maid crept to her mistress with a whisper.

  ‘Oh, my lady.’

  He threw the woman a coin, and it rattled to a stop on the floor next to her.

  Neither woman acknowledged it, the baron’s wife clinging to her servant as she continued to weep.

  John shrugged and left the room. He was the one who really had something to mourn. He’d lost Jerusalem, no 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

  28 March 1185

  ‘My wife and I wish to gain entry. On orders of the King.’ Sir 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 utter 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 Palmer’s.

  Palmer gave a polite bow, unable to find words. ‘Abbess.’

  The Abbess of Godstow Nunnery came to greet them with a broad smile, clasping Theodosia’s hands in welcome. ‘God has been treating you well, my lady, in the years since we last met.’ Her soft voice still held the traces of her Irish birth.

  ‘He has, Abbess.’ Theodosia returned her smile, though with bewilderment clear on her face as to what the Abbess could be doing here at Sonning.

  ‘You have moved here from Godstow, Abbess?’ asked Palmer.

  The ever-shrewd Dymphna met his query as he would expect. ‘You mean, why on earth am I here at Sonning to greet you, Sir Benedict?’

  ‘I sought to be polite, Abbess.’

  ‘Of course you did, Sir Benedict.’ Dymphna’s mouth twitched in a smile. ‘I am still Abbess of Godstow. But here at his Grace’s invitation, the same as you. He must be the one to tell you why. I cannot.’ She gestured to a linen-covered table along one wall, laden with fine-looking meats and wine. ‘Now, please. Restore yourselves. The King is expected soon.’

  Palmer knew he’d get no more from her and did as she offered, the food calling to his stomach after the long journey.

  Theodosia hung back. ‘Abbess, I have far more hunger for knowing why we are here.’ She wouldn’t meet Palmer’s eye as he poured water from the full aquamanile into the washing bowls. ‘I beg you: has something happened to the King?’

  ‘The King is hale and well, my lady.’ Dymphna’s words brought a bit of colour back to Theodosia’s face.

  ‘You see?’ Palmer pulled Theodosia’s chair out with one hand as he took a large bite of venison from the knife in his other. The gamey meat brought a delicious iron tinge on his tongue. ‘You have worried for nothing.’ He wouldn’t show Theodosia his own unease.

  Dymphna came to the table with a swish of her long dark skirts as Theodosia took her seat too.

  ‘You have no injuries that need seeing to, Sir Benedict?’ Dymphna raised a knowing eyebrow.

  Palmer held up a hand at the memory of Dymphna’s efficient if robust healing. ‘Not this time, Abbess.’

  Thumping footsteps from outside could only mean the arrival of one man: Henry.

  Palmer dropped his knife and scrambled to his feet even as Theodosia was halfway to the door.

  ‘God smiles on me!’ The King burst in, dressed for hunting, his splattered clothes telling of a recent hard ride as he flung his arms wide to greet Theodosia, the daughter whom he could never claim.

  ‘Father.’

  As Theodosia returned his hard embrace, Palmer was thrown by how old Henry had become since he had last seen him. The passing of the best part of a decade is kind to few: Palmer knew his own dark hair was now mixed with grey in places, and he had to weigh up a sack before he threw it onto a cart without help. Theodosia’s pale skin, still beautiful, showed threads of wrinkles when she laughed or frowned. But Henry had fared badl
y. His eyes had the rheumy look of an old man, and his sure stride of old had gone; he swayed instead in a cruel limp as he made his way to the table with Theodosia.

  ‘Palmer, my boy.’ He clapped Palmer hard on the shoulder and acknowledged Dymphna’s bow. ‘Abbess. Sit, all of you.’ The relief to be off his bad hip showed plain in his face. ‘It is so good to see you. It has been too long since the last time we met.’ The King shook his head. ‘A great comfort that we do not gather in grief today.’

  The Abbess poured him a generous measure of wine into a finely worked goblet.

  ‘We do not,’ said Theodosia. ‘But I think of you and pray for you every day.’ The joy in her face at being reunited with Henry shifted to sadness. ‘And Mother.’

  ‘As you know we pray at Godstow, your Grace.’ Dymphna’s voice softened as she looked from Palmer to Theodosia. ‘We pray for you both every day of every year, pray for everyone the King loved. Everyone.’

