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

by E. M. Powell

  Theodosia gabbled a paternoster in terror, then half another.

  A stone crashed from the roof, then a second.

  She ducked her head beneath her arms with a shriek. Tom. Matilde. Benedict. Let us meet in Paradise.

  Then the world stilled. The bells slowed, their last peals giving way to shouts, calls, screams from outside. Fine dust filled the air, dimming the sunlight from the windows.

  Coughing, Theodosia sat up, every inch of her body trembling. The chapel looked as if it had been sacked by marauders.

  ‘All to the gatehouse! Quickly!’ A monk’s command echoing from the cloisters. ‘The earth may move again!’

  Theodosia got to her feet, the stone flags beneath her shoes solid and cold as if nothing had happened.

  But something had. No apocalypse, but a sign from God to her, shaking the earth beneath her to remind her that Benedict had gone to its perilous edge. She could not remain here.

  She knew what she had to do.

  Chapter Five

  The Port of Waterford, Ireland

  25 April 1185

  ‘A good crossing and still half the daylight left. God smiles on us, eh?’

  Palmer nodded in agreement with the young, heavy-set man next to him on the deck of the docking ship. ‘Still prefer dry land every time.’ He gave different, silent thanks to the Almighty. Seasickness had been his curse for many years. Though he no longer suffered as badly, he still couldn’t wait for the moment that his boots met a surface that stayed in one place.

  He’d heard on the voyage how much Henry favoured this sheltered port, with the King placing it under his rule during his first visit, in the year Tom had come into the world. It was still far finer than Palmer had expected, especially after witnessing the ravings of the royal clerk, Gerald. A rounded stone tower sat high above the well-built city walls, with many wooden quays reaching far out into the quiet water and lining the muddy lip of land outside the defences. Despite its good size, the number of vessels that had transported John and his men filled every landing space, while many other ships waited, all needing to dock and unload.

  The low, grey cloud brought a damp coolness to the day as seagulls clamoured for the waste being thrown into the water. With whistles and shouts, the men on the quays threw ropes to the sailors, bringing ship after ship to rest. The arrival of so many in the name of the Lord John couldn’t fail to send a message to Ireland, just as Henry had planned.

  Four men approached Palmer’s vessel, carrying the long, heavy, dirty wooden gangplank, and it finally thudded into place.

  Palmer walked off with the others, his bundle of possessions heavy on one shoulder. Beneath his boots, wicker panels had been laid over the ground to provide dry passage. Even so, the wet oozed through from the clay underneath.

  The man he’d docked with nudged him and pointed to a small group along the quayside. ‘Looks like they’re buying ale from that barrel.’

  ‘You were right about God smiling on us.’ Palmer made his way there with the man, taking with thanks the cup from the woman selling it. The wooden cup of ale went down sweet and cold, and he paid for another.

  A small, dirty boy ran past, hitting the barrel with a stick as he ducked through legs.

  The ale seller saw him off with a swipe and a stream of interesting threats.

  Palmer grinned. ‘We might have to step in if she catches the lad.’

  ‘True,’ the man replied. ‘She sounds like my wife.’ He took a drink with a long, satisfied sigh. ‘You married?’

  Palmer shook his head. ‘Only have myself to worry about.’ The beer soured in his mouth with the ready lie. But he needed to stick to it. Theodosia was safe. No matter that he wished with every inch of his being that he could get straight back onto a boat to sail for home.

  ‘Well, I’m going to find a whore,’ said the man. ‘It’s been weeks since I’ve cooled my loins. You joining me?’

  ‘Happy with my beer, my friend.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ With a wave, the man was off.

  A group of monks hustled along the quay from the direction of the town gate, making for one of the ships that had pulled up. Of course. They had come to greet Abbess Dymphna as she led her group of nuns off onto one of the best landings. Greetings floated on the still air as bundles and baskets were stacked off to one side, ready to be brought with her to the abbey that was her place of pilgrimage.

  One of the nuns went to the pile and bent to untie a string that held two bags together, her pale hands working steadily in her determination to unknot the thing. For a moment, the nun could have been his Theodosia, as he’d first encountered her all those years ago, robed in the dress of the Church. His Theodosia, who’d claimed his heart and who still stirred desire in him with a look, a touch. He smiled to himself, even as tears stung his eyes. He took a huge gulp of beer to banish them. Any more feebleness and he’d stick his face in the seaweed-filled harbour instead.

