by E. M. Powell
Still the silence. The swooping seabird cried on.
‘For a savage people understand one thing and one thing only. And that is force.’ His gaze swept over every stunned face gathered before him. ‘That is their real language. We shall speak it to them. Oh, how we shall speak it to them.’ He clenched a fist. ‘And they will understand.’
Palmer tensed in disbelief at where John’s words were leading.
‘They will understand it when they see my castles rise from the land that they claim is theirs. They will understand it when my men pour from those castles and speak to them with the point of a sword. They will understand it when the lands are no longer theirs. My first three castles will be at Tibberaghny, Ardfinnan and Lismore. From there I will push on. And on. That is the path to peace.’ He threw his fist in the air. ‘The path of the Lord of Ireland!’
Palmer wanted to drop his head in his hands as the loudest cheers yet burst forth, led by John’s group of young knights.
Henry had wanted John to take control here. But not like this.
John had not come to make peace. Instead, he was embarking on a campaign of war.
And he was taking Theodosia with him.
Chapter Seven
Tibberaghny, Co. Kilkenny, Ireland
1 May 1185
Palmer sat on the low trunk of an old fallen tree, with his chain mail spread across his lap for checking. He wore his padded gambeson, not only for warmth on this cool, cloudy morning but so he’d be ready for any action.
The site of one of John’s castles at this place called Tibberaghny had been chosen well: Palmer would give him that much credit. Near to a fast-flowing river, higher hills rose some way off to the south and the curve of a mountain, covered in the low cloud, loomed even farther off to the north-west.
Chosen well, but it should not have been chosen at all.
Palmer shook the first section of mail hard to dislodge the last of the sand he’d used to clean it. He needed his armour to be ready, like his newly sharpened sword on the trunk next to him.
The creation of the new motte used a natural rise in the low-lying land. Many men laboured with picks and shovels to add to its height with more and more earth, though it was still a way off what it should be. Once the motte was up, work could begin on the keep. Enclosing the bailey could happen at the same time.
Palmer scowled to himself. The pace of building wasn’t fast enough. This day would be the third here. Despite the guards that had been posted, the camp of many tents continued to lie exposed to attack on this stretch of flattened ground. Charging at canvas was a much easier task than attacking a well-built wooden fortification.
Canvas that formed the only protection for Theodosia.
He lifted the mail to peer closely at its tight rings, blowing the few remaining grains of sand from them. Dirt and moisture meant rust. And rust meant weakness.
She was here because Gerald was here. John had insisted that the royal clerk should be with him in his chosen base of Tibberaghny. This was the first stop from Waterford, the nearest to that city. The two other castle sites chosen in these borderlands were farther into the territory of the Irish.
Satisfied that the metal was sound, Palmer moved on to the next section. Interesting that John didn’t want to go that far. Happy to send others, mind.
He tested what looked like a rust spot with his thumbnail. Only a piece of dried clay. It wouldn’t yield so he reached for his knife to work it free.
He’d kept out of the chaos that had been John’s assignment of men to castle sites, making sure he’d be in a position to stay with Theodosia. He knew it meant he wouldn’t be able to track de Lacy if John sent the Lord of Meath elsewhere. But Palmer had had no choice but to take that gamble.
And he’d won. De Lacy was right here with John.
Palmer nodded to himself. Also interesting.
He moved on to the final section of his mail. His armour was almost ready for any fight.
Truth be told, that fight could well include de Lacy. All well and good for Henry to tell him, Palmer, that he was to find proof of treachery. That might well have to come at the point of a sword. As for whose sword, Palmer would do everything in his power to make sure it was his. No matter who came at him.
A movement at the edge of the camp caught his eye. Mounted men. He straightened up, his heart fast. Normally he wouldn’t be acting like a maid. But Theodosia was in this camp.
He let out a breath.
De Lacy, returned from a ride, mounted on a huge destrier, a small group of mailed knights with him.
‘Put another man on this patch.’ De Lacy gave the order to a guard who had appeared to check on his arrival, spear in hand.
Appeared too late. Palmer’s shoulders tightened. Not good enough.
