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

by E. M. Powell

  ‘De Lacy has married Eimear O’Connor, the daughter of an Irish king.’ Henry’s hands shook in barely contained rage. ‘The Irish High King at that, Rory O’Connor. O’Connor, who rules much of the west in Connacht. De Lacy has huge tracts of the east. With his second bride, de Lacy has his sights set on stealing the whole island from me. I feel it in my very bones!’ He pulled in a breath to calm himself. ‘But I have no proof. Which is where you come in, Palmer.’

  ‘Father, you are already sending my half-brother to Ireland with military might.’ Theodosia’s voice tightened. ‘Let John find the proof you need.’ She looked at Benedict. ‘And we can go home to our children.’

  ‘No, my dear.’ Henry shook his head hard. ‘I have shared my concerns about de Lacy with John. But’ – he held up a finger – ‘and this is for your ears only: John is not yet a match for him. My son needs to concentrate all of his energies into taking hold of the place again. I need someone who can get to the bottom of what de Lacy is up to. Someone in whom I have absolute trust. Most important of all, someone who is de Lacy’s equal. And that’s you, Palmer.’

  Pride rose in Palmer’s chest even as he saw the anger flare in Theodosia’s eyes. ‘Father, the last time Benedict and I were parted, we almost lost our lives.’

  ‘I know, my child,’ said Henry. ‘Which is why I could not summon him on this occasion by messenger. I wanted you to hear the truth of what I am asking of him from my own lips.’

  ‘I will of course serve your Grace, as was my vow to you.’ Palmer bowed.

  Theodosia clutched the table. ‘What about your vows to me, Benedict? What about our family?’

  ‘There is no danger to you this time, Theodosia,’ said Palmer.

  ‘But there is to you! We promised each other that we would not be parted again. At least let me go with you.’ She turned to Henry. ‘There will be a place for me with John’s court in Ireland. I am sure of it.’

  ‘No, Theodosia.’ Palmer shook his head as Henry held up a hand in refusal.

  ‘A dangerously disordered Ireland is no place for you, my dear,’ said Henry.

  ‘Then it should be no place for Benedict either.’

  ‘Theodosia, I will allow your disrespect to me because I realize this has come as a shock,’ said Henry. ‘Unlike my last summons, you have some time before you part. You have the bishop’s palace at your disposal until I dub John Lord of Ireland at Windsor in three days’ time.’

  Theodosia stared at him, her eyes hard as stone. ‘Three days?’

  ‘A privilege for us all to witness it, my lady.’ Dymphna tried to distract her.

  ‘I am to lose my husband in three days?’

  ‘Thank you, your Grace.’ Palmer stretched a hand out to halt Theodosia. ‘I’m going to watch over someone who’s your blood.’

  ‘And are clearly happy to shed your own as you do so.’ She shook off his touch and stood up from the table. ‘I am going to pray in the chapel. For our family. Our real blood.’

  ‘Theodosia—’

  ‘Do not even try to keep me from it.’ She strode to the door.

  Dymphna rose too. ‘I shall go with her, your Grace. It may help her to let some of this out with me.’

  Henry nodded his approval, and the Abbess hurried out.

  ‘I should probably go to her too,’ said Palmer.

  ‘Let her be for now. She’ll come round.’ Henry held the ring up to the light once more. ‘I know she worries about you, Palmer.’ Then he placed it back in the protection of its little carved box, closing the lid. ‘As I do about my son.’ He gave the box a thoughtful pat. ‘You know, I received a request to give John the crown of the Holy Land.’ He returned his gaze to Palmer’s. ‘God’s eyes. The Saracens would have strewn his bones across the desert by Christmas.’ Henry blessed himself swiftly. ‘Yet Ireland is also an endeavour of great risk. I only hope I have made the right choice.’

  ‘I’m sure you have, your Grace.’

  Henry drew in a long breath, and every year of his age showed in his face once more. ‘I thank you, Palmer, for coming to my aid. I am in your debt. Once again.’

  ‘As I’m forever and deeper in yours, your Grace,’ Palmer said, mortified at the King’s humility.

