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

by E. M. Powell

  Eimear screamed now. ‘I don’t know anything!’

  Theodosia yelped in pain.

  Palmer looked down at her. A red blotch marked her face, and she raised a hand to it. ‘My cheek?’

  Something pinged at his head in a sharp nip. ‘Ow!’

  Eimear’s screams carried on as she still fought those who held her.

  A goblet shattered on the table. A bowl.

  A few exclamations broke out. More.

  A small stone bounced onto the table. Another at Palmer’s feet.

  Then he knew. He grabbed Theodosia by the shoulders. ‘That tent. Right now. No argument.’

  ‘None.’

  He thrust her from him and ran towards John. ‘My lord! Stop!’

  John paused, whip raised for another strike. ‘What the devil are you doing, man?’

  ‘Everyone get under cover! Now!’ Palmer grabbed hold of John, hauling him near off his feet.

  Some acted on Palmer’s order. Others stared, perplexed.

  ‘Have you gone mad?’ John took a swing at him, drew back for another.

  ‘We’re under attack!’ More tiny pebbles fell, like the first drops of a storm.

  ‘Get your hands off the Lord John.’ A big knight stepped forward. Then with a rap like stone on stone, he fell, half his skull no more with the large rock that had broken it open.

  ‘Slingers!’ Palmer yanked John under the shelter of the abandoned banqueting table. ‘Get down!’

  And the deluge of murdering stone broke above them.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Theodosia knelt in Eimear’s room in the keep, praying in silence as always as the other woman ignored her.

  Eimear had come through the latest attack by the Irish unharmed, ducking under the cart as the deadly rain of stones had fallen. In the chaos that followed, John had had to abandon his whipping of her and had ordered her secured in the keep again.

  But Theodosia’s prayers were not for Eimear today: she prayed for Benedict, over and over, for God’s protection, and would do so until his safe return. John, incensed beyond reason at the death of his friend in the fighting near the other castle of Ardfinnan, had assembled a party to travel with him there. And he’d ordered Benedict to join him. So now Benedict travelled through this most perilous land, and she had no way of knowing what might be befalling him. All she could do was wait. The helplessness she had felt as she knelt in the chapel at Sonning flooded back, plaguing her. This time, she received no sign from God. She would have to redouble her efforts and beseech Him day and night.

  ‘You look troubled, sister.’

  Theodosia’s hands stilled on her beads. ‘I do, my lady?’

  ‘Sorely.’ Eimear, sat on the bed, eyed her with curiosity. ‘My prayers have been of thanks. God watched over me when the stones of the slingers fell. Perhaps you pray for the soul of the Irishman murdered by the clerk, Gerald?’

  To her shame, she had forgotten. ‘I have neglected to do so. I have had many tasks to which to attend.’

  ‘Believe me, I have prayed for him.’ Eimear’s look hardened. ‘Perhaps you need to pray for Gerald’s soul. He killed that man.’

  ‘You spoke to the warrior in your own tongue, which I do not understand and neither does Gerald. He believed there was treachery afoot.’

  ‘You do not speak the language of the Irish either, but you shouted to Gerald not to attack that man. You could tell what was happening, yet he could not?’

  Theodosia met Eimear’s challenging look with one of her own. ‘I believe the warrior would have attacked us both had you not arrived, my lady.’

  ‘My fellow Irishman was going to kill the two of you.’ Eimear stated it as one might remark that the wind felt cold. ‘He told me so. I ordered him not to. I did not want to see you hurt. As for Gerald, I care nothing.’

  ‘Then I have you to thank for my life.’ Theodosia swallowed hard. The encounter had brought death as close as she feared. ‘Gerald’s too.’

  ‘I will not wait for his thanks. Eternity is only so long.’

  ‘You have mine. With all my heart.’

  ‘Yet your face shows doubt.’

  Theodosia hesitated, searching for the right words. ‘Your actions surprised me, my lady.’

  ‘You wonder why I did not simply let the axeman kill you and the clerk. Am I correct?’

  Theodosia nodded.

