The Lord of Ireland (The Fifth Knight Series Book 3) (19 page)

‘Yet a loyal gesture, my lord,’ said Gerald. ‘Loyal to his king.’

Theodosia nodded.

‘Indeed. Henry’s hero.’ John almost spat. ‘De Lacy’s return made things very difficult very suddenly. Complicating matters when I had everything under control.’

‘Indeed you had, my lord,’ said Gerald, keen as always for favour.

Not control.
Theodosia ached to challenge his lie.
A vicious, unnecessary conflict. Defeat.

‘Then, a gift from God.’ John threw up his hands, his good humour returned. ‘Palmer makes off with de Lacy’s strumpet of
a wife.’

Out of your reach.
Theodosia allowed herself the tiny consolation even as her unease whispered within her.

‘De Lacy, hero to his boots, has to chase after her for his
honour,’ said
John. ‘He couldn’t have moved faster if I’d chased him out with an army of ten thousand men.’ He shook his head to
himself
. ‘Marvellous. Simply marvellous.’

‘My lord, I doubt if King Henry will see it as marvellous,’ said Gerald. ‘He needs to know of this treachery by de Lacy, though it will be some time before word reaches—’

John held up a hand. ‘There will be no letters to Henry.’ He went over to his table on which a locked chest rested.

Gerald gave Theodosia a bewildered look.

Her unease grew.

‘No word to Henry until I order it.’ Pulling a small gold key from his belt pouch, John opened the chest. ‘I have far more
important
work for you and the sister now.’ He removed a rolled manuscript and opened it out to reveal its contents. ‘Far more important.’

Theodosia stared at what her half-brother held in his hands. All she
had
believed about this disastrous mission began to crumble, crumble as quickly as the stones of the Sonning chapel had the day the earth moved.

Though heavily decorated, the attempts at illustration and colour on the borders of the manuscript showed a hand with little skill. The large lettering at its centre lacked sure lines and
consisted only
of four words. But what words.

John, King of Ireland.

Even Gerald was silenced.

‘Now do you understand?’ John beamed like the vellum was made of gold and inlaid with diamonds.

‘No, my lord.’ Gerald looked genuinely perplexed.

‘Nor I, my lord.’ Theodosia forced the words out through dry lips. Not fully. But enough that a terrible realisation went through her as swiftly as poison surges through a vein.

John’s smile wavered. A little. ‘I forgive you both for your slowness. Most minds lag behind mine.’ He laid the manuscript on the
table with careful reverence. ‘This will be
included in
th
e g
reat
history that you will write for me. My acquisition of a crown. My ascension to a throne.’ He gave the clumsy work a gentle pat. ‘
I hav
e drawn this myself. It has taken me many hours.’ Another pat. ‘The throne of Ireland, just as it says.’

‘But – but Henry sent you here in his name, my lord,’ said the stunned-sounding clerk.

‘Oh, yes.’ John’s smile returned. ‘My father’s name. Under his
superior lordship. An old man, hanging
on to
everything for
himself
,
a
s o
ld men do. Henry. The Pope. But this says
otherwise.’ H
e
tapped the manuscript hard with a fingernail, the declaration of
himself
as king in the poor lettering like a crude bellow from the page. ‘Do you see, both of you?’

‘Yes, my lord,’ whispered Theodosia. She saw it all. But too late.

‘Of course, my lord, of course.’ Gerald gave a fawning bow. ‘Or should I say “your Grace”?’ His high-pitched laugh. ‘Not all men of mature years are set in their ways. I for one can see the benefits of a new path.’ He nodded hard. ‘Change. I must say, yours is a remarkable work. Such a wonderful record for posterity.’

The speed of the clerk’s self-serving capitulation had Theodosia
clenching
her fists.

‘It is, isn’t it?’ John looked at it fondly once more.

‘May I ask, my lord, how is your’ – Gerald cleared his throat – ‘ascension to the Irish throne going to come to pass?’

‘De Lacy’s delivery of the heads of the Irish brutes gave me a wonderful idea,’ replied John. ‘He defeated one Irish king, one Irish tribe. Yet there are so many others. I shall summon them all here and show them what de Lacy has done.’

‘A gathering of the Irish kings, my lord? Are you sure that’s wise?’ Gerald gave a nervous titter. ‘After Waterford, I mean.’

‘I have de Lacy’s men of Meath at my side to ensure my safety, Gerald. And my plan to bring the Irish kings here is more than wise; it is brilliant. Oh, how I will grieve at his terrible actions. Oh, how I shall proclaim he should be stopped. I will call it “the murder of your fair people”. That, by the way, would be a wonderful title for one of the chapters in my history.’ John nodded to himself as his eyes went to his manuscript again. ‘Eimear O’Connor has helped my cause too.’ He gave a long, satisfied sigh. ‘Now I can claim that even she fled from her own husband because of his slaughter of t
he Irish.’

