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

by E. M. Powell

  ‘Does that mean all is lost, Sir Benedict?’ The man who asked had managed to jam a helmet on but hadn’t laced it tight under his chin.

  Palmer couldn’t add to the hopeless terror already clouding the man’s eyes. He too tasted the fear of lack of hope, not for himself, but for Theodosia.

  ‘Of course not. Now put your damn helmet on, man. Same for the rest of you. You can’t fight with a sharpened stick in your head.’

  Theodosia ran to join Eimear at the window, her heart racing.

  ‘Stay well back.’ Eimear matched her command with her own action. ‘Even this narrow window is a target.’

  The clatter of wood on wood on the wall outside confirmed it.

  Theodosia started, though Eimear did not react. She peered past Eimear to the camp far below and a sight from hell met her vision.

  Smoke covered the whole camp, the shouting figures running through it like spirits trying to flee damnation. She could not make anyone out, could not see if Benedict was amongst the crowd. Then one fell with a wail, sinking from sight, then another and another.

  Her hands went to her mouth. ‘What is happening?’

  ‘The Irish are using darts, and they possess great skill with them.’ Eimear’s stare outside remained fixed. ‘But we are still safe in here. For now.’

  As if brought forth by her words, yet more spines of sharpened wood showered down, some piercing even the roofs of the tents.

  People ran from the punctured canvas, making for the steps of the motte and the safety of the keep, clutching whatever they could over their heads to protect themselves from the deadly onslaught.

  Then she remembered. ‘Dear God. The clerk Gerald.’

  Eimear looked at her. ‘What of him?’

  ‘He will be in terrible peril. I have to bring him to safety.’

  ‘He is a man, sister. He can see to himself.’

  ‘He is not a fighting man; he is a man of God. And he cannot defend himself. One of his arms is useless.’

  ‘Then he will meet his fate.’ Eimear spoke as if Gerald might miss a meal.

  ‘I do not believe in fate, my lady.’ Theodosia hurried to the door. ‘I believe in doing what I can.’

  ‘Sister!’

  Ignoring Eimear’s call, she hauled the door shut behind her, praying she still had time.

  The wall burnt brightly now, as the wood had properly taken hold.

  As he crouched beneath a shell of shields, Palmer’s eyes streamed in the smoke, and he rubbed at them hard, cursing his lack of his neckerchief. ‘Keep firing.’ He called his order to his small group of archers, huddled on the wall walk, doing their best to strike down those in the trees.

  One arrow hit home, then another. Two bodies dropped from the branches with a howl.

  ‘And more!’ He broke into a spasm of coughing. If they could lessen the onslaught of the darts, they might have a chance at putting out the fire. But he had too few archers, and they had too few skills.

  A movement caught his eye. Farther along the wall. Hands gripping from outside. The top of a long-haired head. A climber.

  ‘There!’ Palmer’s shout and point had the archer spin and fire.

  The intruder fell from sight. Hit or not, it didn’t matter. They’d driven him back.

  Yet another arrow loosed into the trees and fell short, its soaked feathers limp and useless.

  The wall shook hard in a loud, deep thud.

  ‘What’s that?’ said the man next to Palmer.

  ‘They’re testing a battering ram.’

  Another thud.

  Palmer watched the bounce of the wood. ‘It’ll hold for a bit.’

  ‘And then?’ The man’s mouth fell open in dread.

  Palmer went to reply but a familiar voice interrupted him.

  ‘Palmer, let me in. Quickly.’ Gasping in fear, Simonson forced his way into the group, his shoulder bloody and his spear in one hand.

  ‘I told you to stay where you were.’

  ‘I know. But I brought this. I thought it might help.’

  ‘One spear?’ The other man’s mouth gaped even wider. ‘By the blood of the Virgin, we’re all dead.’ He pushed Palmer aside.

  ‘Stop!’ Palmer roared as loud as he could as the man broke from the shields’ protection, heading for the ladder in the watchtower.

  Too late. A dart pierced his neck, then another his thigh. He fell with a scream to the ground below and lay there twitching as his life left his body.

  A ripple went through the group.

  Palmer could tell what it was: defeat, taking hold of men’s hearts and minds before it froze their bodies like winter ice. He could not allow it. ‘Keep firing!’ He forced every ounce of power into his order. ‘We need to take out those darts.’

  A couple of arrows flew. Did nothing.

  Palmer’s hand went to his sword. Once the wall came down, he’d do what he could here, then head for the keep to protect Theodosia. Thank the Almighty, she went to pray up there at this hour.

  Simonson nudged him. ‘Palmer.’

