The Lord of Ireland (The Fifth Knight Series Book 3) (14 page)

‘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 i
n 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.

For now.

He wrenched his head around to check on John.

The King’s son kept a few attackers at bay with his fine sword. A crossbow-wielding horseman saw to the rest.

‘Stay on your horses, men!’ Palmer roared his order above the melee of squealing horses and yelling men.

A slinger’s stone slammed into Palmer’s right arm in breath-robbing pain. But his armour saved the bone; a bruise wouldn’t kill him. He swore hard, sent another attacker staggering back, the man’s hand a mess of blood.

Ardfinnan wasn’t far. He and John’s men were holding the Irish off. He could ride – any of them could ride – and fetch reinforcements back.

Then a huge, black-haired, long-bearded warrior emerged from the bushes near John, a battleaxe raised in one hand, round shield painted with bright red coils in the other.

‘My lord!’

Too late.

The Irishman struck. Fast. Hard. Brutal. Not at John. At the mounted crossbowman who shot so well. The man’s mailed thigh could have been dead wood. His severed limb fell on one side of his horse as his screaming, dying body fell from the other.

And the warrior turned next for John.

Chapter Fifteen

‘Use your horse, my lord!’ Palmer yelled with all the air in his lungs. ‘As well as your sword!’

But the King’s son didn’t heed him. ‘You’ll not have my leg!’ John yanked his foot from his stirrup as the warrior raised his weapon again.

Forcurse it, John was going to jump from his animal. ‘Stay on your mount!’ Palmer kicked his horse hard, making for John’s defence, blade raised.

But John was off, half-falling from his high seat to stumble on the ground, his panicked horse between him and the warrior.

Palmer swung his weapon, meeting the man’s swinging axe in mid-swipe. The force of the colliding blows sent him hard into his wooden saddle pommel.

The man whipped his axe down in a fast crouch, ducking from a clumsy next blow from Palmer.

John had got to his unsteady feet, sword in one hand, his shield lost in his descent.

‘Remount, my lord.’ Palmer went for another strike.

‘I can’t! My mail weighs me down and the beast won’t stay still!’

The warrior jerked back so Palmer’s swipe went wide.

‘Try!’

The man brought the axe up again at a poor angle.

No. A perfect angle.

The Irishman sent his blade into the right knee of John’s horse and yanked it back out in a vicious strike.

The huge animal squealed and jolted in its agony, its heavy flank thumping John off his feet and flat onto his stomach on the ground.

Eyes rolling, the horse collapsed close to him, blood pulsing from its wound.

‘Get up, my lord!’ Palmer’s destrier heaved under him, his animal spooked and desperate to escape. He knew the perils of dismounting in full armour. But he couldn’t defend John from
the back of
his
own
animal, not with the injured horse in the way in this tight space.

He clambered from the saddle with an oath. His horse fled as the warrior scrambled over to the still prostrate John, his axe up high again.

Dodging the huge flailing hooves as he followed, Palmer yelled to John. ‘My lord! Up!’

The King’s son raised his head. Thrust himself to the side as the axe came down.

The warrior bellowed his frustration as his blade sank into mud.

And Palmer was almost on him, his sword raised and ready.

One of the fallen horse’s uninjured legs kicked out. Palmer stopped dead to avoid it, skidding on the wet mud and nearly
losing
his grip on his weapon.

The axeman was ready again, but John had managed to stand. He waved his sword at the Irishman. ‘Go to hell, you savage.’

Palmer recovered his hold, stepping round the struggling horse. Fast. Quiet.

The man smiled at John’s reaction. ‘You can go first.’

John gaped in shock that the man could answer with his own tongue, then howled as the warrior struck his sword from his grasp.

Palmer went for his own strike.

John’s glance flicked to Palmer.

The axeman saw it. He whirled with a shout, his vividly painted round shield up.

Palmer’s sword bounced off the iron boss at its centre.