  Dymphna walked over to speak to the nun, who turned to answer.

  Half the beer shot down Palmer’s nose. Forcurse it to hell. The woman didn’t only look like Theodosia: she was Theodosia.

  Palmer thrust the cup back at the beer seller and marched over to his wife and Dymphna, careless of whom he pushed aside.

  ‘Can I help you with anything, sisters?’ His question came through clenched teeth.

  Dymphna wouldn’t meet his eye. ‘I don’t think so, sir.’

  ‘No, thank, you, sir knight.’ Framed by her dark veil, Theodosia’s pale face flushed at his discovery of her even as joy lit her grey eyes. ‘We have all the assistance we need.’

  ‘Sisters.’ Palmer kept his tone low, polite, desires waging war within him. All he wanted was to pull her into his arms, crush her to him. Let loose a string of oaths at her foolhardiness. ‘If you don’t tell me what’s going on, I’ll put you over my shoulder and row you back to Milford Haven myself. And you will be with her, Abbess. King’s pilgrimage or not.’

  ‘You do not have to threaten me like a barbarian, Benedict.’ Theodosia’s voice came steady with defiance. ‘Or the Abbess. It is perfectly simple. I am not going to be left behind this time while you run into peril on behalf of the King, leaving me frantic with worry and not knowing if you are alive or dead, day in, day out.’

  ‘What of our children?’ A low blow, and he knew it.

  She levelled her chin. ‘They are out of harm’s way and are surrounded by the most loyal protectors. And Tom knows how to wield a sword.’

  ‘Then your plan is to – what?’ he hissed. ‘To ride out for the Lord John, a holy sister on horseback, with a blade at the ready?’

  ‘Oh, Jesu Christus!’

  The scream cut through every noise on the dockside, interrupting Theodosia’s response.

  ‘Who in God’s name is that?’ said Dymphna.

  Palmer looked too.

  A familiar robed figure writhed at the foot of the nearby gangplank, yelling out a stream of pleas to God for help.

  Theodosia grimaced. ‘It is the King’s clerk, Gerald.’

  Gerald yelled louder. ‘My arm! Oh, Blessed Virgin and the choir of saints! My arm!’

  One of the dockers bent to help him, but Gerald shoved the man away with his good hand. ‘Stay away. It was your plank that turned under my feet and sent me tumbling. Away, I tell you, away! You’ll not get the chance to harm me more.’ He shrieked again. ‘You there!’ He stretched a hand out to a group of open-mouthed knights who had stepped off another ship. ‘Protect me, bring me to the safety of Regnall’s Tower. Quickly.’

  The knights complied, accepting an offer of an old sail from the docker. Manoeuvring a still shrieking Gerald onto it, they bore him away and headed off for the town gate.

  Dymphna crossed herself. ‘The poor man. We shared his ship, and it could so easily have been one of us who fell and hurt ourselves.’

  ‘See?’ said Palmer to Theodosia. ‘What if it had been you?’ His heart quailed even at the thought of her injured, but he
’d not show her. ‘This is no place for you.’

  ‘As I feel about you being here,’ said Theodosia, her response firm.

  ‘Theodosia will travel with me to my brother’s abbey at Jerpoint,’ said Dymphna. ‘She will be perfectly safe there.’

  ‘More importantly,’ said Theodosia, ‘I can get news of you, Benedict, and can be with you in a short time if I have to be.’

  Dymphna nodded. ‘She can travel from monastery to monastery, if necessary, to follow your progress with a prayerful one of her own.’

  He would love for it to be so, but he couldn’t allow it. ‘This is some of the greatest bilge I’ve ever heard,’ said Palmer. ‘You’ll stay at the abbey only until I can arrange to get you home. And that’s my final word.’

  Theodosia’s cheeks flushed again, and he braced for her attempt at refusal. Then all colour left her face, as he knew it did from his own, at a male voice raised in query.

  ‘Which of you is Sister Theodosia?’

  For a wild second, Palmer thought he could spirit her away through the crowd, but a monk walked up to them.

  ‘I am she,’ Theodosia replied with a panicked glance to Palmer.

  ‘Who makes such bold enquiries of this holy sister?’ He took a step in front of her.