  ‘Keep your spear, Simonson. You’ll need it.’ Palmer focused once more on the archers. ‘And again!’

  ‘I just wondered.’

  He glanced at the big young man. ‘What?’ If the man said another word about his spear, Palmer would throw him to the Irish right now. ‘Again!’

  Simonson’s reply sent the air from his lungs.

  Palmer stared at him. ‘Say that again.’

  ‘I just wondered,’ said Simonson, ‘why aren’t you using the crossbows?’

  Chapter Twelve

  High on the motte, Theodosia halted at the gate of the keep, holding on to the shelter of the high palisade with sweated palms. Men pushed past her in a blur of yelling forms, running, staggering, not even noticing her as they fought to get into shelter and safety. So many were injured, many grievously, and she knew still more lay in the thick haze of the bailey below.

  She could see the tent she shared with Gerald from here. Yet between her and it lay the exposed steps, then a stretch of open ground, shrouded in smoke, soft with mud underfoot and death descending from the skies along with the rain. She would be struck down, becoming one of the huddled forms she could see on the steps and on the nearby ground, twisting in agony, or terribly, horribly still.

  Then she saw it, on the muddy slope of the motte, a few steps down, so caked in soil she almost missed it. A shield, still clutched in the hand of a man who lay without moving, his body pierced so many times that he would never rise again.

  She had to do this. With a deep breath and a plea to God, she loosed her hold. And ran for the steps.

  A few strides. Pain on her face. She screamed and ducked, but it was only the driving rain. Her feet met the first step, slick with rainwater and blood, then the next and the next.

  Men still ran up, shoving, pushing, not even seeing her.

  She fell to her knees as the rain slashed against her and grabbed the shield, fighting down her bile as she yanked it from the dead man’s fingers.

  But it was so heavy. Too heavy. No. It was stuck, stuck in the mud.

  Another dart swished down, burying itself in the poor dead man with a noise that could be a knife in raw meat.

  She tugged hard, then harder.

  The shield came loose, sending her off balance. She flung it above her head as a missile hit it in a ringing strike.

  Theodosia looked up at the gate to the keep. She should go back. To be out here was insanity, risking her life for a man whom she had only known for a short while, who was neither blood nor friend. But she had to because of what she did know. She knew the absolute terror of helplessness, to have to wait for death in the full knowledge that she could not even defend herself. Shaking hard, she got to her feet. She could not condemn another to that hell while she hid, safe.

  May God protect me.

  She scrambled down the open flight, staggering, stumbling as the noise of fighting, of death, buffeted her as rain and missiles str
uck the shield above her. With a renewed burst of speed across the smoke-filled flat of the bailey in a crouching shamble, she was there. She flung herself into the tent, her breath loud in wheezing gasps.

  ‘Get out, you devil!’

  Gerald. Her heart surged in relief. But she could not see him.

  ‘It is I, brother. Sister Theodosia.’

  A rustling came from underneath the open lid of a large chest. ‘I’m down here, God help me.’

  ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘No.’ The clerk’s face, pale with terror, showed in the shadow. ‘It is a miracle I am not.’

  ‘Indeed, thank the Almighty.’ She hunkered down, her legs like water. ‘I have come to get you to the safety of the keep.’

  ‘Out there?’ If anything, his face paled even more. ‘Up to the motte?’

  ‘Yes. I have this shield.’

  The cacophony outside increased, with a new wave of yells and shrieks.

  ‘The raiders may be finding their way in.’ Theodosia swallowed down a lump of new fear. ‘The keep is the only place we will be safe. Brother, we need to hurry.’

  ‘I cannot hurry. You will have to help me to my feet.’

  Theodosia laid the shield down with a silent prayer that God would watch over them for a precious few minutes. Flipping the lid of the chest closed, she held out one arm. ‘Hold on to me. I will assist you to rise.’

  With an array of gasps and objections from the clerk, she got him upright.

  ‘I cannot run.’ He shook his head. ‘Not when I’m out there. I cannot fall on my bad arm.’

  ‘Then we shall walk as quickly as we can.’ Picking up the shield, she stepped beside him.

  Gerald clung to her with his good arm, his weight dragging from her as she raised the heavy shield with both hands, her muscles protesting from her double burden. She doubted she could hold both for long. But she had to try. No: she had to succeed.

  ‘As quick as you can, brother. I implore you.’ She went to lead him to the door.

  And froze.

  Entering the tent, axe raised and ready, crept an Irish warrior.

  Now it wasn’t only darts that fell from the trees. Men fell too.

