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

by E. M. Powell

  ‘I know you heard me!’

  Palmer thrust for the empty swinging stirrup with his foot, swearing hard. He had to get it, had to ride this mount properly. He glanced over his shoulder.

  Mace in hand, de Lacy gained ground, in full control of his animal, its huge head and hooves smashing through the thick undergrowth like it was a soft haystack.

  Come on. Palmer’s furious order to himself and a hard jab with his foot got the stirrup. He steered his horse off to the side. Forget the trees – he needed the road now, needed it to outrun de Lacy, to get him back to Tibberaghny. To Theodosia. He’d use Henry’s name to protect them, get them both out of there. Make sure Eimear was safe. If de Lacy didn’t get hold of him first.

  And he was out, the narrow, muddy rutted road opening up before him. ‘Get on.’ His horse responded, its stride going from a jerky bolt to a smoother canter.

  But the crash from the bushes told him de Lacy had emerged too, the second set of bigger hooves thudding fast behind him.

  ‘I’ve got you now!’

  Palmer drew his sword again, urging his horse to a gallop. The air rushed fast into his face, mud splattering up in a sticky spray with each strike of hoof on ground.

  The chasing hooves came louder.

  Palmer bent low, kicking his animal to greater speed, its surging, sweating neck and mane inches from his face.

  Then de Lacy rode beside him, higher in the saddle than Palmer on his smaller mount, mace already in a wide swing.

  Palmer ducked down and to the side, half off his saddle with an oath.

  De Lacy met air, then the flank of Palmer’s horse.

  His animal shrilled in fear and pain, gained greater speed from the strike. Palmer clung on, no way to use his sword as he fought to retake his seat.

  ‘Next one, Palmer.’ De Lacy drew almost level again.

  Palmer pushed his horse on harder, but the animal tired now, every breath a snort. It couldn’t outrun the destrier. Not for much longer. The mace connected with Palmer’s shoulder as he ducked away again. Pain. But bearable. ‘That all you can do, de Lacy?’

  An angry bellow answered him.

  Then he saw what he needed a few yards ahead. A huge fallen tree. Lying off one side of the road. He kicked his horse on, pulling its head at the last minute so they made straight for it.

  ‘Get up!’ His yell and his kick got his mount to rise. Hooves left the ground in the right moment of weightlessness as he crouched low over the horse’s neck. One hard strike, front hooves down. Another – the back. They’d made it.

  His horse surged on ahead.

  A yelled curse and a crash rang out from behind him.

  Palmer looked back to see de Lacy still rolling across the muddy road from his fall, the destrier spinning and snorting from its refusal. ‘So you’ve got me, de Lacy?’ He faced forward again with another kick for greater speed.

  And a low-hanging branch slammed him from the saddle.

  John shifted in his chair and yawned long and hard. His many hours spent on his great history had worn him out. He stretched his tired shoulders to give them some relief. ‘I think my history is going to eclipse all others. Don’t you, Gerald?’

  ‘I don’t merely think so, my lord.’ The clerk held up a finger yet again. ‘I know so. Wondrous words you have recorded today. Truly wondrous.’

  God, the man was so annoying. ‘You know, you couldn’t be more obsequious if you lay on your back with your legs in the air and asked me to tickle your stomach.’

  ‘My apologies, my lord.’ Fear flickered across his eyes.

  Good. Always good to keep people on their toes. ‘The work we did today wasn’t wondrous at all. It was a start, Gerald. No more.’

  ‘Of course, my lord.’

  ‘But I tire now.’ John poured himself another goblet of wine. ‘I shall relate no more today, and I shall relax with a leisurely meal.’ He nodded at the many items used by the nun that remained on the table. ‘Tidy all that up. I cannot abide such disorder.’

  Gerald held up his bandaged arm, about to plead injury, then obviously thought better of it. ‘Of course, my lord.’

  The clerk went to the table, making a great show of picking things up with one hand.

  Definitely annoying. John took another mouthful.

  The man fiddled with parchment, picked up a quill, put down another, moved inkpots around with a sharp sigh.

  And slow. John drained his cup. He didn’t care. The clerk could spend all night here doing this one simple task if he so desired. He got to his feet. ‘I’ll assume that you prefer to fool with this task rather than come to the feast tonight.’

