The Lord of Ireland (The Fifth Knight Series Book 3) (33 page)

‘Palmer!’ It wasn’t her.

‘Eimear?’ De Lacy booted out another panel.

‘Theodosia’s gone! John’s after her!’

God alive.
His terror at her words gave Palmer extra strength. He finished off the half of the door with another kick.

De Lacy looked at him as the heat pounded out. ‘Go for
Theodosia
.’

Another scream.

Palmer couldn’t. He shook his head. ‘Not yet.’

With a nod, de Lacy yelled in through the ruined entrance. ‘Eimear, the door’s open! Just run through. If the flames catch, it’ll only be for seconds.’

‘We’ll put them out,’ shouted Palmer. ‘Run!’

‘I can’t!’

‘Eimear, you must try.’ De Lacy leaned in closer, put a hand up to shield his own flesh, his scars looking new again in the roar and crackle of the flames. ‘Think of our son.’

‘I can’t.’ Her voice came clear, calm. ‘My knee’s broken, Hugh.’ Steady. ‘Throw me a knife or a sword. I’d rather go that way.’

De Lacy took a step over the remains of the door.

And Palmer knew what the man was doing. ‘De Lacy! No!’ He went to grab him back. Missed.

De Lacy flung himself into the flames.

Theodosia fled back around the corner of the chapel, not daring to take a second to look back. John would be mere strides away, armed with a sword.

Terrible shouts, bellows, screams filled the night. She did not know from whom. Horrifying images of the monks, the Archbishop meeting the sharpest of blades in the darkness swam before her. As she might too.

She had to find somewhere – anywhere – to hide. But where?

Pounding steps behind her told her John was almost on her.

Her toes stubbed hard on the slab that covered an old burial, and she stumbled, half-fell with a cry. She ducked behind a
gravestone
.
But the ground under her right foot gave way, wrenching her hip to one side in a stab of pain as her leg slipped into a freshly dug grave. She clawed at the loose earth at its edge, pulling herself from the black pit as the sodden soil crumbled in her panic
ked grasps.

‘I’ve got you now!’

He’d heard her struggles.

She wrenched a hand up, grabbed for the cold, wet headstone, uncaring of her palms ripping as she hauled herself free.

She took off again, ran faster. But he gained so easily. She could not outpace him. He was so much younger. And the lust for blood drove him.

The cathedral. Her only hope now. She prayed that the door she’d seen was not locked. A door that could keep John out. Keep that blade from slicing through her skin.

Her chest threatened to fail as she gulped in wet air, forci
ng h
er legs on. She’d made it. She grasped for the
metal clasp
so hard he
r th
umbnail snapped off.

Locked.

‘Oh, what a shame!’ John was mere strides away.

She wrenched the handle with both wounded hands. One way, then another, her breath in gasping sobs.

It turned.

She shoved the door open, flung herself inside and slammed it hard, one hand on the handle as she fumbled for the bolt, the metal slipping in her wet, bloodied grasp.

‘Still got you, sister.’

The handle
moved
, John’s strength more than hers.

Theodosia threw all her weight against it as she tried to ram the bolt home.

The door began to give.

‘Get away from me!’ She kneed it hard, bashing the hard metal of the bolt with the heel of her hand, uncaring of the pain.

The thud of a brutal kick blew the door right open, sending her falling on her back to the floor.

John was in.

‘No!’ She screamed again, rolled and scrambled from his reach along the cold stone floor. The blood from her
damaged
hands made livid smears on its blank surface. She
staggered upright, making for the altar as if that would someho
w save her.

A boot to her back sent her sprawling to the hard floor again with a stinging blow to her jaw.

‘Look at me. I want to see your face when I do this.’

She turned over, her stomach heaving in terror and pain.

John’s eyes so like her own. ‘Finally.’ His sword an inch from her face, the shiny metal dulled with the lifeblood of two of the monks of Cashel. ‘You have cost me so very dearly. Now you w
ill pay.’

‘Please, I beg you. Do not.’ She raised a hand as if that could somehow stop it, stop the cruel metal that would plunge into her body, rip her life from her.

‘There could be no reason why I should not. And a thousand why I should.’ He readjusted his grip.

‘Because I am your sister!’ Her scream echoed up to the vaulted ceiling.

John gaped at her. Then burst out laughing. ‘That is the best reason you could think of?’

‘I’ve got a better one.’

The deep voice came from the darkness of the nave.

‘Because I’ll have your head.’ Benedict stepped forward, sword raised and ready. ‘John.’

Chapter Thirty

Palmer advanced on the altar with a deliberate tread.

‘You here as well?’ John’s astonished, furious gaze met his. ‘God’s eyes.’

At the side of his vision, Palmer saw Theodosia inch away from the sword tip. But not far enough.

‘Yes, I’m here,’ he said. ‘Here to arrest you in the name of King Henry. The Lord of Meath is with me.’

John snorted. A sudden
thrust
had his sword at Theodosia’s throat, and she choked back a scream.