  Her meaning was clear: Theodosia’s mother had been laid to rest at Godstow, but a woman whose life Palmer had not been able to protect had too. The old regret at his failure came back, piercing him as if new.

  ‘I offer my eternal thanks that my wife lies in a place of such great holiness, Abbess,’ said Henry. ‘I miss her sorely.’ He sighed. ‘It gives me great comfort to think we will be reunited in heaven.’ He splashed water over his hands and scrubbed them hard. ‘And God in His greatness offers us other comforts in this life. Those who gladden our days.’ His shrewd look met Palmer’s. ‘I assume you have followed my orders and not brought your children?’

  ‘Yes, your Grace,’ said Palmer. ‘They are safe at our hall, as you instructed.’

  ‘Good.’ Henry nodded in satisfaction. ‘While I would have dearly loved to have seen them, the risk is too great. They are well, Theodosia?’

  ‘Very.’ Her face lit with the glow that always met any word of them.

  Despite the many questions he still held, Palmer smiled inside. Their son and daughter were her life. As they were his. He and Theodosia had come so close to losing them forever. He shook off the grip of the past.

  ‘And they have left childhood behind,’ continued Theodosia. ‘Tom is almost fourteen, Matilde eleven.’

  ‘God’s great mercy spared them.’ Dymphna gave her a quiet smile.

  ‘Then they are ready to start lives of their own, eh?’ said Henry.

  ‘Not yet.’ Theodosia’s glow snuffed out as she met her father’s eye in instant challenge. ‘Father.’

  Palmer tensed. The idea that the King might have plans for their children had not even crossed his mind. Theodosia would likely take one of the eating knives to Henry if he dared to suggest it.

  ‘Fear not, Theodosia.’ Henry picked up his goblet. ‘Your children are not the reason I summoned you both here. Not at all.’ He took a deep draught. ‘Abbess, you have brought what I asked?’

  Dymphna nodded. ‘I have, your Grace.’ Her hands went to her belt pouch, and she drew out a small casket made from what Palmer guessed to be bone, and carved so finely it could be lace. She placed it on the table in front of Henry and blessed herself.

  Henry opened it up and removed what it contained. ‘Now, this.’ He placed it on one open palm. ‘This is the reason.’

  Chapter Three

  Palmer could only stare as Theodosia caught her breath in wonder.

  A thick gold ring rested on the King’s hand. Palmer couldn’t even guess at its value. The metal alone would be worth a fortune. But that would be nothing compared to the jewel set into it: a huge emerald, greener than any grass and catching the light from the windows as if it were lit with flame.

  Yet he was at a loss as to what it meant. He’d never seen it before, and Theodosia’s questioning glance to him told him she hadn’t either.

  Henry picked it up with the fingers of his other hand. ‘The Pope gave me this ring many years ago, when I first ascended my throne.’ He turned it slowly, the gem sending specks of reflected light across his face. ‘Not our current Pope’ – the dawn of a scowl darkened his features – ‘but the great English Pope, Adrian.’ He turned the ring again. ‘Along with his blessing to take the land of Ireland. My own mother persuaded me not to act on it.’ He gave a quiet laugh as he gazed into the jewel’s depths. ‘Was I ever so young? But of course my reach has now extended there.’

  ‘A reach which has greatly benefited the Church’s reforms there, your Grace.’ Dymphna gave an approving nod.

  Theodosia still looked confused. ‘Father, Benedict and I have no links with Ireland.’

  ‘None, your Grace,’ said Palmer.

  ‘You do now.’ Henry’s eyes met his. ‘That is why I have summoned you, Palmer. I am sending you there to defend my realm.’

  Theodosia drew in a shocked breath.

  Palmer put a hand to her shoulder. The King wasn’t including her. Palmer didn’t care about anything else. He bowed, relief sweeping through him. ‘As your Grace orders. I will make prep—’

  ‘No, no.’ Henry interrupted. ‘You will be travelling there with forces I am assembling. It is a land in sore need of pacification.’ He scowled. ‘Yet again.’

  ‘Also in our prayers.’ Dymphna gave a regretful sigh.

  Henry went on. ‘As Ireland was the year I first went there.’ He pointed a finger at Theodosia. ‘The year Tom was born to you and Palmer.’

  Theodosia found her voice. ‘Father, you have no need of Benedict for such a task. He is needed—’

  Now Palmer interrupted her. ‘Your Grace, you know the depths of my loyalty. But I need to stress that I’m no longer your best choice to fight for you. I’m past my prime. You need young, strong men. The best of fighters. That’s not me.’