  The thought of being parted from Theodosia and his family again hurt like a blade in his chest. But he had her and his beloved children only because of Henry’s generosity. Palmer was the one in debt and always would be. Refusal had never crossed his mind.

  Chapter Four

  Windsor Castle

  31 March 1185

  It is a sin to hold hate in your soul for anyone.

  Theodosia berated herself with every beat of her anxious heart. She stood in the splendour of Henry’s chapel at Windsor with Benedict, in a packed assembly of the noble and the holy. With the bishop now reciting the final prayers of the lengthy, solemn Mass, the time for John’s knighting ceremony drew near.

  Even graver to hate your own brother.

  No, she reminded herself yet again, pulling in a deep breath of the incense-scented air. She did not hate John. She did not. But she hated what he stood for: the reason Benedict was being taken from her.

  Unnoticed by her husband, her gaze moved over his face, his dark eyes, still so utterly beloved to her. She cared not for the finely woven black cloak he wore, edged with exquisite bright yellow embroidery. Nor for her own wide-sleeved silk gown, pale as a meadow flower, with its lining deep as a rose.

  She had loved him just as much when they had shared a poor cottage in the early years of their marriage. When they had been blessed with Tom and Matilde, and all of them dressed in patched linen and the roughest of coarse wool. The lives as nobles they had later been granted by the King could have brought them great ease. Yet Benedict strove as hard as he ever had, bringing prosperity and justice to those who worked his lands.

  A great ‘Amen’ rose up at the bishop’s concluding prayer.

  It was time.

  ‘My good people!’ Henry’s voice, ringing with expectation.

  Though right at the other end, she could clearly make him out, as he sat high on the altar and a pillar gave a convenient break in the crowd. A heavy-set abbot moved to one side. Then she could see John too, kneeling in humility with his head bowed, his curling red hair a stark contrast to his white silk clothing and ermine robe in the glow of the hundreds of candles.

  Henry went on. ‘Today, my heart is filled with joy. I knight my beloved son John Lord of Ireland. He has taken this responsibility as part of his humble service to me. I have been to that isle, and I know that there are great challenges to be faced. Yet my son has agreed to face them and to bring glory to my name.’

  A rumble of approval met Henry’s words.

  ‘Before I bestow this honour upon him, I want to remind him – to remind us all – of the magnitude of what he is undertaking. My royal clerk, Gerald of Wales, learned in the ways of the Irish and of the land itself, will impart that knowledge to us all.’

  An angular monk stepped up to the altar, his sparse lips compressed in readiness below a hooked nose. He bowed to Henry, then to John.

  ‘Gerald, let us hear of what awaits my son.’

  And my husband.

  ‘Your Grace, my Lord John.’ Gerald’s voice sounded as clear as if he stood next to her and Benedict, ringing with authority. ‘The great Saint Columbanus, his wisdom echoing down the centuries to us, wrote of the Irish that they are the dwellers at the edge of the earth. Such a true description must have been guided by God. They cling to that rock, for beyond it there is no habitation of man or beast. One looks from the western horizon there, knowing that there is nothing beyond. Nothing except the flowing ocean in boundless space.’ He let the word resound to the lofty height of the arched roof far above before continuing. ‘At such extremes, nature provides wonders, and there are some on that island. But’ – his tone hardened – ‘nature also indulges herself in freaks there: distant and secret abominations that make my soul quail.’
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  A rustle of whispered concern passed through those present.

  Theodosia’s mouth dried. Henry had not mentioned any of this. She shot Benedict a look, but his fixed gaze remained on Gerald.

  ‘Such abominations will have to be met with valour by the King’s son, of which I have no doubt.’ Gerald sighed and shook his head. ‘But there is a far greater threat: that of its native people.’

  A greater threat. Theodosia’s heart tripped faster in anxiety.

  ‘A people who are wild.’ Gerald’s thin lips turned down. ‘Inhospitable. They live on beasts only, for they live like beasts.’ He clenched his fist and beat time with the steady flow of his own words. ‘Filthy. Wallowing in vice. Adulterous.’

  Shocked gasps began to break out.

  Gerald’s voice rose over them. ‘Incestuous. Carnal with beasts.’ His eyes scanned the assembly as he let his scandalous words sink in.

