The Lord of Ireland (The Fifth Knight Series Book 3) (32 page)

Hurrying back around the corner, she estimated the height of the three windows that were set into the west wall. She could get up there. She had to. Had to climb.

She yanked
her veil from her head,
then
used the sharp hatchet blade to tear off most of
her
long, soaked wool skirt.

She took the few steps to one of the tall gravestones set into the earth and uncoiled some of the rope. Once she had looped it around the cold, wet stone twice, she secured it in a few swift twists. Then she returned to the wall below the window, playing the cord out and praying hard that it was long enough. Prayed harder she could do this without being seen.

One prayer was answered: it looked like she had enough length.

Sticking the hatchet into her belt, Theodosia put a hand to the rough wet stone of the chapel’s wall and pulled herself up with
fingers
, toes. Most of her weight hung from her arms, arms that no longer had the full strength of youth. She didn’t care. She let her rage carry her, up three feet, four, five, more, more until her hands grasped at the carved arch that surrounded the right-hand window.

Hanging on with one hand, one arm, almost had her fall. She tightened her grip, uncaring of the scream of tendons in her
shoulder
and of her leg muscles that shook with effort.

Her free fingers sought the hatchet. Found it. Brought it up in a heavy arc. And smashed it through the window.

Cries of fear met the bang and the shower of broken glass.

Theodosia put her face to the gap. ‘Brothers, fear not. It’s Sister Theodosia.’

‘Blessings to you, sister, blessings.’ The Archbishop’s quavering voice sounded. ‘You see, brothers?’ She heard it steady and lift in delight. ‘God does answer our prayers.’

‘Please stand away if you are able. I’m knocking out as much of the window as I can.’

Another blow, more glass and a muted chorus of rejoicing.

She thrust the hatchet back in her belt, then hauled herself to the sill with both hands, pausing to steady her balance as she loo
ked down.

Where earlier the only other faces in the chapel had been those on the carved stone heads that gazed down from the ceiling, now so many live ones looked back at her, suffused with fear and jammed in tightly behind where O’Heney stood. She could make out
Eimear’s
too. She lay at the altar amongst the piles of the Archbishop’s manuscripts, her leg at a terrible angle as she lifted a hand in triumph to Theodosia.

Theodosia raised her voice as much as she dared to call again. ‘Hurry. I have a rope to help you climb out.’ She dropped it down, its coils opening to end a couple of feet from the floor. That didn’t matter: it would suffice. ‘But let me come in first.’

‘Stay out, sister,’ called the Archbishop. ‘We will be with you shortly.’

‘I am coming to get my friend.’ Theodosia climbed in over the sill, her linen underskirts tearing on shards of glass and twisted lead. She grasped at the rope to lower herself into the chapel, hand over hand, landing to clasp the Archbishop’s outstretc
hed one.

‘God has sent you this day, sister.’ His soft eyes filled with
gratitude
.

‘Get your brothers out.’ She thrust the rope to a strongly built monk. ‘You will assist?’

He nodded, taking it from her as O’Heney clapped his hands. ‘We have the sacred gift of life, brothers. Take it and run once you are out.’

‘You first, Archbishop.’

O’Heney drew breath to protest, but his fellow monks swept him along with them to clamber to freedom.

Theodosia moved past them to kneel at Eimear’s side.

‘Theodosia.’ The sweat of pain beaded her forehead yet she managed a smile. ‘You got away from Gerald.’

‘He was on our side,’ said Theodosia. ‘He did what he could.’ She drew breath to tell Eimear how she planned to get her out of the chapel, but an urgent sound cut across her.

Bells.

Not a call to prayer. Nothing so orderly.

This was a clamouring jangle. And it came from the Round Tower.

John dropped the reliquary he held, and a fine carved image of the Virgin on its ivory lid snapped off.

The bells, right above his head, had started with no warning, clanging so loudly they could be right inside it, throbbing,
vibrating
.

He swore long and hard. A small fortune had fallen
from
his hands. He went to the ladder. ‘Wait till I get my hands on the fool that is doing this.’

One of the other men stood up, raising his voice over the din. ‘I’ll do it, my lord.’

‘No, I want to speak to the oaf personally.’ John was already climbing down. ‘Get a move on. I want everything in here in my palace, with all haste.’

He descended, ladder after ladder, the echoing chorus above him still continuing.

As he arrived at the last, his stomach contracted. One of his own soldiers lay on the floor, clearly dying from the gaping axe wound in his chest, his hand threaded through the rope as he pulled and pulled on it with his last strength.

But it was the man’s words that sent a deeper chill still
throug
h him.

‘My lord, the Irish are here.’

Theodosia squeezed Eimear’s hand as the last of the monks climbed the rope, leaving only the hefty man that
had
helped to speed escape.

He waved a meaty hand at Theodosia. ‘I will have you out in minutes, good ladies.’ He hurried over.

‘The brother here can lift you, Eimear,’ she said. ‘We will tie the rope around you and pull you out. But it will hurt. I am sorry.’