  ‘Unlike the Lord John, you have shown my people respect with your marking of their passing. You come here to me, day after day, to try to join me in prayer, even though I push you away. Not many people stand up to me. But you have. Then, with no thought for your own safety, you run to the aid of that miserable Gerald. I admire you and am grateful for your attempts.’ Eimear put her head to one side. ‘All of this from a woman who is not an abbess or a noblewoman, but who is a mere sister. So you intrigue me also.’

  ‘I seek my guidance from my God, my lady.’ Theodosia kept her expression unchanged, even as her heart quickened beneath her habit as Eimear edged towards the truth.

  ‘Then you seek well. I do not see much of God’s guidance in the actions of others that King Henry has sent here. I see land theft and murder and more.’

  ‘Your beloved husband is one of Henry’s men, my lady.’ Theodosia’s pulse tripped faster still at the chance to steer their exchange to de Lacy. ‘Do you not see God in his life?’

  ‘Hugh de Lacy is my husband, yes. As for beloved?’ She gave a humourless laugh. ‘No.’

  ‘That is indeed a sad situation for you to be in, my lady.’

  ‘Advice on men from a nun.’ Eimear shook her head.

  ‘I do not presume to offer advice, my lady. Only to listen.’ Theodosia hesitated. To bring up her old life as an anchoress could be a risk, but she had to take it. ‘I spent some years in a church’s cell, hearing the secrets of the heart from many people. To lay down the burden of unhappiness can be a comfort.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure it can. For most. But tell me, sister: how many wives came to you to tell you that they had tried to murder their husbands on their wedding night?’

  Though the thick canopy of trees and tall bushes in full leaf cut out much of the sun, sweat still coated Palmer’s body. The heavy padding of his gambeson under his mail might take the worst of a weapon’s blow, but it kept all his own heat in. His soaked hair under his close-fit helmet sent salty rivulets down into his eyes and mouth. Beneath him, his destrier took slow, careful steps along the narrow track that stayed slippery with mud in the green shadows.

  He swatted at the flies that loved this mix of wet and heat and shade and perspiring men and horses.

  ‘Hell’s teeth! Does the very ground conspire against me?’

  Palmer’s shoulders knotted at the angry shout. He turned in his saddle as much as he could in his heavy mail and with his shield slung across his back.

  Farther back in the column of mounted men, the horse in front of the King’s son had slipped to its knees.

  Its rider urged the animal back up, with a string of apologies to John.

  Palmer pulled his animal from the track, allowing the other to pass. Riding at the front didn’t bother him. The unending noise that John made did. So far, their luck on this journey had held. They would soon be at Ardfinnan Castle, but Palmer would wager that those stationed there could already hear him. This group did not need to draw any attention to their progress.

  He slipped back into the line to ride in front of John. Distracting the Lord of Ireland might keep the man’s loose tongue busy. ‘We make good progress, my lord.’ He glanced over his shoulder.

  ‘Oh. It’s you, Palmer.’ John scowled beneath his tightly laced helmet, his face red from the long ride in the heat. ‘We’d be a lot faster if this cursed place had decent roads. These woods are barely passable.’

  A low branch swished against Palmer’s head and shoulder as he passed, swinging into John’s path next.

  He hacked it down with an irritated swipe of his sword. ‘See? Barely passable.�
�

  Palmer held in his command for the man to stop his noise. ‘I agree it’s not ideal, my lord. But your men have made their way to Ardfinnan. And back.’

  ‘Back with the body of my friend.’ John’s mouth turned down. ‘Back from defeat. Not like my great victory at Tibberaghny. Had I been at Ardfinnan, it would have been a different story.’

  Palmer went to laugh but swallowed it back. No, John didn’t joke: he really thought he spoke the truth.

  ‘What’s more, Geoffrey de Glanville would still be alive,’ said John. ‘The savages must have had the luck of the devil on their side to vanquish him.’

  Palmer noted John’s rigid shoulders and the constant flick of his gaze to the thick undergrowth on either side. The attack by slingers had not been luck. Clever tactics, more like. Many of the Irish prisoners had managed to escape while the stones had rained down. At least those that John hadn’t whipped to pulped unconsciousness had. He guessed that John spewed his lies through deep fear.