  Theodosia put a hand to her mouth. What was Benedict going to?

  Gerald held a hand up and received instant silence. ‘But for all of their enormous vices, the Irish possess one that dwarfs all the others.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Treachery. Above all the peoples of the earth, they prefer wile to war. They always carry an axe in their hand, like a shepherd might carry his crook, ready for when the right occasion presents itself. And when it does . . .’ His voice dropped.

  Those present craned to hear him, necks bent like a field of wheat in the wind. Theodosia too. She could not help herself.

  ‘They raise that axe to afflict a mortal blow!’ His words thundered forth to calls for God’s help for John.

  Henry’s shout silenced them in a heartbeat. ‘It is time!’ John lifted his arms and looked up at his father.

  The bishop stepped forward, holding a gleaming sword and a belt of finest ox-blood leather.

  Henry took them from him and bent to fasten the weapon around his son’s waist. With a tender kiss to John’s cheek, he straightened up, taking his own sword from the bishop.

  As Henry raised it, Theodosia crossed herself, as did every other right hand of those around her and throughout the crowd, their number making a rustle that could have been the stirring of leaves.

  The blade met John’s shoulder to a murmured prayer from Henry.

  And it was done.

  Take your acclaim, my son.’ The King’s voice shook with his emotion. ‘My most holy and noble servants, I present to you John, Dominus Hiberniae, Lord of Ireland!’

  Cheers met his words as John stood up to turn and face the assembly, his stature surprising Theodosia. He was only a few inches taller than her; Benedict would stand head and shoulders above him.

  Henry beamed in adoration at his son. It was clear he saw himself in John. His young self: powerful, able to subdue a country with his very arrival.

  Disquiet knocked at Theodosia. John was Henry’s son, no doubt. But though his face matched Henry’s own, with his heavy brows and small mouth, his expression did not. His visage held no compassion, and his lips pursed in a superior arrogance.

  Yet the King’s indulgent smile remained as he gestured to his court to strengthen their support, and the ovation swelled. Finally, he signalled for silence. ‘Speak. Your first words as Lord.’

  ‘Your Grace. Father.’ John bowed briefly to Henry before he faced the court again. ‘Good people.’ A brief cheer met his greeting and the tight smile that left his eyes cold. ‘I have been chosen for this endeavour, and I approach it with solemnity and singularity of purpose.’ His confident gaze swept the room. ‘It is clear from Gerald’s account that there is much to be done.’ He lifted his chin. ‘So much. It is God’s work, which I welcome. It is clear to me that Ireland has a black heart of sin. Of adultery.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Of debauchery. Which must be duly punished, and—’

  A lone female voice rose in wordless cries.

  John frowned as he sought the source of the interruption.

  A clamour of conjecture broke out as the woman’s cries increased, loudened.

  His clamped lips showed that John had located her. ‘Take that woman out!’ His cry came shrill, insistent. ‘Now!’

  Theodosia grabbed for Benedict’s arm. ‘What’s happening?’

  Benedict strained to his full height. ‘It’s the wife of one of the barons,’ he said in surprise. ‘Her husband is trying to control her.’

  ‘Has she lost her reason, God help her?’ said Theodosia.

  Benedict shrugged. ‘No idea.’

  Henry’s face remained impassive as John’s voice echoed out again. ‘I have faced adversity in my life too. But I have prevailed!’ He nodded vigorously. ‘As I will prevail! My lordship will be an example to the world. The world!’

  He raised both arms, and cheers and claps broke out, Henry applauding with greater energy than anyone.

  Conscious that Benedict clapped too, Theodosia joined in as a great chant rose up: ‘Dominus Hiberniae! Dominus Hiberniae!’

  But the cheers did nothing to lessen her apprehension.

  Theodosia looked to Benedict. ‘You heard the clerk’s words?’ she whispered. ‘How dangerous this is?’

  ‘Men of the Church scare easily.’ Benedict gave the suspicion of a smile. ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Neither do I. But you would be foolish not to heed the clerk’s warnings.’

