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

by E. M. Powell

  ‘Such a magnificent collection, Archbishop.’ His teeth again. ‘I would declare myself envious if it wasn’t a deadly sin.’ Now his high-pitched laugh.

  ‘They are yours to view and to examine.’ The Archbishop held out a hand. ‘A joy to meet another who appreciates their sacred words as well as their beauty.’

  A rattle came at the door. ‘My lord.’ A younger monk entered, breathless as if he’d been running.

  ‘Ah, Fintan.’ O’Heney beamed, as if welcoming a visiting nobleman instead of a servant. ‘Will you be so kind as to help me put some order on this place?’

  John let his smile drop. Imagine asking for help. How this man had ever become an archbishop was beyond him. Clearly, the Irish were even more backward than he’d thought.

  ‘My lords.’ The young monk called Fintan bowed to him, to Gerald, as he gathered up papers, answering the Archbishop about how much bread was available, Gerald about the date of one of the manuscripts.

  Funny. He did all that, and yet his breath steadied. He must have been exerting himself a great deal to have arrived in the state he had.

  ‘My Lord John. Please.’ Fintan bowed, indicated the comfortable-looking, high-backed chair he’d just cleared, the clean lines of his handsome face lifting in a smile.

  John settled himself with a nod and clicked his fingers at him. ‘Wine.’

  A smile that was a little too broad. ‘Of course, my lord.’

  But John cared not. He had far more important business to which he had to attend. That infernal spy had ensured that word of his intent to take hostages had spread far and wide – he had no doubt of that. So he had had to change strategy yet again. He picked up the full goblet and allowed himself a nod of satisfaction. His new strategy had a boldness to it that had taken his own breath away when he had thought of it.

  ‘This life of Saint Hugh has outstanding lettering.’ Gerald held up some dull religious work. ‘Wouldn’t you agree, my Lord John?’

  ‘I have never seen its equal.’ John raised his goblet to it.

  That seemed enough to satisfy the clerk, who returned to his huddle with the jabbering Archbishop O’Heney.

  John took a long draught of his wine. Yes, the little Irishman’s appearance was not a match for the well-known blithe countenance of Thomas Becket. But one had to make do with what one was given.

  The murder of an Archbishop was an act that echoed across the whole of Christendom. John had every confidence that O’Heney’s would be no exception.

  And death by fire always appealed to the popular imagination.

  They were too slow.

  You fool, Palmer. You fool.

  Every beat of the surging horse’s hooves beneath him was like a drum that beat out his guilt.

  ‘Clench your jaw any tighter and you’ll snap it.’ De Lacy, riding beside him in the driving, misty rain.

  ‘And if I do?’

  ‘We’ll be one man down. Can’t afford that. Especially not you.’

  ‘Don’t talk to me like I’m a squire in low spirits.’

  ‘Fine.’ De Lacy shrugged. ‘But if you plan on doing something stupid, at least tell me.’

  ‘I can’t do anything. Not right now. Not until we get to Cashel. Get to John. That’s the problem.’

  De Lacy glanced behind him. ‘Pull your horse up.’ He matched his words with his actions. ‘We’re losing the others.’

  Palmer did so with a growled oath, the rain-soaked, sweated horses snorting and blowing hard.

  De Lacy was right. The rest of their small band rode a long way behind on the roadway.

  Palmer blew a sharp whistle, gestured at them to hurry up. Swore again.

  ‘If you were a squire under my command, you’d feel my fist.’ De Lacy fixed him with a look. ‘You’re acting like a knave, Palmer. Stop it.’

  ‘I might be a fool, de Lacy.’ Palmer glared back at him. ‘But I’m no knave.’

  ‘A fool, eh?’ De Lacy leaned forward to ease his spine. ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Because only a fool would’ve misjudged John so badly. I thought him an arrogant, cowardly youngster that could do nothing without the support of a full court around him.’ Palmer shook his head. ‘But he’s shown that he can think for himself. Act for himself. Henry’s words to me: “He’s sharp enough.” John’s proved he’s more than sharp, throwing us off the scent.’ He ground out yet another oath. ‘I should’ve seen it.’