  But Gerald no longer had the look of a fawning puppy or a put-upon servant. He looked worried. ‘It’s not that, my lord.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘It’s just that – that . . .’ The clerk’s one-handed rummaging through the objects on the table took on an abrupt urgency. ‘I – I can’t find your seal, my lord.’

  ‘Do I have to perform every task in this place?’ John got to his feet and stamped over. He sifted through the items with the greatest of efficiency, waiting for the moment when his fingers closed on his metal seal. He would rap it on the clerk’s long teeth when he did. No. He’d missed it. He searched again, as Gerald peered between the fine barbs of a quill feather in useless endeavour. ‘The floor, man. Check the floor.’

  Gerald bobbed down like he’d been struck.

  John rifled through the contents of the table yet again, looked in the chest. Still nowhere to be seen. A strange thought took hold of him.

  ‘Not down here, my lord.’ Gerald stood up, scarlet in the face with effort.

  ‘No.’ John stared at the lumps of wax. ‘I don’t believe it would be.’ The thought grew, tightened its grip on him, spawned others, then others, all linking into a neat chain. He looked to Gerald. ‘Tell me, how long have you known Sister Theodosia?’

  ‘Oh, let me see. It must be a couple of months now, maybe more, probably nearer th—’

  ‘Stop meandering!’ John’s scream filled the room. ‘Where did she come from?’

  ‘I met her on my ship, my lord.’

  ‘With?’ John grabbed for the front of the man’s robe, twisting it hard. ‘Tell me everything you know. With as few words as possible.’

  The clerk’s words came out in a tremulous torrent. ‘She was on the ship, with the Abbess of Godstow. The Abbess is Irish by birth, but the sister wasn’t – isn’t – she told me of her holy pilgrimage to Jerpoint, to take instructions on manuscripts, so when I was ambushed – no, injured – I thought she would do to assist me. That’s all.’

  ‘All?’ John twisted harder.

  ‘Yes. Yes.’

  He shoved Gerald from him, the clerk clutching his chest and half-sobbing in some air.

  ‘You know I have long suspected I have a spy in this camp, Gerald?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ Now he did weep. Openly.

  ‘And now I know I have a spy. And you brought her to me.’

  Gerald sobbed on. ‘I am sorry, my lord.’

  ‘You’re a fool, Gerald. A fool.’ John marched to the door. ‘I am now going to find Sister Theodosia. I will brand her body all over with my stolen seal.’ He jabbed a finger at Gerald. ‘And then you will put her head on a spike.’

  Gerald sank to the floor in noisy, weeping anguish.

  John made for the stairs, fury driving his steps even harder.

  The little whore would rue the day she’d ever tried to best him.

  Palmer dragged his breath back into his protesting chest, forced his legs to move, his arms to raise. Get up – he had to get up. He staggered to his feet, his sword a miracle in one hand. His horse was gone. Not de Lacy’s. The destrier still stood nearby on the road, nostrils flaring, ears alert, eyes rolling.

  He staggered to the log to look over.

  De Lacy lay prostrate on the ground, unmoving. He’d taken a huge fall, thank the saints.

  Palmer hau
led himself back over the log, every muscle in his back and legs screaming as he did so. He didn’t care. The destrier. He had to get the destrier.

  The horse eyed him with mistrust, skittering as he approached.

  ‘Easy, fellow, easy.’ He kept his voice calm, low. Not only could this beast flee at a second’s notice, but it could also decide in a heartbeat to kick him or trample him into the next life. Stepping with as much caution as his protesting limbs would allow, he made it to a couple of feet away.

  The horse snorted hard.

  ‘Good fellow.’ Another step. Closer.

  His hand went to the reins.

  And his legs were hit from under him.

  Palmer pitched onto the stony mud of the road with a yell, sword falling from his hand as de Lacy went to slam the mace into him again.

  He rolled to avoid the strike, landing on his back.

  ‘Mistake.’ De Lacy’s metal boot was on Palmer’s throat, mace raised ready to strike as the lord stared down at him, framed against the blue sky.

  Palmer held his hands up, squinting into the light. ‘I can explain all this.’ His words came out hard as the crush on his windpipe.

