The Lord of Ireland (The Fifth Knight Series Book 3) (24 page)

Aylward exchanged looks with Gerald. ‘My lord, we don’t know that. I have been fighting in this country for many years. All sorts of feuds and battles rage all the time between the different families and their followers. Even amongst the settlers.’

‘Then you are a fool.’ John flung out an arm. ‘Use your eyes, man! If it were a bloody feud, there’d be bodies. The injured. The ravished. There is nothing except a cat. A sleeping, bloody cat!’ He saw the careful looks in many faces now. For a second, he saw himself through their eyes. Face burned by the sun.
Covered
in fly bites. Standing alone on the hot street, claiming that one nun could somehow have done all this in
only a day
. Maybe he was
losing
his mind. He swallowed down some of his rage. ‘Perhaps I shall sit in the shade. While you carry out the usual search.’

‘My lord.’ Aylward brought his men forward with a whistle.

‘I shall sit with you, my lord.’ Gerald dismounted too.

John staggered to the shade of a tall ash tree as a man took his horse, and Gerald brought him a leather bottle
containing
wine. He took a long draught of the sweetness, warm as his own blood.

‘Good to rest, my lord.’

John ignored him. The wine made his head spin even more. He palmed at his face, hating the unrelenting heat. Hating today.

Mailed figures, smashing empty hovels. The same hovels that would yield to flames as they left. On and on. Futile.

‘I’ve found someone!’ A shout from one poor cottage.

John was on his feet, wine splashing onto the dust, arriving at the low door at the same time as Aylward and Gerald.

A faint, foul stench met him. More flies.

‘Who?’ John crouched low to push his way in first, eager for someone he could question. He tripped, with an oath, on the rough cobbles of the threshold, his eyes readjusting to the dimness inside as the clerk and the serjeant followed him in.

The man already present yanked down one of the animal skins that lined the wall. Slender shafts of afternoon light found their wa
y t
hrough the hazel weave, buzzing insects as well as dust dancing in the beams. ‘This old woman. But I think she’s dead.’

A small, emaciated figure lay on one of the two straw beds set against opposite walls.

Aylward put a hand on her, much to John’s disgust. ‘She is.’

‘God rest her soul.’ Gerald crossed himself.

‘What killed her?’ John fought the urge to flee, the spectre of plague haunting him once more.

‘I’d guess a wasting disease,’ said Aylward. ‘She has no flesh on her at all.’ He crossed himself quickly. ‘She’s not long dead. Her body is still stiff.’

John frowned. ‘Then she
has been
dead for about a day?’

‘Yes, my lord. I would think so.’ Aylward stood up. ‘
Unfortunate
. She might have been able to tell us what happened here.’

The man who’d found her nodded. ‘We’d have got it out o
f her.’

‘Maybe she still can.’ John pushed past him, landing on his knees on the
wicker-covered
floor beside the bed. His stomach turned over at the stronger stench of death and of flesh that had decayed even while this hag still lived. It had to be done. He ripped the veil that surrounded the woman’s thin, toothless face with her spike of a nose.

‘My lord.’ Aylward’s voice sounded disturbed and he saw
Gerald’s
shocked face out of the corner of his eye.

‘I thought you had the stomachs of men.’ John searched through her sparse, grey hair in a moment. Nothing there. He put his hand to the thin, rough wool of her tunic. And pulled. Hard.

‘My lord.’ This time Gerald’s hand was on his arm, daring to pull him off.

John shoved him away. ‘Look, damn you. Look.’

And there it was. His proof. A
deep
red stain bloomed on the darned greyish linen of the woman’s shift.

Gerald moaned in terror, brought his hands to his head. ‘They have slain this defenceless wretch.’

‘Lest you still doubt me.’ John put his hand to her shift.

‘My lord, I do not. Spare her her modesty. Please.’

John ignored Aylward, tore
that
garment open too, his rage now mounting anew within him. He stared at the neat wound, a
handspan
below where a crude, wooden cross hung around the woman’s neck.

‘Oh, may God help us now.’ Gerald wailed afresh. ‘If the Irish can slay an old dying woman, then we can all end up martyred in this terrible country. Martyred like Saint Thomas Becket himself!’

Now John knew. Knew what he had to do. ‘You thought I was sun-maddened,’ he hissed at Aylward, before clambering back
outside
through the low doorway.

‘A blade has pierced this woman’s heart!’

Frowns and a rumble of surprise met John’s words.

Aylward, Gerald and the soldier emerged, eyes downcast.

John went on. ‘Someone made sure she couldn’t talk. Which means someone knew that there would be people arriving who might want her to.’ He clenched his fist. ‘Us.’ He clenched it harder. ‘Me.’ Harder. ‘I have no doubt it is the spy. I have no doubt that this woman, Theodosia, has woven this web of deceit, which allows her to command these villages of traitors. Which has made for so many losses on this campaign.’