‘If I can, my lord,’ said the guard.
It was as if de Lacy had heard Palmer’s thoughts.
‘If you can?’ came the Lord of Meath’s sharp question to the guard. ‘Of course you can find an extra man. One is needed. Had I been an Irish warrior, I’d be in the middle of this camp by now.’ He gave a tight grin. ‘And you would be missing a head, my friend.’
The guard didn’t smile in return, only bowed and went to move off.
‘Wait.’ De Lacy raised his head to look over the rest of the camp.
The man halted.
Palmer bent low over his work, yet still able to see de Lacy with his upward glance. De Lacy already knew him from Waterford. He didn’t want to draw the man’s notice again. Not until he decided on it.
‘How many men are guarding this camp today?’ asked de Lacy of the guard.
‘I don’t know, my lord.’
‘How many tonight?’
The guard shrugged. ‘I don’t know, my lord.’
‘You think those are satisfactory answers?’
‘No, my lord.’
‘Then what is?’
‘I’ll find out, my lord.’
‘And you will tell me,’ stated de Lacy.
‘Yes, my lord. At once, my lord.’
As de Lacy dismounted and handed his reins to a groom, Palmer frowned to himself again. What reason would the man have to be so curious about the number of guards at this camp?
He watched as the lord walked towards his large tent, which Palmer knew he shared with his wife, Eimear.
It would probably come to nothing, but he might be able to hear something useful. Though his priority had shifted to Theodosia’s protection, he still had orders from Henry to carry out.
Grabbing an abandoned shovel, Palmer went as close to the tent as he dared and began to dig. With so many others doing the same all over the camp, he shouldn’t attract any notice.
He could hear murmured voices: one man, one woman. Without doubt de Lacy and his wife, but not clear enough to catch what they said.
Swearing silently to himself, he placed a shovelful of earth off to the side.
Then words. Clear as day.
‘But I want to see William, Hugh.’ Eimear’s voice. No tear-filled plea. Climbing. ‘I want to go back to our castle at Trim. To our son.’
‘When I say we can. And no sooner.’ No softness in de Lacy’s tone either. ‘I too need to return. I have pressing matters to which I have to attend.’
‘How is our son not a pressing matter?’
‘Eimear, the Lord John has set events in motion here that no one could have anticipated.’
‘Events in motion. Is that what you call it?’ Her disdain could burn a hole through the canvas of the tent wall. ‘Irish lords, about to be thrown from their lands to the bogs and the mountains. By that stripling?’
Stripling. The same insult used by the spurned Irish at Waterford for John. Palmer raised his eyebrows to himself as he carried on slicing the shovel into the earth again.
‘Stripling or not, John is here on the orders of our king.’
De Lacy used it too.
‘Henry Curtmantle is not my king.’ Her voice lowered in her d
eep scorn. ‘My king is my father. Rory O’Connor. King of Connacht. High King of Ireland.’
Now de Lacy’s tone rose. ‘You are my wife. Your loyalty is as mine.’
‘My loyalty?’ Eimear laughed, a terse, bitter retort. ‘That still belongs to me, safe in my heart. Whatever else you take from me, you can’t take that. As for yours, it’s clear to me why you’re staying around the stripling.’
‘It is, is it? Then why don’t you—’
Palmer’s shovel hit a mud-covered stone in a loud, sudden scrape.
Both voices went silent, and rapid footsteps came from the tent.
Palmer gave a quiet oath. He couldn’t run – he’d be seen. He’d have to lie. And well.
De Lacy appeared at the tent door as Palmer crouched to pull the stone out of the earth with one hand.
‘Who’s there?’ De Lacy’s look went to him, then shifted into surprised recognition. ‘Palmer, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, my lord.’ Palmer stood up to give a quick bow. ‘Not many of these in this ground, thank the Almighty.’ He flung the stone he held over to one side. ‘Makes progress on the motte much easier.’ He wiped his hand off on his gambeson.
‘The motte?’ De Lacy nodded to the growing mound several yards away. ‘The motte is over there. Not here. Outside my tent.’