  ‘Oh, you’ll explain, Palmer. You’ll explain everything. I’ll smash every single finger and toe you possess as you explain.’

  Swift hoof beats echoed along the road again.

  ‘Here’s my men now. And when you’re done explaining, if I don’t like the explanation, I’ll get the men of Tibberaghny to hang you.’ De Lacy smiled. ‘I suspect I won’t like it. Any of it.’ He looked up as the hooves got louder, opened his mouth to call out.

  Palmer curled a fist. Swung it up at de Lacy’s groin.

  The lord collapsed, retching.

  Palmer grabbed the mace from him, rose to his knees. He’d fight them off with this – he’d have to. Then get hold of the destrier.

  ‘Benedict! Stop!’

  He dreamt. Or he was dead.

  It wasn’t the men of Tibberaghny. For riding hard towards him with another male rider close behind her: Theodosia.

  The groom hung from the gibbet, the man’s legs kicking and flailing as the life was slowly strangled from him.

  ‘Cut him down.’ John gave the order with a click of his fingers. Still too quick an end. The idiot had let the nun ride from this camp with a letter that bore his seal, a messenger at her side. Without so much as a glimmer of suspicion.

  The soldiers at Tibberaghny, de Lacy’s men, acted at once on John’s order. Excellent. De Lacy had trained them well. They had strung up one of their own without turning a hair.

  ‘Leave him for now.’

  They stepped away as the groom writhed on the ground, hands tied behind his back, still trying to gulp for air like a reddened, beached fish.

  ‘You see this?’ John pointed to him.

  The solemn-faced assembly at the camp murmured that they did.

  Gerald, standing close by and looking near collapse, nodded too.

  John continued. ‘This is what happens to people who betray me. This man did. He failed to stop a spy leaving this camp. Yes, the meek and mild Sister Theodosia. He could not even stop a nun.’

  Low rumbles of laughter and a few grins rewarded his witty words.

  ‘I know. Incredible as it may seem.’ John shared a smiling nod. ‘Of course, you, all of you, as a band of loyal fighting men, brought me the heads of Irishmen. A swift end, losing a head.’ He dropped his smile. ‘No such mercy for traitors to me. You understand?’

  Again a murmur of acquiescence, serious this time. From this large group of trained, armed men. Yet he held power over them with only his words. His presence.

  ‘Like your one-time lord, the Lord of Meath. Hugh de Lacy.’ John walked up the line of focused faces, every one of the hard eyes beneath nose-plated helmets on him. ‘A lord made by King Henry. Well, I have unmade him.’ Turned, walked back. ‘For he swore an oath to me to protect this place. An oath which he broke in a heartbeat. From now on, you serve me, the Lord of Ireland. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ The answer came loud, definite.

  ‘Good.’ John nodded to the wriggling groom. ‘Put him back up.’ He directed his order at a couple of men at the end of the row.

  One acted at once, the other hung back for a half-step.

  John clicked his fingers at two others. ‘Put that man up too.’

  ‘My lord.’ The shirker’s words came iced in shock.

  But no one hesitated this time.

  The half-dead groom was dangling again in a moment, legs feebler as he kicked, but he continued to strain for any breath.

  ‘My lord!’ The other one fought hard against those who would bind him. ‘Please. I am loyal to you.’

  John walked on again, ignoring him. ‘I hope I am making my point with clarity.’

  ‘Mercy, I beg you, my lord!’

  The man’s arms were secure, the noose being prepared.

  ‘Now our task is to find that spy.’ John paused, watched with pleasure as the man was hoisted next to the groom, legs thrashing like a newborn foal’s.

  John went on. ‘The spy who caused me so many, many losses on this campaign. But no more.’ John raised a fist. ‘No more. We will find this woman who would dare to don a habit to do her evil work. By the time I am finished with her, she will welcome death. Anyone who hides her, shelters her in any way, will end their days on the end of your blades. They will learn that guile is no match for an honest sword. We start the hunt for her at first light.

  A steady chant for him rose up. ‘The Lord of Ireland! The Lord of Ireland!’

  He basked in their acclaim. Wonderful. So many voices raised to praise him, even as he saw looks slide towards the dying jerks of the men on the gibbet.