  ‘Indeed, my lord.’ He had to try to settle him down. A jittery fighter was more a danger than a help in any battle. ‘We’ll be at Ardfinnan soon. I’m sure we’ll hear tales of Sir Geoffrey’s valour.’

  John gave a tense nod. ‘As I shall inspire them with how the enemy can be defeated.’

  ‘That would be a great rallying speech, my lord.’

  ‘Of course it would. That’s why I’ve thought of it, man.’ John’s chin lifted. ‘And I think you presume to speak to me as if you have been granted that privilege. Hold your tongue until you are asked to wag it.’

  ‘My lord.’ Palmer faced forward again. If John also stayed silent, then all was well. He flexed his hands and fingers in his mail mufflers, working out the stiffness of his wounded flesh. Not far to Ardfinnan now.

  ‘Palmer.’ A panicked, strangled word from John.

  Palmer turned to follow his point to the right. A group of ferns moved. There wasn’t a breath of wind in these woods. Something was in there. His hand went to his hilt.

  In a flash of red fur, a fox broke from the concealing fronds to a strangled cry from John. It darted under his horse and across the path to the cover on the other side.

  John swung his sword at its disappearing tail. ‘Stupid creature could have startled my animal.’

  But Palmer frowned to himself. Foxes liked to roam at dusk. Not in the full light of day. The shy animals would never run into a group of men and horses. Unless. ‘Unless they were disturbed.’

  A spear arced through the air to pierce the rump of the horse in front as he said it.

  The animal kicked out, squealing.

  Palmer’s own horse reared beneath him in fright, the high-backed saddle keeping him on. ‘We’re under attack!’ His shout joined howls and screams that broke from the woods.

  ‘My lady?’ Theodosia could not be sure if her ears deceived her.

  ‘I thought so. Murdering brides are a rare breed.’ Eimear’s eyebrows arched. ‘More’s the pity.’

  ‘But why would you try to carry out such a terrible act?’

  ‘It was my husband or my father. For the fate they imposed on me.’

  Theodosia bit her lip. ‘Men can indeed be responsible for the ruination of girls’ and women’s lives.’ Her own life, before Benedict.

  ‘Ruination? A good word to describe what they did to me. And such mortal enemies up to then. Hugh was Henry’s royal official, using harsh rule and the King’s name to grab more and more land. My father, the great High King Rory O’Connor, went to Henry to appeal for help against him.’ She snorted in disgust. ‘Both of them dangling on the King of England’s strings. Real men would have cut loose and fought to the death for victory.’

  ‘Take care, my lady.’ Theodosia glanced at the door. ‘Those are treasonable words.’

  ‘What if they are? It’s only you and I here. Like it would have been when people came to whisper to you in your cell.’

  ‘I did not mean for you to stop unburdening your soul to me. I only mean for you to take care that you are not overheard. It would be dangerous for you.’

  ‘Speaking the truth doesn’t frighten me. Scheming like my father and Hugh de Lacy does.’ Eimear got to her feet and paced the room, arms folded across her chest. ‘Hugh came to my father, suggested a truce so they could both keep hold of the vast lands they already had and not waste energy fighting each other. He’d recently lost his wife of many years. So it was a truce that could be sealed with my hand in marriage. With me.’

  The second marriage that had so enraged Henry. ‘I cannot imagine, my lady,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Of course you can’t.’ Eimear gave her a pitying look. ‘And I’d never given any thought to marriage. Not only was I young, I’d never held such a dream, unlike most of the other girls I knew. I enjoyed boys, then men, as combatants, as people who could teach me the skills I loved, like hunting and fishing and riding. Like my namesake of the legends, I wanted to be a warrior, leading a troop of fierce women. Instead I was forced to become a wife.’ She grimaced. ‘I saw Hugh de Lacy for the first time on my wedding day. Twice my age, to my chin in height and half a face from a nightmare.’

  Theodosia kept her counsel, unable to think of a polite response.

  ‘Oh, you think I’m being unkind. But he strode into that chapel in his huge castle at Trim, the best castle in the whole land, like I should have rejoiced to have been chosen by him.’ Her voice lowered, unsteady for the first time. ‘I knew what was to come. And I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t.’

