“Are we going or not?” Huw said from William’s right shoulder.
“I don’t know. What do you think?”
Huw paused, probably surprised that William had asked him. Honestly, it wasn’t that William didn’t respect Huw’s opinion. He knew that Huw had been a charter member in the now-defunct Order of the Pendragon, and that he’d been instrumental in rescuing Queen Lili from Westminster last year.
But for all that William had been David’s squire for many years, Huw still didn’t trust him. William blamed himself for the presence of Gilbert de Clare in David’s company, and he was pretty sure that Huw not only blamed William for that, but distrusted him for falling ill at Dover and not traveling to France with David last year. Of course, if William had gone, he would have been killed along with everyone else. Nobody had ever accused the Welsh of being logical, however, and Huw was nothing if not Welsh.
“I don’t trust anyone here,” Huw said, entirely proving William’s point.
Huw’s doubt also decided William, and he straightened from his hiding place at the edge of one of the houses on the other side of the road from the inn and set off towards it. Huw followed, not protesting, but William could feel his disapproval hanging over him like a cloud.
“We need food and drink. More importantly, we need to buy horses if we’re going to get anywhere at all. Much more walking, and I will wear right through the soles of my boots.”
Huw grunted, for once agreeing, if not outright. “Let me go in first.”
William acquiesced to that, waiting in the doorway while Huw stood in front of him and surveyed the room. After a moment, Huw took a step forward, and William followed. Several men sat in the common room, nursing cups of beer and eating trenchers of bread, cheese, and onions. William’s mouth watered, and he happily went with Huw to the bar.
“May I help you, my lord?” The innkeeper ducked his head, recognizing a lord when he saw one, and correctly deducing that Huw was William’s inferior. Huw also leaned his bow against the edge of the table, and its length marked him not only as a foreigner, but as a Welshman.
William put a single coin on the table between them. “Food and drink. The best you have.” Then, after a moment, he added, “Please.” Christopher really was rubbing off on him. William’s father would have left it as a demand.
The man tugged his forelock. “Yes, sir. Perhaps you’d like to step into the parlor?”
William hesitated, tempted to hide himself from the villagers in the common room, but he decided that he didn’t want to separate himself from Huw. “We will eat here.”
The innkeeper pulled two large cups of beer, and Huw carried them to a table near the fire. The warmth spread across William, and he dropped his head for a moment, longing to lay it down on his arms right then and there and sleep. Instead, Huw nudged one of the cups towards William, and he picked it up and drank down half of it in one go. Huw did the same.
Brighter-eyed, they welcomed the food the innkeeper brought a moment later and set to.
“I have never tasted anything so good in my life,” Huw said, as the last of the bread and cheese disappeared down his throat.
“Nor I.” William’s spirits had risen considerably, and he told himself to remember how he felt before walking into the inn compared to how he felt now. An army marches on its stomach was something David had said to him more than once. And so, apparently, did William himself.
“Horses.” Huw stood and headed past the bar to the back door.
William drained the last of his drink and followed.
Which turned out to be absolutely the worst thing he could have done.
“You there!”
William had taken two steps into the yard when the shout came from the front gate where a man stood near his horse, talking to the proprietor. It was the only way out of the yard, which otherwise had a high wooden fence all the way around it.
“He’s David’s squire!”
Huw had stopped at the man’s initial shout, but now he returned to William in two strides, grabbed William’s arm, and spun him around to head back through the door to the inn through which William had just come.
Unfortunately, two men-at-arms, who did not look friendly, were already there, blocking the way, and two heartbeats later, the yard was full of men just like them.
“Well, well.” From out of the stables strolled a tall man with a sword belted at his waist. “If it isn’t William de Bohun, David’s pet.”
William filled himself with all the dignity he could muster. “What is it to you?”
The man sneered. “It seems we’re about the same business you are—looking for horses. Too bad we got here first.” He lifted his chin to point to the two men behind William and Huw. “Bind their hands. They can join Matha’s father at Drogheda.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Beyond the Pale
Christopher
Now that Christopher and Aine were alone and both on horseback, they could travel more quickly. These horses weren’t going to set any speed records, and Christopher had never expected to make this journey at a gallop like David had across France, but at least they could move at a canter some of the time.
“When we meet someone, what are you going to say about me?” Christopher asked Aine. “I don’t know much, but I do know that you and I shouldn’t be traveling together without a chaperone.” He swallowed hard. “Sorry about that.”
She looked him up and down. “You look Irish and could easily be my cousin. Nobody will ask.” And then she tipped her head. “And if they do, I will tell the truth. You are Christopher of Westminster.”
“Do you think that’s smart? Bad enough that I’m English, but it will tie me to David.”
Aine directed a disparaging tsk at him. “Haven’t you learned by now that your cousin is admired here? And even were that not true, I assure you that every Irishman hated Gilbert de Clare more.”
“We’re also bringing news of the massacre at Trim. Nobody will love us for that.”