‘It hurts like the devil already.’ Eimear’s brow creased, but she forced a smile. ‘Can’t be much worse than that.’ She looked up at the monk. ‘Do it.’

The monk hunkered down.

Eimear’s grip tightened on Theodosia as the man got an arm under her back. ‘Sweet God.’

‘It will be over soon.’ Theodosia held fast.

The clamour of the bells in the tower stopped abruptly.

‘The Lord John!’ A panicked whisper from the high window. Another monk’s stricken face showed through it. ‘He’s on his way over here.’

The monk froze. Theodosia too.

‘Go,’ said Eimear. ‘Both of you.’

‘I am not leaving you,’ said Theodosia.

‘Nor I.’ The monk released his hold on Eimear. He stood up to grab a heavy metal candlestick.

‘Take this instead.’ Theodosia pulled the hatchet from her belt and handed it
to
him.

He made the door in fast strides.

‘Brother, go.’ Eimear’s words bounced off his broad back. She ground out an oath. ‘Theodosia.’ Eimear pulled her hand away. ‘Have sense. Even if you did get me out, I can’t run.’

‘No.’

A noise came at the door, of someone slamming at locks, bolts.

The monk squared his footing. Raised the hatchet.

The door burst open.

The Lord of Ireland stood there, lit torch in one hand, sword in the other. ‘Prepare for—’

The monk came at him with the hatchet even as John’s furious face changed in shock. But his sword was a blur.

‘No!’ Theodosia stifled her cry as the monk fell back, his
throat
carved open and the hatchet dropping from his hand.

John’s gaze went to her. ‘You?’ His scream of rage echoed to the roof of the chapel.

‘One motherless child is enough,’ gabbled Eimear, with a shove to Theodosia. ‘Go! Now!’

Theodosia scrambled to her feet as John ran at her. She made for the window, hurled herself at the rope, climbing with speed that only terror could give her.

‘You!’ He slashed at her with his blade, his torch. Missed.
‘You!’

She was on the sill, barely out of his range as he swiped again and again. She went to clamber farther from his reach. Could not. Her skirt tangled on a sharp piece of broken lead. She pulled, tugged. Still stuck. But he couldn’t get at her.

John spat an oath, backing away from the window to turn to a white-faced Eimear.

‘Theodosia, go!’ she screamed.

With a desperate wrench, Theodosia got her skirt free. But she would not turn her back on her friend at the moment of death.

John stood over Eimear, his stained sword raised. ‘You could try to beg for clemency.’

She did not flinch from his wicked blade, stared him right in the eye. ‘I am the daughter of the King of Connacht. I will beg for nothing from you.
Stripling.
’

‘Well, perhaps you should have.’ His voice came tight in rage. ‘The sword would have been more merciful.’ He stepped past her. Thrust his torch into the pile of manuscripts. ‘Than this.’

Theodosia screamed as the flames
sprang
up.

John looked up at her. Smiled. ‘I haven’t forgotten you.’

Theodosia didn’t bother with the rope. She
leapt
for the black, rain-drenched air.

And the ground came up to meet her.

With the driving rain hard in his face, Palmer slid down from the high wall that edged the rock, cursing his slowness. The Irish had swarmed up the ridges of the Rock, then up and over the wall,
leaving
him and de Lacy clambering in their wake.

Yells and screams from the darkness and the movement of
shadows
told him the fight had begun.

He scanned the buildings on the Rock, breathing hard, leg and arm muscles jumping. ‘What were those bells for, de Lacy? Some kind of warning?’

‘Don’t know and it doesn’t matter.’ De Lacy’s breath came short too. He pointed to one of the large stone structures, light glowing from inside. ‘The palace. The door’s round the oth
er side.’

‘Let’s go.’ Palmer set off at a run, sword in hand, de Lacy matching him. A few more strides and he would face John. He couldn’t wait. He’d end this.

As he rounded the side of the building, Palmer looked for the chapel where Gerald had said Theodosia had gone. His heart
stuttered
in his chest.

The glow of fire. The billow of smoke into the sheets of rain. ‘De Lacy!’

‘I’m here.’

Palmer took off towards it, de Lacy with him.

He could hear female screams from inside as he made the closed entrance of the burning building. This couldn’t be. He’d already almost lost Theodosia to the agony of flames once. It couldn’t be her fate now.

He belted the stout planks of the high door with his sword as de Lacy struck at the handle.

It held firm to more screams from inside.

‘Again,’ shouted de Lacy. ‘Harder!’

Nothing.

‘And again.’

One plank split.

Another scream. ‘Somebody! Please!’

‘This is too slow.’ Palmer yanked at de Lacy’s arm. ‘With m
e. Now.’

De Lacy nodded his understanding.

They ran a couple of yards back. Then turned, charged at the door with the full weight of their swords, their bodies, their
panicked
strength.

The split plank gave, opening a panel through which smoke and heat and sparks roiled out.

Palmer flung an arm up to shield his face. ‘Theodosia!’ He kicked out another panel.