Theodosia closed her eyes, opened them, in a long, slow blink. Her doing.

‘I shall of course agree a new treaty with the Irish kings,’ sai
d John.

‘With respect, my lord, King Henry already has a treaty in place. The one that made Rory O’Connor High King,’ said Gerald.

‘That treaty is with my father,’ said John.

And
my
father. A man who has given you so much. Yet you grasp for even more. You seek to steal a whole land from him.

John carried on. ‘The old, slow-footed English king. It has been weak and useless since the day it was agreed. The time has come for change. My treaty will be to agree a brand new settlement. I will divide up de Lacy’s lands amongst them. Land, you see – that’s what they all want. And de Lacy will be left with none of it.’ He pulled in a long breath of delight. ‘Same as Henry.’

‘My lord. I am not trying to cast gloom.’ Gerald wore his best obsequious smile. ‘But Henry has always had the greatest of difficulty getting them to hold the peace. And many times they hav
e not.’

‘That is because my father is limited, Gerald. Limited.’ John jabbed a finger at him. ‘I, however, am not. I might have lost one hostage today, thanks to that scoundrel Palmer. But I will have many, many more. I will ask the Irish for their children as part of their land deal. Same as my father has done in the past.’

Theodosia’s breath stalled. She knew what John had desired to do to Eimear as a hostage. What of these children?

‘They’ll be a messy, noisy handful, my lord.’ Gerald grimaced. ‘Are you sure you want a royal court full of Irish whelps?’

‘They won’t be a handful.’ John shook his head at his own thoughts. ‘They’ll be wonderful decoration. At least the girls will. I will adorn the walls of my castle with their little heads. I have de Lacy to thank for such wonderful inspiration.’

Theodosia clamped a hand to her mouth to stifle a cry as
Gerald gasped.

‘I will tell the Irish kings that the boys will follow unless they serve me with absolute loyalty. The howls of protest are depressingly predictable. But they will bow down to me.’ John gestured to the window, to the green below, the curve of mountain beyond. ‘Then all this land will be mine. I may be a king’s youngest son, but I will have a crown.’ He nodded. ‘John, King of Ireland.’ He brought his triumphant gaze back to Gerald and Theodosia. ‘You see? Lackland no more.’ He held a hand out to his manuscript again. ‘Now, shall we begin?’

Chapter Twenty-One

Theodosia sat at the table in John’s solar, scribing with her usual
diligence
even as she wanted to hurl herself at John and tear at h
is eyes.

The King’s son had spoken for almost two hours about the very beginning of his conquest of the country, Gerald chiming in with equally lengthy embellishments. They ordered her to pause frequently while they encouraged each other in increasingly elaborate suggestions of how events should be described. Their current debate concerned John’s clothing on the day of his arrival at the port of Waterford. If John had worn as much gold, as many jewels as he claimed, he would have been unable to stand upright.

She cared not. Her head thumped in a horrified rhythm, her heart matching it so hard that she thought it would break apart.

The children. The children of the Irish kings.
Bile rose in her throat again in her shock, her disgust, as John’s intended plans for them hung in a revolting picture before her. Plans that she had no doubt would work. She put her hand to her mouth lest she lose control. Nothing mattered now. Nothing. No lands, no wealth, no kingdoms. Nothing. Nothing, except the delivery of those so young from this hideous fate.

‘Sister, put down that I wore the emerald ring that the Pope sent to my father many years ago,’ said John, wine goblet in hand
, despite the early hour
. ‘The one that is for the King of Ireland.’

The ring Theodosia had herself seen, the one Dymphna had brought to Sonning. She bent to the manuscript again to reluctantly comply with another untruth. If only Benedict were still here. He would know what to do. But she had sent him away with Eimear. And now the murderous de Lacy pursued them. Her head pounded afresh.

‘Ah. Hold one moment, sister.’ Enthroned in a large, carved chair, Gerald bared his long teeth in a wide, indulgent smile at John. ‘King Henry keeps that under secure lock and key, my lord. We must have accuracy.’

She paused, her hand to her forehead to ease the pain that coursed through it. Her attempts to save Eimear had condemned others so much more in need of protection. She knew the agony of a child’s life being put under threat. She had to –
had to
– stop it. But, God forgive her, she did not know how.

‘But who will be lauded as the King of Ireland?’ John grinned
back
at Gerald, his face aglow with his triumph. ‘Accuracy!’

‘Of course.’ Gerald raised his hands in exaggerated delight. ‘As the Lord John says, sister.’ He glanced in her direction. ‘Are you feeling unwell?’

‘Only a headache, brother.’ The ink flowed from her quill, with her script neat, orderly, mocking the terrible disorder that raged within her. She tried to calm her upset. She had to think.