“But again, we’re bringing the news. They will admire a Saxon of your stature who is willing to ride through Ireland without a guard.”
Aine spoke so unconcernedly that Christopher didn’t know how to reply. Still, he wasn’t going to suggest that they say something different either, and they were moving along pretty nicely at the moment as they were. They’d already come ten miles. Admittedly, it was late afternoon by now, but since it wasn’t raining, they could ride into the evening and night. With luck, they could reach the castle by midnight, if not sooner.
Of course, luck had been in short supply up until now—and that proved to be the case again.
“I hear hooves!” Aine said.
They’d been riding through mixed farmland and pastureland, and up until now they’d seen a few farmers and homesteads, but nothing that would cause them to panic. The stone wall to Christopher’s left was shoulder height to keep in the livestock, and when a side path appeared ten yards in front of him, Christopher didn’t hesitate to veer down it.
He didn’t keep going, however, not wanting to add a single extra yard to their journey if he didn’t have to. Instead, he reined in and turned the horse back the way they’d come. Aine had followed him down the path, and he dismounted, tossed the reins to her, and dashed back to the intersection. The hoof beats grew louder. Now that they were closer, he realized that they belonged to a single horse.
Aine had remained standing uncertainly in the path, and he motioned that she should wait where she was, out of sight of the intersecting road thanks to the stone wall and trees that lined it. He himself crept as close to the corner as he could, pressed his right shoulder into the wall, and crouched so that his head didn’t stick up above the wall and the rider couldn’t see him. Then he waited.
Thirty seconds later, the rider flashed past at a gallop. Christopher straightened and stepped into the middle of the road to watch the rider disappear off to the right where the road Y’ed. The undyed white robe
flapping behind him was unmistakably churchy.
“Was that a monk?” Aine said.
“Could be he was a Templar,” Christopher said.
She shook her head. “We have few Templars here and even fewer who are Irish. Templars are brave, it’s true, but he rides alone, which Templars never do.”
Christopher chose not to contradict her, since the occasion of David’s ride through France and England had been unprecedented—and it was true that he hadn’t ridden alone. “Whoever it was, his mission looks urgent.”
“I have never seen a monk ride like that,” Aine said, “and I can think of only one piece of news that could be so important that an abbot might send out riders. He’s bringing news of Trim.”
Christopher nodded and returned to his horse. “He went right. Are we going the same way?”
“Our fork is the left one.”
“Good. Maybe we can still make it to Roscommon before he does.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Beyond the Pale
James
The farthest journey had fallen to Robbie and James, who had the unfortunate task of bringing the news of the death of James’s brother-in-law, the Earl of Ulster, to Richard’s wife and sister at Carrickfergus, a hundred miles away. First, however, they had to stop at the Verdun castle of Roche and tell Margery, William de Bohun’s aunt, that she was now a widow.
The unpleasantness of the task had James recalling a conversation he’d overheard between David and Christopher not long ago, where they’d been reciting quotes to each other from a pageant called The Princess Bride, which was apparently popular enough in Avalon that they both knew it well. Christopher had told his cousin that life and pain were inextricably intertwined, and not to believe anyone who told a man differently. Or something like that.
David had laughed and replied with another quote, which James couldn’t recall at the moment. James had been struck by the laughter and the idea that anyone wouldn’t know that life was pain. Though the Church insisted that pain only made the moments of joy all the more remarkable and that redemption lay in the next life, he was having a hard time convincing himself of it today. He hadn’t known his brother-in-law well, but he’d liked him, and he already missed him. It would be much worse for Gilles, who’d truly loved Richard.
Unfortunately, so far, he and Robbie hadn’t made nearly as much progress as James would have liked. From Bective Abbey, they’d taken the road to Navan and turned northeast from there, but their passage through the town had been hampered by the occupation of the road by a combined Irish and English force—mostly cavalry, but some on foot too. The Cusack rag flew next to the O’Reilly bleeding hand, one of the more ominous banners James had ever seen. He would have hoped that the company was bound for Drogheda to rescue Gilla, but their general high spirits denied that presumption and didn’t inspire confidence. James and Robbie made sure to keep their distance.
“All of Ireland is on the move and not in a good way,” Robbie said.
“You learned that phrase from Christopher,” James said, “but to mimic him too, since our army cannot yet be mobilized, the only reason for such great numbers of men marching through the countryside has to be because they are up to no good.”
Robbie laughed. “I would never have thought the word good could have quite so many uses.”
James shook his head, laughing too, despite the urgency of the moment. In their short acquaintance, Christopher’s vocabulary had had a greater impact on James than David’s—not so much in his use of complicated words, at which David excelled, but at Christopher’s constantly inventive turn of phrase. Though to hear him tell it, everyone in Avalon spoke that way. Someday, in a quiet moment, James would have to take up the issue with Callum to confirm Christopher’s assertion.
“They do seem to be heading east.” Robbie was frowning. “I don’t understand the O’Reilly banner unless someone in the clan has turned against Gilla.”