Palmer held in his own. Took another step.

John’s weapon stayed steady. ‘If you’re so loyal to the King, then why do you not care or even look surprised that this woman, this spy, is claiming to have his blood?’ He frowned. ‘Or do you know something more?’

Terrified gasps came from Theodosia.

But Palmer couldn’t take his eyes from John now. He took another small step.

‘If I were facing the point of a sword like she is,’ said Palmer, ‘I’d say anything too. She is no spy.’

‘She is responsible for all my defeats!’ John’s voice rose in a shrill yell. ‘She knew all my plans, brought them to the enemy.’

‘No, John, she didn’t.’ Step.

‘Of course she did!’ John back-heeled Theodosia hard, and she cried out in pain. ‘Didn’t you?’ He kept his eyes on Palmer.

‘No, my lord,’ she panted, ‘no, I swear to you. No.’

Palmer’s self-control balanced on an edge sharper than John’s sword. He had to hold on. He kept his tone even. ‘I know why your plans failed, my lord.’

‘I do not want to hear—’

‘Your own father told me why they would.’ Halt.

‘My father sent me to this infernal country because he knew
I
would deal with it.’ John’s face reddened. ‘It’s an important part of his realm.’

‘As important as the Holy Land?’

John’s high colour darkened even more. ‘Yes, it is. More so. In
fact.’

Palmer almost had him. But John still had his sword at
Theodosia’s
throat. ‘Do you want to know why Henry didn’t send you to Jerusalem? The real reason?’

‘Gossip, more like.’

‘Because, Henry said, the Saracens would have strewn your bones across the desert by Christmas.’

‘That’s not true.’ John’s mouth puckered.

Almost had him. But not quite.

‘Because, Henry said, you’ve been too coddled.’

‘What?’ John’s yell had his sword pointed at Palmer now.

Almost there.

‘And because, Henry said’ – Palmer made his own grip as firm as he could – ‘you are not a naturally gifted warrior.’ He braced himself. ‘Not like your brother, Richard.’

‘You lying bastard!’ John ran at him, sword swinging hard, fast, incensed. ‘I am better than him. Than all of them!’

Palmer parried, landed a blow of his own on John’s weapon as Theodosia fled to the side of the altar.

‘I’ll kill you, Palmer! And then that bitch of a spy! You’re a liar, a liar, a liar.’ John drove even harder at Palmer, his towering rage giving him strength, skill.

Palmer went back at a wild swipe, his shoulder striking a pillar and sending him off balance.

John’s blade was coming at him. Right at his face.

Forcurse it: he’d been bested.

Then the King’s son collapsed with a grunt on the floor of the cathedral, his sword clattering from his unconscious grasp.

Theodosia stood there, holding some sort of engraved bronze weapon in her grasp, breathing as hard as he did.

‘My love.’ He couldn’t help a grin, even as his breath, his pulse raced. ‘Where did you find a mace in a cathedral?’

‘This is no mace.’ Theodosia gave him a shaky smile in return. ‘My love.’ She held it aloft, still clutched in her double-handed, bloodied grip. Designed to represent an arm, it ended in a closed fist. ‘This is Saint Lachtin’s Arm. One of the sacred reliquaries of the
Archbishop
of Cashel.’ She looked down at John, then back at Palmer. ‘I just hope Saint Lachtin hasn’t murdered the Lord of
Ireland
.’

‘Benedict, you cannot kill John.’ Theodosia saw her words bounce off her furious husband like arrows off a metal shield.

‘And why not?’ He paced the floor of the hall of the
Archbishop’s
Palace
, the pale early sun at the window lighting his exhausted
features
.

‘Because we have all told you why.’ She swept a hand to the
others
who sat with her: the Archbishop, de Lacy, Gerald.

‘Telling does not always change hearts, my lady,’ said the
Archbishop
.

‘Indeed,’ said Gerald.

Both men knew their whole story now. She and Benedict had had to share it with them in the aftermath of the dreadful events that had taken place.

Benedict shook his head at their responses and challenged de Lacy with his stare. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’

‘It’s an act that would make me happy too.’ De Lacy shrugged, his long cloak bearing the scorch and holes of flame. ‘But it would be an unwise move.’

Benedict pulled his hands through his hair with an exasperated snort. ‘If only you’d hit him a bit harder, Theodosia.’

She gave him her best warning look.

He responded with his most innocent one.

‘John is still my brother,’ she said. ‘I was not trying to kill him. Only to stop him.’ She cast a grateful look at those present. ‘Which we have done.’

‘If I may.’ The Archbishop peered at Benedict. ‘Sir knight, if the King’s son were to lose his life here, Henry would exact terrible
vengeance
on the whole of Ireland. He knows how and is accustomed to make martyrs. I fear to the depths of my soul that Ireland will have its martyrs, just as other countries.’ His sad smile was kind. ‘But please, do not be the one to hasten that day.’