‘Good.’ Gerald already had his attention back on John. ‘We should turn to the arrival of the Irish at Waterford, should w
e n
ot?’

‘Oh, yes.’ John flung himself into a low chair opposite
Gerald
, legs dangling over the arm. ‘The men of the three Irish kings.
Imagine
if the three kings who visited the stable in Bethlehem had been as hideous in their appearance as those fellows, eh? Armed with axes to visit the Christ child?’

Theodosia finished the words about the emerald ring, gripping the quill so hard she thought it would snap in her fingers. She would not record blasphemy.

‘Oh, very good, my lord.’ Gerald gave his high-pitched laugh. ‘They were indeed a sight. I had a mortal fear of an axe shattering your royal skull.’

‘As had I. But I held my nerve.’ John exhaled a long, proud breath. ‘Sister, those words: shattering my skull. I like those. Very dramatic.’

His words jolted through her even as she nodded.
Shattering a skull.
Of course. The person to whom she should turn for help. The man she had seen murdered in precisely that brutal manner before her very eyes at Canterbury, even as he had saved her life. Saint Thomas Becket, Saint Thomas the Martyr. She began her prayer to him even as she wrote, begging him to the depths of her soul for an answer.

‘You must name whose treacherous courts they came from,’ said Gerald. ‘McCarthy of Desmond. O’Brien of Thomond. O’Connor of Connacht.’

I beseech you, my Lord Becket. Please come to the aid of the
blameless
, the innocent.

‘O’Connor.’ John scowled as he gestured for Gerald to refill his cup. ‘Sounds like a coward. With his truce with de Lacy so he wouldn’t have to fight him.’

Answer those who cry to you for your intercession.

‘I don’t think I would want to fight the scarred lord.’ Gerald shuddered. ‘I see those heads on spikes outside in my dreams. And yet he makes such a show of being a devout supporter of the Church.’

Oh, blessed, oh, merciful, Saint Thomas: hear my prayer.

‘De Lacy?’ John looked askance at Gerald.

I beseech you with humble and contrite heart: hear my prayer.

‘Oh, yes, my lord.’ Gerald nodded. ‘Difficult to countenance, but he has made extensive ecclesiastical benefices over the years, especially to the abbey in Dublin where he buried his first wife.’

I beseech you: hear my prayer.

John grunted. ‘Unexpected. The Church has enough wealth, if you ask me.’

Hear my prayer.

Gerald’s smile became more fixed. ‘De Lacy’s first wife, Rose of Monmouth, was a fine woman, by all accounts.’

Amen.

The clerk went on. ‘Her tomb at the abbey of Saint Thomas the Martyr is a fitting memorial to her.’

Theodosia’s mouth dried at his words, but she forced herself to speak. ‘Should I write of this holy abbey, my lord?’

‘No.’ John waved her question aside. ‘The hideous men. Where was I?’

‘I have written their names only,’ she said.

‘Then we will describe them. This will be good sport.’ John settled back, his good humour returned.

Theodosia waited, her hands folded in her lap so no one could see them shaking in anticipation.

Her Lord Becket had answered her as he always did. Now the rest was up to her. She had to find a way out of here.

And find Hugh de Lacy.

‘A brief stop, my lady. Nothing more.’ Palmer pushed his way through the high fronds of vivid green ferns, making for what he craved. He hunkered down on his protesting calf muscles at the edge of the shallow stream and plunged his hands into the clear water, sluicing its cooling relief over his head.

Eimear pulled her veil off to do likewise, releasing a long, twisted plait the colour of dark copper. ‘You’ll have to forgive my shameless appearance for a few minutes, Sir Benedict.’ She soaked her long hair with many handfuls.

‘How you look doesn’t matter, my lady.’ He drank mouthful after mouthful of water, with cupped hands, in grateful slurps. ‘It might be better to leave your veil off until we get to safety. White catches the eye far more easily than your hair colour in these woods.’

‘A good point.’ She bundled the veil into her leather belt pouch. ‘And I will look more like a savage.’

Palmer glanced at the gold Eimear wore on every finger and thumb. ‘You’re no savage, my lady.’

‘That is Gerald the clerk’s word for me.’ She grimaced. ‘I’d love to string him up by his sinewy neck.’

‘You and me both. If nothing else, it would be a relief to stop him talking for once.’ He took another mouthful. ‘My lady.’

Eimear laughed, the first time he’d seen her do so.

‘A better point,’ she said. ‘And I give you permission to use my name. It’s only one word, and not the two you currently address me with. Who knows when we might need that extra second?’

‘Then I’m Palmer. Two seconds gained.’

Her smile left her eyes in one alert blink. ‘Hooves. I swear it.’

