The Lord of Ireland (The Fifth Knight Series Book 3) (30 page)

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 t
o 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
som
e 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 Go
d.’ T
he quiet of the pale stone with its intricately carved pillars and th
e 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 thin
k my reason almost left me.’ She led the way into the staircase with rapid steps.

With the door closed tight behind them, they mounted the winding stone treads, Eimear holding the candle high in a hand that still shook.

They stepped into the croft.

The
steeply pitched
stone ceiling arched high above, and a few windows set into it at a lower level gave some air, but only the smallest smudge of faint grey light.

‘Plenty of room for us here. And dust.’ Eimear sneezed hard.

‘Dust that lies undisturbed.’ Theodosia allowed herself a small smile of triumph. ‘Which means people rarely come up here.’

‘That suits our purpose.’ Eimear placed the candle on a stone beam as her gaze roved over every corner. She sneezed again.

‘Hush,’ said Theodosia. ‘We need to stay quiet.’

‘I know.’ Eimear scrubbed at her nose with the back of her hand. ‘Sorry.’

‘Hush.’

‘I said I was—’

‘Hush!’ Theodosia listened out. Her stomach dropped. The tread of metal boots on stone. Eimear’s face told her she heard i
t too.

‘It’s from outside.’ Heart fast again, Theodosia ran across to one of the windows, her wet shoes and skirt sending clouds of powdery stone silt into the air.

‘You’re leaving tracks!’ came Eimear’s furious hiss.

Theodosia cared not. She reached the window and gestured for Eimear. ‘Quick.’

Eimear joined her, stifling another sneeze.

A group of a dozen mailed soldiers made their way to the cathedral, following in the footsteps of the monks who had walked there a short while before.

‘Why are
armed
soldiers going to Compline?’ whispered
Theodosia
, meeting Eimear’s equally mystified expression.

‘Those are John’s men.’ Eimear gave Theodosia’s hand a brief, hard squeeze. ‘I am very glad we didn’t try to hide in the cathedral.’

The door of the cathedral opened to allow the men’s admittance, the spilled light bringing a brief gleam to their mail. It closed behind them, and quiet returned once more.

Eimear pulled in a deep breath of relief. ‘Who cares why they’re going? It keeps them away from us.’

Relief Theodosia did not share. ‘Armed men at a cathedral’s door.’ She licked some of the powdery dust from her dried lips. ‘Same as there were on the night of Becket’s murder.’

‘But John’s not with them. Nor Gerald. Neither is there any disturbance.’

‘John is plotting something, Eimear. I know it. Why else is h
e here?’

‘My guess would be that Hugh and Benedict caught up with him and his men. John will have run away, bringing this small group with him.’ She snorted. ‘We know he’s good at fleeing.’

‘No.’ Theodosia frowned to herself as she stared at the dark outline of the huge cathedral. ‘If that were so, Benedict would have been close behind him. None of this is right. None of it.’

‘If all is quiet, that’s good enough for me.’ Eimear glanced over her shoulder. ‘What I need to do is smooth out our footprints. They could easily give us away if anyone comes up here.’ Eimear pulled off her cloak. ‘This will have to do to sweep over it.’

Theodosia remained
at
the window, unable to shake her deep sense of foreboding.

Eimear sneezed yet again as she set about her task. ‘I swear this stuff has been here since the time of King Cormac himself.’

‘I would think so.’ Theodosia did not move her gaze from the closed cathedral.

‘It looks undisturbed again.’ Eimear came back to her side and gestured to the still night. ‘You see? No disaster, no—’

As if in reaction to her words, the door of the cathedral opened again. Opened to reveal John’s men, swords drawn this time, lit torches in hand as they flanked a line of cowering monks.

‘Oh, dear God.’ Theodosia put a hand to her mouth as Eimear gasped in horror.

‘Keep moving!’ The shout from one of the guards echoed out.

Hemmed in as they were, the monks could only comply in a rapid shuffle.

‘They cannot hurt them.’ Theodosia’s words came low, fierce as she turned to Eimear. ‘They cannot.’

‘Theodosia.’ Eimear’s whisper. Her point with a trembling
finger
. ‘Look!’

Theodosia did. Now she feared she had entered a door to hell.

Exiting the palace was John, the Archbishop firm in his grasp, his sword drawn. His bloodstained sword. An ashen-faced Gerald followed.

‘Get a move on!’ The arrogant, bullying tone she knew so well.

‘I pray, slow down, my lord.’ The little Archbishop stumbled hard. ‘My eyes. In this light.’

John ignored him, brought him to the head of the column, where he paused to address the holy inhabitants of
St Patrick
’
s
Rock. ‘You will come to no harm if you do as you are ordered.
I want
you all in the chapel!’

The chapel.
Theodosia grasped Eimear’s arm. ‘We have to go.’

‘No,’ came Eimear’s equally firm response. ‘Think,
Theodosia
. John is putting the men of Cashel into the chapel downstairs.
I wo
uld like to kill him with my bare hands for how roughly they are being treated, and I pray I’ll get the chance. What’s more, those bloodstains on his sword concern me greatly. But for now, this is where we should stay. This is the last place anyone will look.’