The man adjusted the angle of the shield, using its edge to
hammer
against Palmer’s own, then his axe, over and over, driving him backwards, off balance and towards the moving hooves. Palmer’s sword angle was too shallow, his grip all wrong. He could only defend against the onslaught of blows that drove the breath from his body and rattled his teeth in his head.

‘Use your sword, Palmer!’

‘The stripling teaches fighting now, does he?’ The towering Irishman laughed as he struck again and again.

A metal-clad hoof missed Palmer’s legs by a whisper.

Palmer dropped down and forward to a crouch.

The warrior’s strike was off the mark, his own momentum pitching him over Palmer.

Hoof met bone, but Palmer didn’t stop to check.

He was on his feet and at John’s side, thrusting John’s sword back into his hand.

‘How can we fight all of them?’ John’s look was ashen.

Palmer already had the answer. The Irish warriors overran the column of knights and horses, slaughtering all before them. ‘We can’t. We run.’

He grabbed John by the shoulder and hauled him into the bushes.

Running in chain mail got harder as you got older.

Palmer’s breath came in deep gasps, his legs like water as he forced his way through the thick undergrowth. Ropes of ivy snared him and brambles and sharp branches ripped at his face. But he still moved quicker than John.

‘Palmer. Stop.’

Palmer did as John ordered. ‘My lord, we have to keep going.’

John looked close to collapse as sweat poured down his scarlet face, a face equally as scratched as Palmer’s. ‘Give me one minute.’

‘We only have to get to Ardfinnan.’ Palmer pointed forward. ‘The
river’s in that direction. It’s not far. Once we get there, we can follow it to your castle. It leads there, the same as the road we
were on.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I spoke to the men who have been there.’

‘I need to get rid of this cursed mail. It’s too heavy.’ John tugged at his helmet’s fastening.

Palmer grabbed his hand down. ‘No.’

‘Do not dare to touch me.’ John’s face pinched in anger as he shook him off. ‘Who do you think you are to order me to do
anything
?’

Palmer raised his hands. ‘I’m sorry, my lord. I’m not trying to order you to do anything. But you need to keep your armour on.’

‘We have to move quickly, do we not? So we can get to the safety of Ardfinnan?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Well, no one saw us go. That bearded monster will have his head cracked by my poor horse’s hooves by now. We are not being followed. My gambeson will suffice.’ John pulled off his helmet, his red hair plastered wet to his head. ‘That will protect me enough, without the weight of—’

Palmer stopped him with a raised hand. ‘Listen.’

A
flock
of wood pigeons clattered through the canopy above.

‘Birds.’ John ground the word out. ‘I thought I told you not to give orders to me.’ Then his face paled, despite the heat. He’d heard it too.

The shouts of many Irishmen, men who knew they were in reach of quarry. Men who didn’t need to be cautious because they knew they far outnumbered that quarry. Men who knew how to use their axes with devastating effect.

‘Palmer.’ John began to shake from head to foot. ‘What do we do now?’

‘We have to make the river.’ Palmer took off, faster than ever, crashing through the bushes, John following as he fumbled his
helmet
back on.

‘To fight?’

‘To not die.’

‘Palmer, I can see it. The castle.’ John’s words came in panicked, exhausted gasps.

At least he’d learned to keep his voice down. ‘I see it too, m
y lord.’

The barest glimpse through the trees, rising on a high crag above the river. And as Palmer had feared, still too far away. The shouts behind them echoed louder. Nearer.

‘Then where are you going?’ said John. ‘We should be heading straight for it.’

‘We’re not going to make it,’ said Palmer. ‘They’ll be on us before we get there.’ He kept his path through the dense shrubs and bushes.

John’s eyes bulged. ‘We just keep running around in these woods and wait for them to kill us?’

‘No.’ Palmer ploughed on, his ears alert for the sound he needed.

‘Then what
do you suggest
?’ John’s enraged hiss held the threat of violence.

So be it. If what he, Palmer, planned didn’t work, he’d need as much fighting blood as possible flowing through John’s veins. ‘You’ll see.’

A drumming broke out. Swords and fists on wooden shields.
A beat t
hat readied men for slaughter.