She was right. Distant. With the unmistakeable rumble made by several horses. Their rhythm was too constant, too regular to come from the woods. ‘The roadway.’

Eimear stood up. ‘We should run.’ She prepared to act with her words.

Palmer halted her. ‘No. We need to see who they are.’

‘And if they’re John’s men? What good will that do?’

‘We’ll make sure they don’t see us.’

‘Then use some of this.’ Eimear bent to scoop a couple of
handfuls
of wet mud from the stream bed. Passing one to Palmer, she smeared the other over her forehead as he did likewise.

‘If it’s a group of Irishmen,’ he said, ‘we don’t want to miss this chance. Now, hurry. We haven’t much time.’

They swiftly shadowed their faces in wet mud, and Palmer led Eimear with rapid steps to a dense stand of shrubs near to the
roadway
.

The echo of the hooves grew louder. Purposeful. Relentless.

He forced his way
into
its centre, the tall nettles that clogged the ground prickling any exposed flesh with their soft leaves worse than any sharp branches or thorns.

‘They’re getting closer, Palmer.’ Eimear kept her voice low, but he heard her doubt.

‘They won’t see us in here. Not unless we show ourselves. And we don’t know who they—’

‘Normans.’ Her whisper reached his ears at the same moment he saw the dull gleam of a metal helmet through the thick leaves.

‘Then we keep absolutely still. No noise.’

‘Of course.’

A quick glance showed her melted into the shadowed, dappled green. Her hair, the mud, her darker clothing. Nothing showed. He’d be the same. Good.

The first riders drew level, men with ill-fitting mail and nervous faces at being out here. Men whom he recognised. On horses he recognised. All from Tibberaghny. John’s men. Men he, Palmer, had led. And now they hunted him.

Then, their leader. On his huge destrier: the Lord of Meath. In charge of these men of Tibberaghny. Not his own. This made n
o sense.

Eimear’s arm against Palmer’s tensed no more than a leaf quiver as his own stomach tightened.

De Lacy spoke to the men nearest him, his quiet words lost under the thump of the hooves. But even as he did so, his half-gaze went left, right, scanning every inch of the woods on either side, flattened nose up as if the man sniffed the air too.

Palmer let loose a string of silent curses even as he stayed as still as stone, heart leaping in his chest. One lucky glance, one shaft of sunlight that caught the gleam of the white of an eye: that was all de Lacy needed. He’d be on them, calling the others down on them too. He, Palmer, had one sword. He might as well have held one o
f th
e nettles for all the chance he would have. This was not supposed to happen. Not from what Theodosia had told him.

Palmer didn’t know how such a big horse seemed to move so slowly. Slowly. Until, finally, de Lacy passed from view. It mattered not. Palmer remained taut as a bowstring as the others went by in a close group. Even Simonson had been brought along, God help him. The big young man looked ready to faint, eyes darting from one spot to the next.

The thud of hooves and the jangle and clink of metal bits lessened, finally died away, and the sounds of leaves in the wind, and birds and flies and bees, claimed the day again.

Eimear turned to speak to him, but he put a finger to his lips. Waited. And waited.

Palmer pulled in a long breath. ‘They’ve gone.’

‘He didn’t see us. Thank God.’ Eimear’s muddy face beaded with sweat where it had stayed dry as she ran.

Palmer brought his focus back now that the threat had passed. ‘But I’m sure he wouldn’t harm you, my la—Eimear. If you were to be swift, you could catch de Lacy up. Tell him what John planned to do to you. He could protect you far better than I.’

‘And risk my head being atop a spike too, to keep company with the other dead Irish warriors?’ She bent to grab at a handful of dock leaves and crushed them in her hands, releasing their moisture. ‘My so-called husband is interested in one thing only: land. Who knows what deal he has struck with the Lord John?’ She rubbed her nettle-reddened hands with the leaves.

‘We don’t know.’ Palmer frowned. None of this made sense. ‘But he has John’s men. Why not his own?’

‘Hugh de Lacy makes deals and alliances every day he’s on this earth.’ Her calves were next. ‘I will only trust my life with an
Irishman
now.’ She flung the used leaves away. ‘And you. Sister
Theodosia
is lucky to have an ally like you.’

‘I’m not much of an ally to Theodosia right now.’ His anxiety for her gnawed at him more sharply than ever. ‘She’s still with John.’ He pushed his way back out through the bushes, Eimear after him. ‘I have to get her out of there.’

‘Then we make for Thomond as fast as we can,’ said Eimear. ‘Should we go back to the roadway? They’ve all gone past.’

‘
Too
risky now we know they’re on the road.’ Palmer pointed ahead. ‘The trees look clearer that way. We’ll make the best speed we can.’

Eimear cast him a frowning look. ‘Doing that will take us so much longer.’

‘Better longer than without our heads,’ said Palmer. ‘Come on.’