  He caught the edge in her voice. ‘I’m sure the man exaggerates.’ He took a quick glance around to make sure no one had observed their exchange. ‘Theodosia, Abbess Dymphna told us she’s travelling with John’s court to Ireland. The King would never allow it if he thought she wouldn’t be safe.’

  ‘Perhaps you are right.’ The Abbess had indeed spoken of the pilgrimage she was making: to the abbey of her own brother, an abbot of great reputation.

  Yet Benedict’s reminder brought scant comfort to Theodosia.

  For in Ireland, a land fraught with sin, with danger, Dymphna would be secure in the arms of the Church.

  There would be no such protection for Benedict.

  Theodosia knelt in the deserted church at Sonning, finishing her pleas in prayer once more for Benedict’s safety.

  He was gone. Benedict was gone. And she could not follow him.

  The shafts of sunlight from the narrow windows had moved across the floor, marking yet another day’s passing as reliably as the monastery bells.

  ‘Keep my husband from bodily harm, I beseech you, O Lord. Let him have the strength to protect his soul from peril on this journey he makes. Amen.’

  She should be journeying also. Sonning should have been but one stop on her long road back home, protected by some of the bishop’s armed men.

  Home, to the security and comfort of their manor at Cloughbrook, where her children awaited.

  Tom, not as tall as Benedict, but with a fierce strength and a restlessness of spirit to match Henry’s own. Matilde, unfazed by her brother’s noise and muscle and completely devoted to him, her young mind already sharp as a blade and always seeking to know more.

  They were not merely at home, they were Theodosia’s home, as they were Benedict’s. She should be making her way to them, like any mother would.

  But she could not take the next steps that would put her farther and farther from Benedict.

  So she had pleaded an illness to the riders who accompanied her, suggesting it a delicate matter, which had ensured that no further query came. She had remained here for twelve days.

  Her disobedient act would anger Benedict as well as her father. She cared not. Neither of them was here or knew what she had done.

  Her legs cramped from kneeling for so many hours, and she shifted to ease them.

  Twelve days. She’d witnessed the passage of John’s court from the roadside, hidden amongst the crowds that cheered as it went by. Three hundred knights, according to rumour. So many. An impossibility to pick out Benedict. Yet she’d seen him, though he’d not seen her. One glimpse, through the clouds of dust kicked up by the huge procession on the dry road, swirling around him
as he sat astride a fine horse, talking to an unknown knight who rode alongside him.

  Benedict!

  He’d not heard her call, though she’d hurt her lungs with the effort she made to be heard above the cacophony of cartwheels, horses, hooves, shouts.

  Then the crowd shifted, and he had disappeared from her sight in the throng.

  Gone. And that might be the last sight she ever had of him, turned away from her, not knowing she was there. Gone to Ireland, the land of which Henry’s clerk, Gerald, had given such a terrifying account. A destination to be deeply feared. No wonder that poor baron’s wife had become so distressed: Theodosia could have cried out too.

  She stood up to ease her legs further and paced the floor, arms folded tight across her chest.

  Try as she might, she could not banish the images Gerald had planted in her head. Ireland was a land of sin, of violence, of betrayal. A land where Henry feared treachery from one of his own greatest lords, de Lacy of Meath. A land at the very edge of God’s earth, the last solid ground before the eternal ocean. Where Benedict might fall, an axe buried in his head or a sword in his chest, never to return to her, to lie next to her in life, then together for eternity.

  Theodosia joined her hands and faced the gleam of the gold cross on the altar once more. ‘Devoutly with trust I pray to Thee, implore Thee for Your protection.’

  Into the silence came a deep roar, like the advance of a huge wind. But the sun on the floor still shone bright.

  The roar echoed and rumbled into a boom of loudest thunder.

  The ground beneath her feet lost its substance in a heartbeat. She grasped uselessly at the air in abrupt dizziness, falling to the ground.

  Every bell, near, far, rang out in a clamour of jagged jangles as mortar pinged down on her from the ceiling.

  The whole world shook, creaked, rattled in terrifying sound as the contents clattered and smashed from the altar.

  She tried to get to her knees, but the flagstones beneath her were soft as a swamp.

  The bells pealed louder in a chorus that could not be being rung by human hand. Judgement must be upon the world. God was returning.