The surprise shifted to aggression.

‘But this place will be burned too. The houses, the fields. All of it. And the next. And the next. Anywhere that is loyal to an Irish king. I will carve a burning path all the way to Dublin if I have to. No mercy for anyone who gets in its way.’

A great roar went up.

‘Once at Dublin, the greatest of resources in the whole of this land will be devoted to making sure that this spy of the Church, this Sister Theodosia, is hunted down and killed. Along with every treacherous knave who has dared to act with her and defy me, the Lord of Ireland!’

The cheers rose up at the same moment as the flames.

He grabbed one of the torches and flung it in the door of the hovel where the corpse of the woman lay. Such a shame she wasn’t still alive. Death by fire was a wonderful spectacle.

Palmer arrived beside de Lacy, the horse beneath him and
Theodosia
breathing hard from the quickened climb and from bearing its
double
load.

‘Smoke.’ De Lacy’s mouth set in a hard line. ‘And lots of it.’

‘So much smoke,’ whispered Simonson as he clung to Nagle.

‘Oh, those poor people.’ Theodosia put a hand to her mouth.

‘What’s happening?’ Eimear kicked her horse up the last stretch.

‘See for yourself.’ Palmer shook his head. ‘John’s handiwork.’

Spread out below them, the land in its many shades of green and gold sat hazed in the heat of the afternoon sun. But smoke thickened the haze in many places. In so many, many places.

‘The whoreson.’ Eimear ground out the word.

‘I could think of a few more words for him,’ said Palmer.

‘But are you sure it is John, Benedict?’ Theodosia turned to challenge him with her gaze even as her voice came hoarse. ‘Could it not be something else?’

‘Oh, it’s him, Theodosia.’ Eimear’s disgusted reply came over his. ‘You can see it from up here. A line of death and destruction, leading from Tibberaghny.’

‘Because of me,’ came Theodosia’s low, angry whisper.

Palmer wouldn’t allow it. ‘No, Theodosia.’ The horse jigged beneath them at his sharp response. ‘Because of John. All of it, because of him. You can’t forget that.’

Even as he spoke, a fresh plume rose up in the distance, thin, strong. New.

She went to reply. But no words came out as she slumped
forward
.

Heart thudding, Palmer halted her fall with his arm. ‘De Lacy.’

The lord was off his animal, holding the unconscious Theodosia as Palmer’s boots met the ground, his own legs weak now. It would be a faint, a faint. That’s all.

‘I’ve got her.’ He pulled Theodosia to him and off their mount, laying her gently on the hot, hard ground, cradling her head and shoulders in one bent arm. God smiled on him – she still breathed. ‘Open your eyes, my love,’ he murmured. ‘Come on.’

Eimear joined him with a stifled oath.

‘We’ll stop for a rest here while Sister Theodosia recovers,’ said de Lacy to Nagle and Simonson. ‘Make sure you tether your horse.’

‘What ails her?’ Eimear’s dark gaze met Palmer’s, her face with its healthy glow a sharp contrast to Theodosia’s flushed one.

‘Too much.’ He tightened his grip on her. His Theodosia. His brave, brave Theodosia.
All I want is her.
His words to Henry, as true now as all those years ago. He swallowed down the sudden knot of tears that rose in his throat as he put a palm to her cheek, her forehead. Dry, despite the heat.

‘By which you mean?’ came Eimear’s question.

‘She’s exhausted. Her escape from
yesterday. Little sleep
. These long, hot hours in the saddle. Too much.’

Palmer saw the realisation in Eimear’s eyes even as he heard the crackle of movement in the gorse, saw de Lacy’s head turn too, Nagle and Simonson stop their tired stretching dead.

A band of Irish warriors rose from the thick bushes, axes in hand, surrounding them completely. He’d seen them before, he would swear to it. Then his eyes lit on the huge axe-wielding man he’d so narrowly fought off in the woods near Ardfinnan.

Palmer clutched Theodosia, his hand going for his sword. Now he prayed she didn’t open her eyes. Best she didn’t know the end.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Theodosia’s head hurt. Not so much hurt, as pounded. Lying on this bed gave her no relief, only discomfort, its hard lumps and bumps pushing into her back. She forced her eyes open, her lids sticky and heavy. All she could see were green spiked leaves, yellow flowers. Specks of blue through them. Her palms found hard ground. Not a bed. She forced herself upright, her recall of what had happened restored. She should be on a horse with Benedict. Not falling from it in weakness and delaying their progress.

‘Easy, easy.’ Benedict sat next to her, sheltered in the shade of tall gorse bushes. ‘Thank the saints you’ve come round.’ He put a hand to her shoulder. ‘Don’t try to do anything. Just drink.’ He brought a leather water pouch to her lips.