  ‘I agree he’s made some clever moves in evading us and making for Cashel. The Church is a great supporter of King Henry. John has figured out that they should protect him in a land where he has few friends left. Help him send word to Henry to get—’

  ‘I don’t care what happens to John!’ Palmer itched to punch the unruffled de Lacy in the face. ‘I only care about my wife! Theodosia’s gone to Cashel. Your wife too. And we sent them there. What if John got to Cashel first? What if he found them on the journey? He’d, he’d . . .’ Palmer swore instead. He couldn’t put his horror into words lest he make it real.

  De Lacy shrugged. ‘How is any of this helping Theodosia or Eimear?’

  ‘It isn’t. And we’re too slow.’ Now Palmer could punch his own face in frustration. ‘I was too slow – I still am.’

  The other riders had almost caught them up.

  ‘Whatever has put John in this position is of little consequence. We are where we are, and our energy should be put into our next move.’ De Lacy pointed at him. ‘Our next move. Not the previous one.’

  Palmer didn’t reply, and de Lacy dropped his hand with a terse sigh. ‘I underestimated him too. As did so many others. You’re not alone in this, Palmer.’ De Lacy raised his voice to the others. ‘I know you’re all tired, that your horses are too. But we have to push on with all haste. Cashel will soon be in our sights.’ He clicked to his animal.

  But Palmer was already away.

  De Lacy’s attempt to lift his anger hadn’t worked.

  Palmer kicked his horse into greater speed. He should have seen it coming. He was still a fool.

  And they were still too slow.

  Theodosia descended to the bottom of the lowest ladder in the Round Tower. She had checked for any sign of danger from each of the smaller windows on the way down. So far, nothing, except for the usual order of this holy house and the fast-moving, distant clouds extinguishing the setting sun to bring an early twilight.

  Eimear jumped from the last few rungs to land beside her in the simply furnished room.

  ‘Still all quiet.’ Theodosia did not know whether she said it to reassure Eimear or herself. She quickly stepped to the door and grasped the iron handle to open it. Locked. Her stomach tightened. ‘Dear God. They’ve shut us in.’ She yanked at the unyielding metal with all her strength. ‘It was all a trap.’ Struck it hard. ‘All of it.’

  ‘Stay calm, Theodosia. Of course Fintan would have locked it. They’re trying to keep us hidden in here, remember?’ Eimear dropped to her haunches to check a small altar next to the door. ‘I’d wager there’s a key somewhere in this room. Start looking.’

  Breath fast in her chest, Theodosia complied. She upturned candlesticks, a stool, all the while waiting for the dread sounds at the door. Intruders would not need a key. They would use boots. Axes. ‘Do you think Fintan spoke the truth?’

  ‘I’m sure of it. As I’ve just said.’

  ‘Not about locking us in.’ Theodosia pulled up a heavy rug from the stone floor. Still no key. ‘About John and his men not having fought. Does that mean our husbands will have been spared a battle?’

  ‘You mean, do I think they are still alive?’ Eimear pulled a tapestry out from the wall to peer behind it. ‘I have no idea.’ She turned to pin Theodosia with her look. ‘What I do know is we are. And we should be doing everything we can to stay that way. You and I are mothers. Above all else, I need to stay alive for William. As you do for Tom and Matilde. That is all that matters.’ She returned to her search.

  Eimear was right. Theodosia nodded, un
able to trust speech, and opened a large chest containing folded cloaks, rifling through them without success.

  ‘Oh, where is that cursed thing?’ Eimear stretched high to run her hands along the lintel. She drew a sharp breath. ‘I have it.’ She pulled out a large iron key from a narrow recess above the door. The angle made it look as if she drew it straight from the stone of the wall. ‘At least I hope I do.’

  ‘As do I.’ Theodosia grabbed a couple of the cloaks and hurried over to her.

  With a couple of swift clicks, Eimear unlocked the door and turned the handle, releasing the door from its tight fit in the frame. The cool of the stiff evening breeze blew in.

  Theodosia put a hand to the handle, preventing Eimear from pulling the door wide open. ‘Wait. We need to look out first.’

  Eimear squinted through the crack. ‘Nothing of concern,’ she murmured.