‘I know, my lord.’ Palmer pointed to the nearby bushes with his shovel. ‘But there’s a stream in there, with shallow banks. I’d guess that it’d overflow at the first heavy rainfall. The ground under your tent and those other two would be soaked.’
De Lacy looked from Palmer to the bushes.
Palmer had no idea if the stream posed a threat or not. He offered up a quick prayer that de Lacy wouldn’t go to look.
‘Moving tents would take time we don’t have,’ said Palmer. ‘So I’m putting in a ditch to make sure they stay dry instead.’
‘And why is a fighting man like you digging the earth?’
Palmer shook his head. ‘No choice, my lord. At least not for me. That motte isn’t going up fast enough. I’d rather be a fighting man with a castle for my use.’
‘Hugh.’ Eimear’s sharp call came from inside. ‘I haven’t finished.’
De Lacy looked at him for a long moment. ‘Then I won’t keep you, Palmer.’ He stepped back into the tent and yanked the canvas shut.
The voices began again. But this time stayed far too low for Palmer to catch a word.
Palmer thrust his shovel into the earth once more. A useful task, digging a ditch that wasn’t needed.
No mind. The exchange he’d heard between the Lord of Meath and his wife might have given him more questions than answers. But it was a start.
Once he’d finished this empty task, he’d go and do what he’d told de Lacy was needed.
Palmer didn’t care if he shouldn’t be digging. The quicker this castle went up, the better.
Chapter Eight
‘Please slow down, brother.’ The damp vellum resisted Theodosia’s quill pen as she strove to complete her latest word. ‘I am not as skilled as you in scribing.’ She sat up straight from the small table, capturing a moment’s rest for her aching shoulders before she carried on. ‘And the ink remains wet for a long time.’
Across the gloomy tent from her, sat well back on a low chair, Gerald gave one of his impatient tsks.
‘That we had the comfort of the Church to go to as Abbess Dymphna did.’ He brushed a large drip of water from his forehead and glared up at the leaking canvas above him. ‘Do the heavens weep at the sinfulness of our endeavours in this land?’
‘I am sure we will be housed in dry walls soon. There is progress every day.’ Theodosia’s words drew another tsk, which she could understand, despite the sounds of shovels, saws and hammers from outside. After more than two weeks of placating him, her words sounded like a hollow promise even to her. Their accommodation at Tibberaghny still consisted of damp, mildewed tents, soaked through with the constant rain. Her only consolation was that Benedict had been posted within this camp. She had not been able to speak to him but had had sight of him. Far, far worse would have been for him to have been sent to one of John’s other two castle sites.
‘If you don’t work faster, I’ll have you whipped!’
Theodosia caught her breath at the angry yell. John.
The canvas door moved as if someone wrestled with it, the movements causing yet more drips to descend from the ceiling.
‘Untie the thing, sister,’ said Gerald, ‘before he has us both soaked through with his attempts.’
‘Yes, brother.’ Theodosia hurried to the flap and opened it, only to be thrust to one side as John shoved his way in.
‘Gerald, my father has given me useless men.’ John did not even glance her way as he flung himself into an empty chair. ‘Useless. I need my castles complete, to show the Irish my unstoppable progress. How long does it take to raise a basic fortification?’
‘It would be faster if men weren’t disappearing by the day, my lord,’ came Gerald’s testy reply.
‘I have put out an order that any who deserts my service will be hanged,’ John snapped back. ‘That should be sufficient.’
Theodosia went to close the flap, wishing for a cloak of invisibility. She had managed to avoid John’s presence since the encounter at Waterford. Now he was closer than ever.
‘You. Sister.’
Her mouth dried at the unexpected order. ‘Yes, my lord?’ She kept her head lowered.
‘Leave that door open. I want to keep an eye on those workers. First one I see slacking gets my whip. And get me some wine.’ He sneezed. ‘My head is fuddled from this ague.’
Theodosia complied, tying the door back before hastening to get the wine.
Gerald withdrew from John as much as his injured arm would allow. ‘I fear an ague in my weakened state.’