‘We have little water.’ She remembered that. Remembered the tormenting thirst. Her exhaustion. The unaccustomed heat she had not been able to bear.

‘No, we have plenty. Thanks to them.’

Theodosia followed the direction of his nod. She pulled in a deep breath of fear.

A group of around a dozen Irish warriors stood with de Lacy. With Eimear. With the wary-looking Nagle and a petrified-looking Simonson.

She tried to scramble to her feet. ‘We have to run! We have to
g
o—’

‘Easy, I said.’ Benedict kept his hold on her. ‘They haven’t come to do us harm. Now drink.’

Despite her whirling head, she took a grateful mouthful. ‘Then why are they here?’ And another and another.

‘They tracked us down using the news that is being spread. That Eimear started.’

‘News of murder, of death?’ Her head cleared. She braced for his reply.

‘No.’ His dark eyes shone with quiet pride. ‘Settlements are being burned, destroyed. But John’s men have not found an Irish life to take yet.’

‘Then the fires we saw, they
were
John’s doing.’ She looked at him with a fierce hope
that
she had not misunderstood. ‘Yet he has not managed to kill?’

‘No. Not that these men have heard.’ Benedict shook his head. ‘He’s very angry, it would seem, with the spy that he had in his midst. Getting angrier by the hour as he travels farther from here. From you.’

‘Oh, God be praised.’ Relief surged through her, bringing her to greater strength as she drank again.

He flashed her a grin. ‘God has my thanks that the little swine is angry too.’

She smacked him on the shoulder. ‘You know precisely what I
m
eant.’

‘Of course I do. It’s the best news you could have had.’ He caressed her cheek. ‘I saw your despair, though you were shouldering blame for things that were not your fault.’

‘I acted rashly.’

‘Foolhardy?’ His dark eyes had a tease now.

‘If you insist, sir knight,’ she teased back.

He offered her another drink, but she shook her head. ‘I am feeling much better.’ She stood up, the last of her dizziness clearing.

Benedict continued. ‘The Almighty also has my thanks that he puts more miles between you and John by the hour.’ His face became the serious mask she dreaded. ‘Because there’s been a change of plan.’

‘What change?’

‘You and Eimear are to travel to the seat of the nearest
Archbishop
. It’s at Cashel, a place called Saint Patrick’s Rock. You will be able to seek sanctuary there. It’s a lot closer than the court of the king of Thomond. Nagle and a couple of the Irish warriors will go with you to keep you both safe on the journey.’

Her mouth dried again, but not from thirst this time. ‘You?’

‘Theodosia, I’m going after John. And de Lacy is coming wi
th me.’

Palmer stretched his aching back as much
as
he could in the confines of his saddle. He already had his fair share of bruises and cuts from fighting for the Lord John. Getting knocked off his horse as de Lacy chased him had only added to them. As always, the battle aches got worse as he came to the end of the day. The
sun beginning to sink towards
the dense canopy of the thick forest should be a sign that he could slide his weary body from the saddle and lie in welcome rest.

There’d be no rest tonight. No rest any night, until he had his hands on John.

I’m going after John.
Palmer had said those words so easily to Theodosia, knowing in his heart it was going to be far more difficu
lt t
o make happen. First, they had to find the man. Then they’d have to wrest him from de Lacy’s trained force.

He looked ahead to where his own unlikely fighters rode.

The men of Thomond used no saddles on their horses, had no stirrups. But then they wore no mail either. Not even boots on the
ir feet.

If he didn’t know better, he’d say that they wouldn’t stand a chance against the armour that he and de Lacy wore.

Simonson too, wobbling without a saddle on the small, sturdy horse given to him by the Irish. As if sensing Palmer’s attentio
n on him, he looked back, clutching his mount’s mane f
or balance.

‘Are we really going to try to arrest the Lord John, Palmer?’ Simonson’s eyes were wider than a player in a mystery play beholding the wrath of a vengeful God. ‘Us?’

‘Yes, Simonson.’ Palmer caught the grin of the huge warrior, Uinseann, to his fellow warriors.

He said something to them in his own tongue, and they
bellowed
with laughter.

Simonson’s look shifted to wary. Worried. Again.

Palmer shook his head at Uinseann. ‘I need as much heart in this fight as I can.’

Uinseann made a massive fist and flexed a powerful arm. ‘This is all the heart I need.’ He leaned over to slap Simonson hard on his podgy back, almost sending the young man from his unstable perch. ‘You need some muscle, lad. That’s what works.’ He slapped him again. Harder.

The air huffed from Simonson as Uinseann’s friends roared their approval.

‘Like at the riverbank near Ardfinnan, Uinseann.’ Palmer gave him a sage nod. ‘Worked for you then, did it?’

Uinseann snorted hard. ‘It would have if I’d found you.’