  ‘Then we go. While we still have the chance. Put this on – it’ll help to conceal you.’ Theodosia handed a cloak to Eimear while she fastened hers about her head and neck.

  They stepped out onto a narrow wooden platform with a flight of steps that led up to the door of the tower, many feet from the ground.

  Before them loomed the imposing grey stone walls of the cathedral, its tall windows filled with the jewelled colours of exquisite stained glass.

  ‘Should we go in there?’ asked Eimear in a low voice as they descended, their steps swift yet silent on each tread.

  ‘No,’ said Theodosia. ‘I do not remember seeing many hiding places when Brother Fintan showed us the magnificence of Cashel. We are going to that building.’ They moved across the grassy ground. Quickly. Quietly. She pointed to the pale yellow stone chapel with its steep roof, also of stone. ‘Cormac’s Chapel. We need to keep to the back of these structures. Their entrances face the other way, so we are much less likely to be seen here. Keep as close as you can to the walls. We will crawl beneath windows if necessary.’

  ‘Doors?’ said Eimear.

  ‘If they are closed, we move past them as fast as we can.’

  ‘And if they’re open?’

  ‘We go faster.’

  Crouching low in their concealing robes, they moved quickly past the cathedral now, Theodosia’s heart racing as she was sure Eimear’s did.

  The position of the cathedral’s windows, set high in its walls, meant no one would see. A small wooden door that presumably led from a side chapel was shut tight.

  They came to the corner of the cathedral.

  ‘Wait,’ whispered Theodosia, halting Eimear with a hand. ‘This is the most dangerous time. You see that next building? With the lower windows? That is the Archbishop’s Palace.’

  Eimear’s eyes widened. ‘Theodosia. John’s in there. Gerald. If they even glance out, we’re done for.’

  ‘We have to get past.’ Theodosia fixed her with her sternest look. ‘You must trust me. Stay down, low as you can. Keep close to the walls.’

  She did herself as she ordered Eimear to do.

  The low clouds overhead deepened the dusk, and dew already soaked the thick grass under her palms.

  Moving slowly, carefully, Theodosia kept her sight on the window, too dark for her to see inside. Someone could be looking out, watching them, and they would not know until it was too late. When a shout would come, then men and weapons. And John.

  Theodosia swallowed down her terror. They had to do this. She glanced behind her.

  Eimear’s face showed pale against the darkness of the concealing robe, her eyes fixed on the window too.

  Lights flickered, then grew in number at the window. The candles were being lit.

  Theodosia stretched out to whisper into Eimear’s ear. ‘This is better. Brightness inside makes it more difficult to see into the dark outside.’

  Eimear nodded, still staring at the window.

  Theodosia moved forward again, hugging the wall of the cathedral.

  They would have to tackle the palace next: it lay between them and her goal of the yellow stone chapel.

  The palace was sited at an angle to the cathedral, a shorter, lower building. They would have to creep past directly under the window.

  Theodosia signalled this to Eimear, who shook her head, pointing past the stretch of open grass between them and the chapel, to the stones and crosses that marked the start of the graveyard. Shaking her own head with even greater vehemence, Theodosia pressed her hand to the wall.

  Using the cover of the gravestones might feel safer than moving closer to John, but the stones were too widely spaced. Theodosia knew she and Eimear were hopelessly exposed if they did so.

  Eimear held up a hand in capitulation.

  Theodosia crawled forward again, Eimear with her.

  They were directly beneath the window now.

  It opened above them.

  Theodosia froze, grasping for Eimear, whom she could tell was about to run for it. She could only hope that their stillness would hide them. But it wasn’t dark enough. Not yet.

  Then a male voice sounded above them, and she held in a cry.

  ‘Are you sure it’s not too cold, my lord?’

  Brother Fintan.

  She risked a look up and met his gaze. His eyes told her he’d seen them.

  Another male voice. Irritated. John. ‘Yes, it’s cold. But this room is stale beyond belief. I need some fresh air.’

  Footsteps.

  ‘Get away, you devil!’

  Theodosia hung on to Eimear. The bewildering call came from Fintan.

  ‘What are you playing at, man?’ John. Even more irritated.

  ‘Only a bat, my lord.’ Fintan waved a hand again. ‘Away with you!’