  Wonderful. But, strangely, not as wonderful as the fear in every man’s eyes.

  And even that would be a shadow compared to what he would see in those belonging to the Sister Theodosia when he got his hands on her.

  Palmer straightened up. He didn’t dream; he definitely lived. Theodosia was here. Here, along with one of de Lacy’s messengers. How, he didn’t know, didn’t care. She was here. Back with him. But looking as if she faced a wolf pack.

  ‘Benedict, stop.’ Theodosia flung herself from her horse and ran to him as the young man hung back, still mounted. ‘Do not use that mace. Please. No.’ She grabbed for his arm.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ His heart quailed. ‘Are you hurt?’

  She shook her head. ‘No.’

  Relief surged through him.

  ‘It is worse than that.’

  ‘God’s eyes.’ De Lacy got to his hands and knees, coughing hard. ‘You’re in league with a nun now, Palmer?’

  ‘Shut up, you.’ Palmer tried to raise the mace.

  ‘No!’ Theodosia pulled it down with a cry. ‘We need his help. We truly do.’

  ‘Whatever you’re playing at, sister’ – de Lacy wheezed to his feet – ‘I thank you.’

  ‘I told you to shut up.’ Palmer took a quick look up, down the road. No riders. Yet. ‘Theodosia, de Lacy isn’t alone. We need to get out of here. You can tell me what’s wrong as we ride.’

  The bushes rustled.

  Palmer wheeled round with the mace.

  Eimear stepped out, breathless from running, her tunic torn and muddy, but with de Lacy’s dropped broadsword in hand.

  A puce-faced, bloody-lipped Simonson staggered out after her.

  ‘Sister,’ said Eimear. ‘Oh, thank every saint you got away.’ She looked at de Lacy. ‘Husband.’

  De Lacy scowled. ‘Palmer, if I had my mace right now.’

  ‘You don’t, and I told—’ began Palmer as Eimear spoke over him.

  ‘Hugh, there is much you should—’

  ‘Stop it!’ Theodosia’s scream cut through it all. ‘Stop it, all of you! None of you know the truth.’

  Palmer looked at her, at her eyes wide in horror.

  ‘Listen,’ she said. ‘Just listen.’
r />   ‘And I swear to you, that every word I have spoken is the truth. John wants the throne of Ireland for himself and will use the lives of children to get it.’ Theodosia’s own words brought fresh terror to her heart.

  ‘You have no need to swear on anything.’ Benedict’s mud-plastered jaw set. ‘I believe every word.’

  ‘As do I.’ Eimear tested the broadsword. ‘That I had the little turd of Satan before me right now.’

  ‘That I had my men of Meath.’ De Lacy spat hard.

  Guilt panged through Theodosia. ‘I am to blame that you do not, my lord.’

  ‘You thought it best,’ came Benedict’s deep murmur to Eimear’s nod. ‘Faith, look what you discovered as a result.’

  De Lacy too waved her protest away. ‘You sought to protect my wife from John.’ He blew a sharp whistle to the still-mounted Nagle. ‘You’re with me, lad? If not, turn around and go and serve the Lord John in his slaughter of children. My mace in the back of your head will help you on your way.’

  Benedict nodded, smacking the heavy weapon against his other, open palm.

  ‘I’m with you, my lord,’ replied Nagle. ‘As always.’

  De Lacy nodded. ‘Then go and find the only band I have and bring them to me. They won’t have got far.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Eimear to the messenger. She looked at her husband. ‘You have no band.’ She jerked a thumb at Simonson. ‘Only this one here. They all fled when they saw me coming towards them with a sword and him with blood all over his face.’

  ‘Terrified, they were,’ nodded the heavy-set young man, his words indistinct through his cut lip.

  Benedict and de Lacy swore as one man.

  But Theodosia could imagine how the untrained, nervous men would have viewed the armed, mud-visaged Eimear.

  ‘Nagle,’ said de Lacy. ‘Take Simonson and go and see if you can track any of them down.’ He scowled. ‘You might find one hidden under a bush somewhere.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ Nagle heaved Simonson up behind him and they set off in a clatter of hooves.

  ‘And find your animal, Simonson,’ called Palmer. ‘We need it!’

  ‘I will! I swear!’