  With a wary eye on Palmer, the monk bowed to her. ‘Not merely enquiries, sister. The royal clerk, Gerald, demands your presence. Immediately.’

  Palmer grabbed Theodosia’s bundle of belongings to add to his own. ‘Then let me carry these, so she can hurry.’ It was the first thing he could think of. An argument in this large crowd would only turn curious faces towards them.

  ‘You will wait for me, Mother?’ Theodosia asked Dymphna.

  ‘Indeed I shall.’ The Abbess turned to address the monk. ‘I am her superior, and I want to know what reason Gerald might have to seek her out. My permission for any requests he might make is not to be taken for granted.’

  ‘Of course, Abbess,’ said the monk. ‘Please, sister, make haste and come with me: the King’s clerk is in no fit state to be kept waiting.’

  Palmer didn’t care what state Gerald was in. All he cared about was getting Theodosia away from here to the security of the abbey and then home. They’d humour the clerk and then Palmer would make sure Theodosia left with Dymphna. At once.

  Ushered in by the monk, Palmer followed Theodosia into Regnall’s Tower. It should have been quieter in there, but Gerald’s screams filled the large, circular stone room.

  ‘God release me from my agony!’ Henry’s clerk still lay on the sail in which he’d been carried, placed on a large chest as a makeshift bed. ‘My torment!’

  ‘May God grant you courage.’ Theodosia moved to his side with a hasty sign of the cross.

  The monk who’d summoned them wrung his hands. ‘Others are out trying to find a barber-surgeon as we speak. But it’s so crowded. It could take much time.’

  ‘Make sure they do not bring me one who is from these shores. They will not be skilled unless it be in the dark arts.’ Gerald twitched, then howled again. ‘Mother of God, even to breathe is pain!’

  ‘That arm needs to be set as soon as possible.’ Palmer put down the two bundles he carried. ‘Theo—Sister, do you have some linen in your belongings that I can use?’

  ‘Yes, let me get some.’ She bent to her task as Palmer grabbed one of the stools set before the large lit fireplace. He bashed the stool against the stone hearth and freed two of the legs, stepping back quickly to Gerald’s side with the pieces of wood in one hand.

  ‘Make a move and I’ll have your head.’

  The hard-voiced threat came from behind him.

  Theodosia took a step to Palmer as the clerk shrieked still louder. Palmer turned to see a shorter, muscular, dark-haired knight advancing on him, sword ready in one powerful hand, face drawn in a scowl. Or rather half his face. The right side was tight and red and shiny from a large, hideous scar.

  The monk dropped to his knees in terror as Palmer’s free hand went for his own blade. ‘I mean the clerk no harm.’

  The knight halted, appraising Palmer with his one good, dark, deep-set eye. His other eye would be no use, blank as a fish’s, with the red and watery lower lid pulled down by his scarred flesh. ‘Word reached me of an attack on Gerald.’

  ‘Let the man be, de Lacy,’ came Gerald’s sharp, breathless reply. ‘He is trying to fix me.’

  De Lacy. Hugh de Lacy, Lord of Meath. Henry’s man in Ireland. The one Henry suspected of treachery. The very reason Palmer was here. He released his grip on his sword.

  ‘Fix you? Why?’ De Lacy strode to Gerald’s side, sword lowered but still in a ready grip.

  Theodosia helped the monk back to his feet, linen clutched in one of her hands. Her look to Palmer as she passed it to him showed that she recognised the name too.

  ‘My arm,’ moaned Gerald. ‘Broken by an ambush.’

  ‘Such a fall from the gangplank.’ Theodosia’s quick tact made Palmer proud.

  ‘We need to stop the bone from moving as soon as we can.’ Palmer bent to Gerald, aware of de Lacy’s stare on him.

  ‘You don’t look like a barber-surgeon to me, sir knight.’

  ‘Sir Benedict Palmer, my lord. And no, I’m not. But I’ve fixed enough bones on the battlefield in my time. Including my own wrist once. The more bones move, the more chance of inflamed flesh. We need to act quickly.’ Palmer held up the stool legs. ‘These will do for now.’

  ‘In the name of God’s love, stop delaying him, de Lacy,’ said the clerk.

  ‘Then do your work, Palmer,’ said de Lacy with a jerk of his head.

  ‘The more help, the better, my lord.’

  De Lacy sheathed his sword as Palmer laid the wooden pieces next to Gerald.