The monks had set off again, orderly as before but with shocked uncertainty on the torchlit face of every holy man.

Eimear went on. ‘Not only are we safe,
but
we may be able to help. We’re invisible to John, remember?’

Her words made sense. ‘A great advantage.’ Theodosia dropped her hand.

‘The best we have at this moment. So we stay put.’ Eimear caught back a stifled sneeze. ‘Oh, God rot this dust. I swear I shall stay quiet.’

Another shout from outside. ‘You’ll stay in there until I command otherwise!’

A terrible realisation came to Theodosia. ‘What you said. Just now. God be merciful, I think I know what John is planning.’ She met her friend’s frown.

‘How—’

‘The dust: you said it was here
from
the time of King Cormac.’

‘
Dust?
Have you lost your reason?’

‘Listen. John wants to be King of Ireland. But we have foiled his ambition. Yet Cashel is the
ancient seat of the
Irish kings. You told me so.
Before one of them
gave it to the Church.’
Theodosia’s
fists clenched. ‘I think John wants to strike back at being so thwarted. And I fear to the depths of my soul what that means for the
Archbishop
.’

Eimear stared at her. ‘Theodosia, my hope is you’ve gone mad. But I don’t think you have. We need to try
to
get help.’ She glanced out
of
the window. ‘They’re almost here.’

‘Come on.’

Dust bloomed again in the air as they ran to the stairwell.

Theodosia led the way down the tight spirals of the steep stone staircase as fast as she dared, pausing when she reached the bottom. She opened the door a crack. ‘The chapel’s still empty,’ she whispered. ‘Quick.’

They made for the door through which they’d entered, swift, silent, as noises came at the north door.

Theodosia turned the metal handle with careful, sweated hands, anxious that she should make no sound.

‘Hurry, Theodosia.’ Eimear’s anxious
whisper
. ‘They’re on their way—’ She cut off to stifle another sneeze.

‘Out. Before you do another.’ The door swung open soundlessly in Theodosia’s hands, and they slipped through.

Easing it shut behind
them, they
stepped
outside
, breathing hard.

Rough, uncouth commands floated on the rain-spattered
nigh
t air.

‘Where should we go?’
said Eimear, her voice low
.

‘We stay where we are for now,’ replied Theodosia. ‘There are too many eyes that could see us. We should be sufficiently
concealed
—’ Theodosia froze.

Voices raised in argument. John. Gerald. She crept as close to the corner as she dared.

‘You can have your manuscripts, Archbishop. It’ll help you to pass the time.’ John gave the bewildered-looking little man a wave as his soldiers slammed and locked the door of Cormac’s Chapel.

He hunched his cloak tighter. This rain went through him on this filthy night. He went to set off for the warmth of the palace but was halted by a hand on his arm. ‘Oh, what is it now, Gerald?’

The clerk wore one of his haunted looks. ‘My lord, may I make, with the utmost respect, a suggestion?’ He quivered hard.

‘Go on.’ John knew what was coming, though he was surprised that Gerald dared to say anything.

Only a short while ago in the palace, the clerk had thrown up in shock when John had run the young Brother Fintan through with his sword. John had explained the problem, that Fintan had threatened to prevent him from taking the
Archbishop
prisoner. That simply could not be allowed. Hence, the running through.

Gerald and the Archbishop had failed to grasp the simplicity of the argument.

Now here the clerk was again. ‘My suggestion, my respectful and humble suggestion, is that you do not imprison the Archbishop of Cashel in one of his own chapels.’

‘It won’t be for long, Gerald.’

‘That is good news, my lord.’

John went on. ‘It won’t be for long because he and the other monks are being held while I find every last item of value that this site holds. It may be that some treasures are hidden, and therefore I will require the help and assistance of those men in the chapel.’

The clerk’s face and entire body sagged in relief, and he passed his unsplinted arm over his sweated brow.

John held in his smile. ‘Once the looting is complete, I am going to burn the chapel to the ground, and those locked in the chapel will be the seat of the fire.’

A terrible moment passed where John thought the clerk was going to spew again. But the old fool rallied.

‘My lord, as a man of God, I am appalled, appalled by the killing of Brother Fintan, a young holy man in God’s house, and your plan to kill more.’ He flung a hand towards the chapel. ‘You would murder the Archbishop of Cashel? Another murder like that of Saint Thomas Becket?’

John tensed at this outrageous challenge to his authority. He was tempted to lock the clerk in there with the rest of them. But he needed Gerald’s skills at recording. ‘Gerald, I’m sick and tired of you and your drivel. Leave this place if you want. Go out amongst the Irish that you’re so afraid of. I’m sure they’ll welcome you with open arms. And axes. I’m going back to the comfort of the palace. My palace.’

He set off, then paused. ‘You should know, Gerald, that it was your harping on about Becket that gave me the inspiration for this. My thanks to you.’

A ridiculous keening broke from the clerk as John went on h
is way.

Then he rolled his eyes to himself.

It sounded like the clerk was being sick again.