“Is that so surprising?” James had come to the same conclusion himself: one of the O’Reillys had betrayed Gilla, and he’d joined with Cusack to do it. “It happened at Trim. It’s happening all across Ireland.”
“I suppose it’s no less than one would expect among the nobility of Scotland,” Robbie said. “Brothers betray brothers at home as a matter of course.”
James eyed his young charge. “We can hope that Padraig never betrays King David in that way.”
Robbie shivered. “Don’t speak of it.” He was still frowning. “I don’t understand why the English never suffer so.”
James scoffed. “Wasn’t one of the Bastard’s sons killed in a hunting accident with his brother? The English just hide their animosity better. And, truth be told, few kings have had more than one son to inherit. The Welsh have suffered the most because they make the mistake of giving a bastard the same chance as a legitimate son.”
From Navan, they managed to avoid the enemy soldiers by cutting across fields and taking side tracks that kept the main road in sight but made it less likely that anybody would wonder what they were doing. Then, at Slane, they encountered the same army again, having apparently been riding parallel to them all afternoon and making no better time. Robbie and James managed to cut across the road ahead of them, finally turning north towards Castle Roche.
Their escape was made easier by the fact that the company included prisoners, who were bound at the wrists and forced to run behind the horses. James couldn’t see the prisoners’ faces from this distance, but he told himself that whoever they were, he and Robbie could best help them by completing the task David had given them.
From Slane, the road remained clear. Because they were obviously two knights, few were going to trouble them. James was relieved to see no more armies on the march, and they arrived at Castle Roche several hours after sunset. The castle, as befitted its French name, was perched on a rock that gave it commanding views of the surrounding countryside. The Irish called it something else: Dún am Gall, fort of the foreigner.
James had resolved to deliver his news and then continue on his way north, no matter how tired he was and how much both he and Robbie needed sleep. But from the moment they set foot inside Castle Roche, he realized that he would have to change his plans. The whole castle was in an uproar because Margery de Verdun was in the midst of labor to deliver a child. Thus, James had no choice but to give the news of their father’s death directly to her two eldest sons, John and Theobald.
Few tasks had ever been as difficult. John brought James and Robbie into the receiving room of the castle, just off the great hall. Castle Roche had been built on a grand scale. A curtain wall enclosed an enormous bailey in front of the castle, which then required visitors to cross a ditch to reach the two D-shaped towers that guarded the inner ward. It wasn’t Trim, but from its hill, it more than adequately guarded the South Armagh pass between Gaelic Ulster and English-controlled lands. According to James’s wife, a not-so-secret tunnel lay underneath the castle that led to an outpost tower.
None of which was of the least concern right now to the white-faced boys who stared back at James, having learned that their world had crashed down around their ears. Six younger brothers sat at the table with John and Theobald to hear the news, and the youngest, a boy of four, burst into tears.
John pulled him into his lap, but he didn’t calm him with platitudes. He simply held him while the boy sobbed into his chest. Then a servant entered the room with wine and food, placing the dishes between James and John, who sat at the head of the table in what had been his father’s chair. While she laid out the dishes, effectively giving John a chance to collect himself, James took stock of his surroundings. As he would have expected from the sister of Humphrey de Bohun, everything at Roche was tidy, the men well-behaved for the most part, and fresh rush mats had been laid on the floor with the departure of winter.
As the servant left, John drew in a breath. “Tell me that David has a plan.”
James bent his head. “He does.”
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br /> In one of those unfortunate twists of fate, John was thin and pale, while his younger brother, Theobald, was far more robust and clearly the warrior in the family. He wasn’t the thinker, however, and after a quick assessment of what he was dealing with, James added, “King David has confirmed you in your holdings and asks that you muster your men and march to the Hill of Tara.”
John leaned forward slightly, though he was hampered in his movements by the presence of his little brother on his lap. “David intends to claim the High Kingship?”
“He has claimed it.”
John sat back. “Good. It’s about time.”
Theobald finally spoke, and true to his calling, his words were belligerent. “Why should we believe any of this? Perhaps you conspire with the men who killed our father, and once we march away, you will take our castle!”
That he wouldn’t be believed had not occurred to James. Margery would have believed him, but these two didn’t know who he was, not really. “I assure you, that’s the farthest thing from my mind. My brother-in-law died too, you know.”
“Perhaps you killed him! You’re married to his sister. With him gone, you could rule Ulster!”
John put out a hand to his brother. “Quiet, Theobald. James is the Steward of Scotland and trusted by David. I heard Father speak of it.”
To James surprise, Theobald subsided, though he still looked mutinous. Robbie had set to his food with enthusiasm, but he stopped chewing and said, “I was at Trim when it happened. Men died, and if we are not to lose Ireland entirely, then you need to act.”
“We are safe behind these walls,” Theobald said.
“You are not wrong,” James said as mildly as he could, “but if you are to remain safe, you will need allies. King David is offering himself. Do you truly wish to deny him?”
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