The Lord of Ireland (The Fifth Knight Series Book 3) (21 page)

‘Listen to your wife, man!’ Palmer fended off another strike.

‘You know my wife, do you?’

‘I haven’t touched your wife!’ And another.

‘You’re dead.’

Palmer landed a perfect heavy strike that blasted the sword from the lord’s hands. The weapon flew into the bushes in a high arc. He raised his hands, still holding his sword in one, to show he meant de Lacy no harm. ‘My lord.’

‘You’re still dead.’ His hand went to the side of the saddle Palmer couldn’t see.

‘Palmer, go!’ came Eimear’s unseen scream. ‘Now!’

She was right.

De Lacy held a mace, and murder showed in his half-face.

Palmer shoved his sword back in his scabbard, running for the
abandoned horse. He mounted in a fast scramble, shouting the
animal
into a panicked bolt. He took off through the trees.

But de Lacy was right behind him.

Chapter Twenty-Two

‘Palmer! You’re a dead man!’ De Lacy’s shout rang through the trees.

Palmer kept his head down, dodging low branches that whipped at his face and eyes, tore at his skin, as he slapped hard on the horse’s rump with one hand to keep up his speed. He
had only
one stirrup, so his balance was bad. He gripped the pommel with his free hand. If he came off now, de Lacy would get his wish.

‘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 a
n 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
ambushe
d –
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 hauled 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.