  Theodosia went to stand by Gerald’s head, trying to soothe him, with de Lacy clicking his fingers to the monk as he joined Palmer. ‘Go and fetch wine for the royal clerk from those upstairs. Tell them the Lord of Meath orders it.’

  ‘Yes, my lord.’ The monk scuttled over to the spiral stone staircase and clattered up it.

  Palmer bent to Gerald’s injured arm. ‘First, I need to cut off your sleeve.’ He went to pull his knife from his belt.

  ‘Use mine.’ De Lacy already had his own blade in his hand. ‘It’s a sharp one.’

  Palmer took it from him with a nod of thanks. His flesh prickled. The man had been standing right next to him, and he hadn’t noted his movements.

  He quickly completed his careful cutting as Gerald called for the saints’ aid.

  ‘It will be over soon, brother,’ came Theodosia’s soft words. ‘Soon.’

  ‘Seems as though you were unlucky in how you fell,’ said de Lacy. ‘Rather than an attack, as I’d heard.’

  ‘Unlucky?’ Gerald ground out a low groan. ‘If it wasn’t an attack, then it was a sinister portent for the Lord John’s progress. We did not stop to do penance at the venerable Church of Saint David’s as we travelled through Wales.’ He groaned again. ‘That was one ill omen. And now this.’ He launched into another loud lament about his pain.

  ‘I would say you had some luck, brother,’ said Palmer as Gerald’s pale spindle of an arm lay exposed. ‘Your flesh is sound and there’s no redness. I’ll bind it now.’ He drew breath to ask de Lacy to support the limb, but the lord already had his large hands on it.

  ‘I’ve joined the ends.’ De Lacy had to raise his voice above Gerald’s howls.

  Palmer strapped the clerk’s arm with swift movements, then splinted it with another layer of linen. ‘We’re done.’ He straightened up as de Lacy did too.

  ‘You could have had much worse,’ said the lord.

  ‘Praise God.’ Gerald’s face matched the white sail beneath him, but the relief in his voice told of his lessened pain.

  ‘I will pray for your recovery, brother,’ said Theodosia, ‘as I will ask all the monks at Jerpoint to do.’ Her words were meant to smooth an exit; Palmer could tell.

  He picked
up her bundle, but Gerald grabbed her arm with his good hand.

  ‘Stop,’ said the clerk. ‘I summoned you here for a reason. I saw you writing something on the ship.’

  De Lacy’s ruined, questioning gaze went to Theodosia.

  Palmer’s grip slid round the handle of his knife, readying for action. He could overpower the slight, injured Gerald with a modicum of his strength, but de Lacy would be a tough foe.

  ‘Indeed I was writing, brother,’ Theodosia responded quickly. ‘As well as joining the Abbess on her pilgrimage, I will be having schooling from the monks in producing sacred texts. That is all.’

  ‘Then you can wield a quill. Good.’ Gerald winced as he sat up. ‘My broken arm is the one I use to record.’ He pointed at her with his uninjured hand. ‘Sister Theodosia: you will scribe on my behalf until I have healed.’

  Palmer’s shoulders stiffened in disbelief.

  ‘The wine, my lord.’ The monk hustled from the staircase, jug and goblet in hand.

  De Lacy took it from him, briefly distracted in pouring the drink for a pleading Gerald.

  Palmer met Theodosia’s shocked glance and drew breath to argue, but Theodosia gave a swift answer.

  ‘I am deeply honoured, brother,’ she said, ‘but I believe I should follow God’s path to Jerpoint.’

  Palmer stepped forward. ‘I’m sure there must be others that could carry out this task for you, brother.’

  ‘You think there are many who can carry out a task appointed by the King?’ Gerald lowered his goblet to glare at Palmer. ‘Report on the progress and the actions of his son? You think it will be easy? That you could perform it?’

  ‘I wish I could, brother,’ said Palmer, shame hot within him, ‘but I’m no scribe.’

  ‘No.’ De Lacy’s full attention was on him again, curse it.

  ‘I can see you are not employed for your intellect.’ Gerald shook his head. ‘And I need someone who acts as the quill in my hand. Not someone with . . . ideas of their own.’ Gerald drained his drink and shoved the goblet at Theodosia to dispose of. ‘The sister will perfectly suffice.’ He shifted to prepare to stand. ‘Now, give me your arm, woman.’