Theodosia saw the shift in Benedict at the Archbishop’s gentle words. She knew the man she loved would do anything to change the role he had played in the martyrdom at Canterbury.

‘I bow to your wisdom, my lord.’ He matched his words with his actions, then came to Theodosia, his warm, strong hand on her shoulder. ‘Then we will have to take a different approach.’

His explanation was met with full agreement.

Once Benedict had finished, de Lacy rose to his feet. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to see how Eimear is.’

As Hugh de Lacy walked into the quiet solar in the Archbishop’s Palace, his heart almost stopped.

Eimear lay so still on the bed, her eyes closed, one knee swathed in linen bandages.

The elderly monk with her beckoned to him. ‘Enter, my lord. Your wife has been sorely injured and has breathed much foul smoke and air. But she will be fine, if God is good.’

Her lids lifted at the sound of voices. ‘I feel far from fine.’ The effort of speaking made her cough and cough.

‘My lady has the strength to argue, which always bodes well.’ The monk gave a nod of satisfaction. ‘As you are here, my lord, I will go and fetch some supplies, if I may.’

‘Of course. Thank you for all you have done.’

The monk bowed and left.

De Lacy went to her side and sat on the stool he’d vacated. ‘How much does it hurt?’

Eimear shrugged, coughed again. ‘I’m still alive. Still here for William.’ She gave the ghost of a smile. ‘You?’

‘Well, as you can see, my reputation as a comely knight is at an end.’

Her smile turned to a laugh, more coughing.

‘A few more marks on a face and body that
have
plenty.’ He hesitated. ‘Eimear, I need to
tell you
what we are doing about John.’

No more smile. ‘I’d like to gut him like a fish.’

‘As would I. But we can’t.’ He explained what would be done, and she listened without interruption. ‘I hope it isn’t too much to ask.’ His voice lowered. ‘I always seem to be asking something of
you.’

‘No.’ Eimear shook her head, and he was shocked to see the silver beads of tears forming at the corners of her eyes. ‘It’s not to
o much.’

‘Then why are you crying?’

‘I’m not. I’m just grateful.’

‘As am I. Your son still has his mother and—’

‘I’m grateful for you. You. You came for me.’ She raised one hand to his face, put gentle fingertips to where the gouges of his burned flesh began. ‘You, who’ve been almost consumed by fire.’

Her touch called to something deep within him. He could no
t speak.

The tears slid from her eyes now, flowing slowly and steadily as she went on. ‘I thought you had paid your debt to me. I thought we didn’t owe each other anything.’ Her fingers moved over the
sensitive
whorls of his scars, tracing each one.

De Lacy pulled in a ragged breath. ‘Someone came for me once. With no care for his life. So little care for it, he lost it for me
. I have
regretted it every day of my life.’ He put his hand over hers. ‘You’
ve do
ne so much for me. If I had abandoned you to the agony of the flames, I would have regretted it every day for the rest of my life. And regret is a poison. I want no more of it.’

He took her hand from his face.

But she kept it clamped in his. ‘Nor I,’ she whispered.

He lifted her hand to his lips. Still she didn’t remove it.

‘Nor I, Hugh.’ She held his gaze with a fierce tenderness.

John opened his eyes, and his head pounded in its familiar pattern on waking in the brightness of the morn.

Wait.
He closed them again. This was no wine headache. It radiated from the back of his head, sending shooting fire through his skull.

He put a hand to the source of the fire and his fingers met a thick bandage over a poultice. Fire. Of course. The chapel.

He opened his eyes again.

If he could have, he would have sat bolt upright in the bed in which he lay.

Hugh de Lacy stood in the lower circular room of the Round Tower, Gerald with him.

Both were watching him. The mail-clad de Lacy with his one-eyed stare. Gerald in his cleric’s robes, with less of a fawning look and more one of accusation. Much more.

‘You are here, de Lacy.’ John frowned at the croak in his own voice.

‘I am, my lord.’ A bow. That somehow had no respect in it whatsoever. ‘For it is where my wife came to.’

‘She came here with that spy. That Sister Theodosia.’ His head cleared, though it still banged like the Devil. ‘And that spy, that nun, tried to kill me.’ He managed to sit up, pushing the coverlet from him, though he
wore only
a long undershirt. ‘I want her hunted down. I want her—’

‘My lord.’ Gerald held a hand up.

‘You dare to—’

‘My lord.’ Firmer. ‘Listen to me. As we speak, the Archbishop of Cashel is making the strongest of representations to your father about recent events. Henry is unlikely to be pleased, which is putting it mildly, as the death of Archbishop Thomas Becket almost cost him his throne.’ Gerald drew his mouth down. ‘It was a sinful endeavour, my lord.’

‘I will find her.’ John’s fists tightened on the coverlet. ‘I will.’

‘My lord, you will not be pursuing a nun across Ireland. The Lord of Meath and I have agreed to take you to the relative safety of Dublin to sit out the rest of this miserable mission.’