‘They want our heads.’ John stifled a sound that could
have been
a sob.

Palmer took a glance back. Still not within sight. ‘Hurry.’ He picked up his pace in a last push. The beating of the shields got louder, faster.

Then he saw it, through the trees. The rushing waters of the strong, fast river that flowed past Ardfinnan Castle.

He forced his way out onto the bank, praying he’d find what he needed.

John joined him, his gaze moving back and forth to the woods behind. ‘We’re going to swim for it? Upstream? Have you lost yo
ur mind?’

‘No, my lord.’ Palmer grabbed a handful of John’s surcoat. ‘And no.’ He
tore
the garment open with a quick slash of his sword.

John stifled a yell. ‘But you have!’ He took a step back as Palmer yanked the garment from him. He looked ready to flee.

Only the noise of the Irish from the woods, audible above the river, stopped him.

‘You’re going to have to trust me, my lord.’ Palmer shoved the surcoat under his arm and laid his sword against a bush.

‘Trust a madman?’

Palmer quickly worked his mail glove off his left hand,
Theodosia’s
bandage still tight on his injured knuckles. ‘It’s me or the Irish, my lord. And we’re running out of time.’ He nodded to one of the big piles of debris that lined the riverbank, cast there by winter floods. ‘Find me the biggest branch you can.’

‘You will build us a boat before the enemy is on us?’

‘Now. Please.’

In frowning disbelief, John hurried over to the pile of muddied dead wood and rotting grass and leaves.

Palmer did a quick scan of the woods as John cursed and tugged at a hefty forked tree limb.

No one in sight. Yet. Their calls told him it would be any minute now. He sliced the bandage off with his knife, then angled his blade against the big, healing scabs. He bit down. And cut hard.

‘This one’s the biggest.’ John straightened up, his words stopping as he gaped at Palmer.

The quick flow of new blood was enough. Palmer let it seep onto the ruined surcoat, smearing it out as much as he could.

He stepped over to John, whose mouth curled down at the sight of the bloodied cloth. ‘I’m not doing that. I can wait for my blood to be shed.’

Palmer ignored him, snapping off one of the branch’s forks, the movement sending more pain through his hand. And more blood. He pierced a wide section of the surcoat with the sharp, jagged branch, then rammed his mail glove onto a bunch of small twigs.

Now he could hear the definite cracking and breaking of branches that meant men forced their way through the woods.

‘Palmer.’ John’s word came through clenched teeth.

‘I hear them.’ Palmer picked up one end of the branch. ‘You take the other end.’

John didn’t stop to argue.

‘As far into the middle of the current as we can.’

John nodded.

They pulled back the heavy branch, and with a hard, high swing, it sailed over the surface of the river and in with a loud splash.

It turned over, the surcoat submerging.

Palmer’s guts coiled. It hadn’t worked. At all.

Then the current nudged it, and with a slow, slow roll, it turned over. The bundle of bloodied white cloth showed clear against the rotting wood. The river took it into its brisk flow and it headed off downstream at a steady pace.

‘Come on.’ Palmer signalled to John. ‘We need to get to that.’ He pointed a few yards upstream to a tangle of branches and old leaves that had piled up against the roots of a long-dead fallen tree, rotting as they sat trapped at the edge of the water. A few low branches, heavy with leaves, jutted out over it.

John broke into a run, but Palmer halted him. ‘Step carefully,’ he whispered. ‘Stay out of the mud.’

Sweat trickled down Palmer’s back as he too forced himself to move with caution. Every inch of him braced to run from the axemen. But they had to do it this way.

And they were there.

‘Get in the water.’ Palmer had his sight fixed where he guessed the first men would emerge. ‘Use your sword as an anchor. And keep low in those branches.’

Palmer started to wade into the clogged water as he spoke. The angled bank fell away in a steep drop. He slipped, his chain mail a terrifying weight that threatened to pull him under into water that had him gasping with cold. His hands locked on his sword, buried deep in the mud.