‘But you didn’t,’ said Palmer. ‘You see, Simonson? Uinseann might have hands the size of shovels. Still couldn’t find his backside with both of them.’ He winked at the younger man.

He got a ghost of a smile back as Uinseann’s friends guffawed, the warrior taking a swipe at Palmer with a good-humoured oath.

‘Come on, lads.’ The big warrior brought his horse in beside Simonson, gesturing to his friends to draw near too. ‘Now, let me tell you a few things about fighting. First, don’t piss yourself. That’s always a good start.’

‘Says the man with the wettest trousers in Munster.’

More laughs, hoots.

Palmer
left
them to it. He had no mind for sport. Sending
Theodosia
on her way had pained him deep in his heart, with her increasingly angry, desperate pleas to stay with him. For him not to go, that he’d had to refuse over and over. Eimear had helped,
holding
his side of the argument: now that the men of Thomond had joined them, they had to go after John. No Irish lives had been lost so far. But the fires showed the depths of John’s rage. He had to be stopped before he succeeded in murder.

Theodosia had clung to him with a fierce strength in their last embrace, and he had been the one to break it, with his promise that he’d be back by her side soon. He pulled in a deep, long breath. And he would. Once he’d dealt with John. But first, he had to deal with de Lacy.

He glanced back. The lord rode alone at the rear of the group.

Palmer dropped back to move alongside him. ‘I’ve got a question for you, de Lacy.’

‘If it’s about tracking John, then you need to ask Uinseann.’ D
e La
cy faced ahead, wouldn’t meet Palmer’s stare. ‘John’s trail of fire is a lot harder to follow now that we’re on lower ground.’

‘No,’ said Palmer. ‘It’s a question I’ve been waiting to ask for a
while.’

‘Then ask away.’ De Lacy still looked ahead.

‘You killed that old woman. Didn’t you?’

‘I did not expect the seat of an archbishop to look like this,’ said Theodosia. Despite her grief at being parted from Benedict and her overwhelming, sickening dread at what might happen to him in his pursuit of John, she looked in wonder at what lay ahead as the tired horse she and Eimear shared plodded on.

Eimear nodded. ‘The Rock of Cashel. A marvel of our land.’

‘A sight I’ve never tired of, my lady,’ added Nagle, close behind.

All around, the land
lay
in low, undulating green curves, with the only mountains blue in the distance against the clear sky. Yet right in the middle of the gentle vale sat a huge craggy outcrop. Atop it, a group of stone buildings that soared even higher into the sky, with a rounded tower the tallest of all, spearing the evening light with its pointed tip.

‘Now I see why you made the decision to come here,’ said
Theodosia
. ‘I did not expect a cathedral that looks like a fortress.’

‘It wasn’t always in the hands of the Church,’ said Eimear. ‘It was the
ancient
seat of the Irish kings of Munster. One of them gave it to the Church almost a hundred years ago. He called it a gift to God’s Church that no king had ever given before him.’

‘I very much doubt if any king has given one like it since.’

‘Certainly not either of our fathers.’ Eimear gave Theodosia one of her rare smiles. ‘But thanks to the generosity of King
Murtagh
O’Brien, we have a place where we can claim the sanctuary of th
e Church.’

As if in response to her words, a bell rang out from the tower on the Rock, calling the monks to prayer.

Theodosia took some comfort from the familiar sound. They would be safe there in God’s protection. She would implore her God, day and night in this holy place, for Benedict’s safe return.

The magnificence of the sight before her did not diminish as they neared it. She could make out several different buildings, many of the type typical of religious houses. Most were built of grey stone and located at the lower levels. At the height of the Rock, the most spectacular, where every building spoke of design and craftsmanship that strove to bring man closer to the heavens and to God.

A church that must be the cathedral, simple in form, with no transepts or tower, but of considerable size. A smaller, more elaborate chapel with two towers and a steeply pitched roof of pale
yellow
stone that shone almost gold in the
late
evening sun. Between
cathedral
and chapel, what she supposed to be the Archbishop’s
Palace
.
Highest
of all, the Round Tower with its pointed roof.

As they approached the gate set into the high surrounding walls, Eimear halted their animal to speak in her own language to the two silent but alert warriors who’d accompanied them here.

Nods and bows greeted her words.

‘I’ve given them the thanks of the High King’s daughter. We’re safe now, so they can leave.’ She nodded to Nagle. ‘You need to go as well. You can all do more good elsewhere.’

Do more good – that would mean the fight against John.

‘As you have already done,’ said Theodosia to Nagle. ‘I thank you from the bottom of my heart.’

‘God be with you both.’ Nagle set off to catch up with the departing warriors as the gates of Cashel opened.

Theodosia gave silent thanks for their safe arrival. But her worry for Benedict surged back afresh.