‘Then fear you must.’ John wiped his nose with the heel of one hand. ‘Most have their humours unbalanced in this place.’ He sneezed again. ‘How could they not when, at every dawn, the skies throw down rain, which doesn’t stop until dusk, then starts again at night?’ He took the goblet from Theodosia and gulped down a mouthful with an unsteady hand. ‘Nights where no one can sleep, with the sounds of the Irish devils in the woods. Only my wine allows me rest.’
‘We are in the midst of their lands, my lord,’ said Gerald. ‘And they are not,’ he cleared his throat, ‘well disposed towards you, shall we say.’
As Theodosia placed the wine jug on the table, she slid a blank piece of parchment over her most recent words, words which despaired of John’s actions towards the Irish at Waterford. Her careful script might have been dictated by Gerald, but it came from her hand.
Selecting a clean goblet, she began to pour.
A terrible, high scream came from outside.
Theodosia’s hand jerked in shock, splashing wine over the tabletop as an unearthly chorus followed the scream: drums, whistles, harsh shouts in a strange tongue.
John leapt to his feet with an oath, even as the hammers and saws stopped dead. ‘They’re attacking. The Irish are attacking.’
Men with axes, with swords. Theodosia had faced them before, but never on this terrifying scale. Her heart tripped fast, faster as Gerald struggled to stand up. ‘Sister, help me.’ His usual plea, though a broken arm should not be making him so helpless.
Shouts came from those within the camp, orders to defend, to take up positions.
‘Lean on me, brother,’ she said. ‘We should hide. With all haste.’
‘You can’t hide. You have to defend this place.’ John flung open one of Gerald’s chests, rummaging through it and sending clothing all over the canvas floor. ‘God’s eyes, have you no weapons?’
Gerald’s arm tensed under Theodosia’s hold. ‘I am a man of God, as is the sister who serves Him too. We cannot fight; we rely on others for our protection.’
‘Don’t you understand?’ said John. ‘I am the one who needs protection. I am the highest prize fo
r the enemy. I have to get to those who are armed.’ He gestured to Theodosia and Gerald. ‘You will help me do that. I can shelter behind you as we make our way there.’
Theodosia stared at him in shock. John, the lord who’d announced a brutal campaign from the steps at Waterford, would use a cleric and a nun as his shield? But she could say nothing; she had to be true to the habit she wore.
Gerald drew breath, and she guessed his view would be the same.
‘Let us make haste as much as we can, brother.’ Theodosia knew she spoke over him, but any utterance he made right now would only make things worse.
The noise echoing from the woods increased, drowning out the calls of the defenders.
John’s eyes widened. ‘Hurry up. Before they break through.’
‘Take care.’ Theodosia took Gerald’s weight as his foot caught on the clothing scattered by John and he stumbled.
‘I said, hurry.’ John had to raise his voice over the noise outside. ‘Gerald, stay here. You’ll only slow us up.’
‘None of us should go,’ said Gerald. ‘It’s too dangerous.’
‘Please, brother.’ Theodosia lowered him to the seated safety of a closed chest, every inch of her aching to do the same. ‘You risk further injury.’
‘No more arguing, Gerald.’ John pulled up his cloak to cover his face. ‘Go on, sister.’ He fell in behind her and prodded her hard in the back. ‘And stand as straight as you can; your stature is woefully short.’
With her mouth clamped shut to try to steady her breathing, Theodosia walked on shaking legs to the door of the tent, John’s hand fixed hard on her clothing.
The sounds of enemies, of defenders, echoed even louder in the open air in a buffeting, petrifying din. Men ran past with swords, bows, yelled to each other in a string of panicked oaths. Her hands went unbidden and foolishly to her face, as if she could stop a missile or a blow with her own flesh. She looked in vain for Benedict amongst the shouting mass of men, in a desperate hope that she would see him.
‘Stop,’ came John’s muffled voice. ‘Let me see what’s happening first.’
Theodosia obeyed, her breath faster as she scanned the thick woods beyond the half-built wooden wall. Yet she could see nothing of the unseen enemy, with only their nightmarish clamour reverberating through her head.