  ‘Neither should you have, my lady.’ Theodosia’s condemnation came from her heart, imagining Matilde in that position, her daughter only a few years from it being possible.

  ‘Exactly.’ Eimear recovered her strength. ‘I got an idea from my wedding clothes, from the gold pin at my breasts. Eimear of the legends had that. She had a glittering knife in her right hand too. So I got mine ready as the servants escorted me to the bedchamber after the feast. Ready for him. For Hugh de Lacy, the Lord of Meath.’ She paced on.

  Theodosia’s stomach tensed. She did not want to hear the rest of this story. But she must hear it out. Refusing to listen would be another injustice to Eimear.

  ‘Do you know what he did first?’

  ‘No, my lady,’ she whispered.

  ‘He tried to woo me.’ Eimear shook her head. ‘He actually thought I would respond to easy words about my beauty, about how he would be gentle. Despite my disgust, it was all I could do not to laugh. I let him lean to me for a kiss. And my knife was up, his heart my target.’

  ‘But you stopped, showed mercy.’

  Eimear snorted again. ‘No. He moved too fast for me. I don’t know how he did it. But he had that blade from me in an eye-blink.’ She took a long breath. ‘And then.’

  ‘You do not have to tell me, my lady.’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘I mean, nothing. He stuck my knife in his belt, said he wouldn’t say a word to my father. He didn’t even punish me. Instead, he made an agreement with me. One I could tolerate.’

  ‘What sort of agreement?’

  ‘He wanted an heir, to bring the lands of O’Connor and de Lacy together. Once he had one, he would never come near me again.’

  Theodosia took in a long breath. ‘You have a son, my lady.’

  ‘I do. My William: my beloved boy.’ Eimear nodded, two spots of high colour in her cheeks now. ‘My husband let me be until I was ready, until I allowed him into my bed. I have all the saints to thank that I conceived very quickly. And Hugh stayed true to his promise. The first time he saw William, his words to me were, “You are done.”’ Her voice became unsteady once more.

  ‘I am sorry, my lady.’

  ‘You do not have to be sorry.’ Eimear shrugged, her composure returned. ‘My father told me my loins could be my weapon. That gave me the courage to go through with it.’ She pulled in a long, deep breath. ‘I thank you for your compassionate ear. You were right
: it has helped me.’ She knelt before Theodosia. ‘Shall we pray for that warrior’s soul? Together?’

  ‘Of course, my lady.’ Theodosia began the prayer, her blood, royal as Eimear’s, surging through her veins at what she’d just heard.

  Henry’s suspicions were correct. Hugh de Lacy was lining up great power for himself in this land. Power that could challenge Henry for possession. But as she had seen so many times, the hunt for power devoured the blameless to their bones. And could devour her and Benedict still.

  She would pray for the soul of the dead warrior.

  Then return to those for Benedict.

  Palmer forced his heels down to keep his balance. He swung his shield to his left arm, slipping through the enarmes in a tight hold. ‘Ready yourselves!’ Loosing the reins from his right hand, he pulled his sword free of its scabbard in one movement.

  Another spear whistled towards him. He flung his shield up and it bounced away.

  ‘Kill them all!’ came John’s shout from behind him.

  A quick glance saw the man brandish his sword, his face set in terror.

  Palmer swung his own blade as movement flicked at the edge of his vision. His blade met a long spear, thrust up at him from an Irish warrior who’d appeared beside him. The spear handle snapped, and the man ducked from Palmer’s next strike, grabbing the shortened blade before diving back into the undergrowth.

  Another dashed out in his place.

  Palmer’s sword met his long-haired, helmetless skull in a swift arc. The attacker was down. And another.

  His horse spun under him, desperate to be off, as he parried, slashed, stabbed.

  Still they came. Below him, next to him, behind him. Bearded warriors breaking from the bushes, the trees, roaring their murderous intent from behind painted, round shields as they held short swords aloft.

  He took blows, traded them, his mail and helmet and height on his horse giving him and others the advantage.