  Henry snorted. ‘I’d wager that you could still hold your own in a brawl, Palmer. I have a very specific task for you: assisting the man who is leading my campaign.’ His eyes bored right into Palmer’s. ‘The Lord of Ireland.’

  ‘The Lord of Ireland?’ Palmer’s fists clenched, unbidden. ‘But that is your son, John, your Grace.’

  Theodosia nodded, aghast. ‘It is.’

  Palmer went on. ‘Your Grace, so much of our past, of your past, has been clouded by your sons from your wife, Eleanor. Thomas Becket’s murder.’ He fought to keep his tone polite. ‘The rebellion which nearly cost you your throne.’

  ‘Which almost cost us our lives also, Father.’ Theodosia’s mouth set in a firm line that could have been Henry’s own. ‘Those of our children. How could you send Benedict to help John?’

  ‘I understand your concerns. God knows, I have walked much of that road with you.’ Henry shook his head. ‘But so much of what was done was done in John’s name and not by the boy himself. He was only four when Becket died, not even into two digits when the rebellion took place. Which is why I made sure I took him from my wife’s corrupting influence.’ His mouth turned down. ‘Made sure he was fostered at the most loyal household too. I could not have him polluted like the others. He has not been.’ Henry’s face relaxed into a fond smile. ‘He is now eighteen, a handsome prince, as I once was. It is time for John to prove his worth to the world. He will prove it as Lord of Ireland.’

  ‘Then let him prove it, Father.’ Theodosia rapped her knuckles on the table to make her point. ‘Him. He does not need Benedict.’

  Henry ignored her protest. ‘As I have said, John is young. Or, to be more precise, he’s young for his years.’ His gaze went to the ring again, and he sighed. ‘I fear the boy has been too coddled. Oh, he’s sharp enough, but he’s not a naturally gifted warrior like his brother Richard. So gifted, Richard needs bringing to heel by me.’ He snorted once again.

  ‘So much to attend to, your Grace.’ Dymphna refilled his goblet in an attempt to soothe him.

  ‘Indeed.’ Henry passed a weary palm over his face. ‘I want John to go and take control of Ireland, just as I did. As I had to.’ He leaned in close to the table. ‘The Ireland I went to had noblemen from this land who thought they could
steal it from me. Men who should have been loyal to me. Fighting the native Irish kings, who fought back, as well as waging war with each other. And all sides making and breaking alliances. So I landed there and demanded submission from every single one of them.’ His hand closed on the ring in a tight fist. ‘And they gave it. The men who had settled there gave me an oath of homage. The native Irish kings gave me an oath of fealty. I brought stability and order. Without resistance. Me.’ He jabbed his fist for emphasis.

  For a moment, the years fell away, and Palmer saw the force to be reckoned with that Henry had been.

  Then the King shrugged. ‘Perhaps my army and my siege equipment helped too.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘Which is why I am giving John the resources he needs to succeed. I have assembled a large fighting force for him, assembled every type of support for his mission. I am sure his show of strength alone will achieve it, as did mine.’

  It still didn’t make sense to Palmer. ‘Your Grace, if that is so, I can’t see that I would make any difference to your son’s military campaign.’

  ‘I cannot see it either,’ came Theodosia’s firm confirmation.

  ‘Yours is a different task, Palmer. It concerns my biggest threat in Ireland.’ Henry’s look darkened in fury. ‘Hugh de Lacy, God rot him.’

  Palmer shook his head, meeting Theodosia’s glance. ‘The name means nothing to me, your Grace.’

  ‘Nor do I know of him,’ she said.

  ‘Hugh de Lacy is my own Lord of Meath,’ said Henry. ‘I have given him much land and power in Ireland since he accompanied me there. He has taken oaths of homage to me. The trouble is, he is too talented. Not only can he win the bloodiest of battles with a skilled sword, he has the wit to know when the time is right for diplomacy. For compromise. But, by the blood of the Virgin, he is ambitious.’ Henry shook his head. ‘Relentless. He’s like a hound constantly straining at the leash, ready to break free when his moment comes and devour all before him.’

  ‘It is believed that such a moment may already have come,’ said Dymphna.

  Despite his deep misgivings at Henry’s proposal, the King’s words intrigued Palmer. ‘How so?’