  Theodosia understood. She yanked Eimear to her and made off in a low, scrambling run.

  They made it to the concealing far corner of the palace as John’s silhouette appeared in the light of the window next to the monk.

  ‘Sorry, my lord,’ said Fintan. ‘We’re plagued with the creatures.’

  Theodosia quietened her breathing as Eimear crouched next to her, shaking hard.

  ‘How revolting.’ John leaned out. ‘Yet I can’t see any.’

  ‘They’re too fast, my lord. But they’re there. Believe me.’ The young monk sounded like he had a smile in his voice.

  ‘Come on,’ said Theodosia in Eimear’s ear. ‘We’re almost there.’

  They ran – ran round the back of the chapel, the first misty rain buffeting their faces. The raindrops fell heavier as they reached the south door of the quiet chapel.

  Theodosia blessed herself as they entered its shelter, her whole body shaking from their closeness to discovery. It mattered not.

  They’d made it.

  John turned back from the window, the hairs on his neck rising at the idea of unseen bats swooping round him when he couldn’t see them. He’d gone to the window for a reason. He’d just have to wait.

  That young monk was smiling at him again. He wanted to make him stop. And he would. Soon.

  John returned to the table and its dull contents and even duller occupants. Though Cashel served passable wine, the dreadful food could have been peasant fare.

  The Archbishop and Gerald didn’t even seem to notice, exclaiming over some battered metal box that O’Heney had fished out from under the table.

  ‘You see, Gerald’ – the shock-headed fool had it open now – ‘it contains some of the soil from the grave of Saint Peter himself.’

  ‘Oh, my.’ Gerald must be inhaling it, he had his nose so close to it.

  ‘It is wonderful, isn’t it?’ said O’Heney. ‘A gift from the Holy Father himself.’ He sighed in contentment. ‘I have used it for the swearing of oaths between warring factions. Such a wonderful gift, it has brought so much peace.’

  Holy soil. John despaired as he swallowed a deep mouthful of wine. It would take more than a bit of mud to bring peace to this place tonight. He waited, tense. Waited for the bells, the bells that would ring for the Hour of Compline. The Hour of the Night.


  That was the signal to his men who had been given accommodation in the lower buildings at Cashel. Once Compline rang, they knew what to do. It seemed to be taking forever. He’d ordered the window open to make sure he heard them. And then that stupid bat. He felt eyes on him and looked up.

  That monk again.

  ‘Some more wine, my lord? Your goblet is empty.’

  John was about to demand a jug and silence from him, when he heard the first bell. And the next, and the next.

  The hour had come.

  The muted sound of many sandal-clad feet met him. The monks were hurrying to assemble in the huge cathedral.

  He returned the monk’s broad smile. ‘I think I will have some more.’

  Now, all he had to do was await the tramp of boots.

  Any minute now.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  ‘We did it.’ Eimear pushed her robe from her head, her skin shining with sweat and raindrops. The few candles that lit Cormac’s Chapel gave her fearful face extra shadows.

  Theodosia wiped her own wet skin. ‘We did, praise God.’ The quiet of the pale stone with its intricately carved pillars and the scenes from the Bible that glowed with such life and colour from the vaulted roof of the chancel helped to steady her racing heart. She pulled in a long breath. ‘Not a moment too soon.’

  From outside came the peals of Compline’s bell and the orderly stirring of the monks making their way to prayer.

  Eimear frowned as she took in the space. ‘Theodosia, this wasn’t a good idea. There’s nowhere to hide in here.’

  ‘It is not what is in the chapel.’ Theodosia hurried over to a door on the right-hand side. ‘Rather, what is above it.’ She pulled the door open to reveal a spiral staircase, exactly as Fintan had mentioned. ‘This leads to the croft. A far better hiding place. Where nobody knows we’ve gone.’

  Eimear nodded in relieved approval. ‘I forgive you. I think.’ She stepped over to remove one of the candles. ‘Though forgiveness was far from my mind when John was a couple of feet away from us.’

  Theodosia shuddered as her own fear clawed afresh at her. ‘I think my reason almost left me.’ She led the way into the staircase with rapid steps.