  Palmer loaded his own crossbow yet again, shouting to his men. ‘Keep firing. Just keep firing.’

  Many bolts went wide and wild, but enough were reaching their target.

  He could see the shadowy figures climbing down through the branches, fast and sure, as they abandoned their posts.

  The hard click of another bow sounded next to Palmer.

  Its bolt hit home, an Irishman sliding down through a tree with a howl that cut off as he loosed his hold and fell.

  ‘Got him!’ Simonson bellowed with pride as he balled a fist in triumph.

  Palmer didn’t stop him. It might be a waste of energy in battle, but this ragged crew were no army. If the man got the miracle of a lucky shot, then so be it. Palmer let loose another bolt, and it hammered into a dangling limb. And he had Simonson to thank for knowing the whereabouts of a pile of crossbows and bolts in one of the stores.

  One of the archers didn’t need luck. He reloaded rapidly and smoothly and shot with deadly accuracy.

  ‘I think they’re withdrawing, Sir Benedict.’ He didn’t pause, his hands and eyes sure in their purpose.

  ‘My thoughts too. But that wall is still burning.’ He nodded to the man. ‘I need your cover.’

  The man nodded back, increasing his shots as Palmer straightened up with caution to look over the sharply pointed top of the wall, his shield held tight to protect him. For the first time, no clatter of darts landed on or near him.

  Below, blurred in the smoke and heat, what looked like a large, hide-backed creature with no head struck a hewn log against the blazing wall again with a muffled shout made up of many voices.

  Palmer dropped back, coughing. ‘This is what I want you to do.’ He gave a stream of rapid orders as the Irish battered the wall again. ‘And keep that crossbow going. Aim down too.’

  ‘Yes, Sir Benedict.’ The skilled archer kept up his pace, as sure in his shots as Simonson’s were wide, while the other men rushed to act on Palmer’s command.

  Palmer used his own crossbow again, clutching for the top of the wall as it shook again in a massive blow.

  The archer swore and Simonson’s legs went from beneath him. ‘It’s not going to hold much longer.’

  ‘Keep firing.’ Palmer raised his voice to shout down to where he’d dispatched some of the other men. ‘Get a move on!’

  ‘We are, God rot it, we are.’ A heavily sweated man heaved himself back up the ladder, rope coiled across his chest and one shoulder, closely followed by another.

  They ran along the wall walk to the shelter of the continued firing by Palmer and the archer.

  Palmer uncoiled the rope from the first man in rapid movements. ‘You do the same,’ he said to the second. ‘Keep at least three lengths wound round you.’ He dropped the rope below.

  The unseen Irish struck the wall again, the vibration shaking the wall walk under Palmer’s feet. ‘Hurry it up down there!’

  The call he needed to hear floated back up to him.

  ‘Ready, Sir Benedict!’

  ‘Time to pull, men. On my count. It has to be together.’

  The men nodded.

  ‘Now.’

  With set arms, they pulled in unison, veins standing out on their foreheads.

  Palmer dropped his crossbow to help as another strike landed against the beleaguered wall. ‘Again. Pull!’

  And another.

  ‘Again.’ The sinews in his arms threatened to snap. The other men’s faces told him they neared their limit too.

  ‘And again.’

  Another blow thudded into the wall, this time ending in a loud crack.

  ‘May the devil take them.’ Simonson dropped to his knees. ‘They’re breaking it down.’

  ‘They’re not in yet. One last time, men.’ Palmer hauled hard and their prize came level with the wall walk. A steaming iron cooking vat, filled with gallons of water that had sat and boiled unattended from before the attack began.

  The wood of the wall walk creaked under the strain of the new weight.

  ‘Palmer, the whole thing’s going to come down.’

  ‘Not yet it’s not, Simonson.’ Sweat trickled into Palmer’s eyes, but he had no hand free to wipe it. ‘We need your bulk. This thing is red hot.’ He nodded to the other men. ‘Up and straight over. The whole blessed thing.’

  The wall shook and cracked from another loud bang.

  ‘Now,’ said Palmer. And grabbed, bracing against the pain.

  His palms seared. Scalding water sloshed onto him, the others, as they wrested the thing to the top of the wall.

  The vat tottered above them. It was coming back down on top of them.

  ‘Get over!’ Whether Simonson yelled it over or whether the man’s panicked shove was enough, Palmer didn’t know.

  All he knew was it dropped from sight onto the Irish below.

  The weight, the heat, the water: the screams told him it had done enough.

  Palmer picked up his crossbow. ‘Time to finish them off.’

  He’d done it.

  ‘May God help me!’ Gerald clutched even harder on to Theodosia.

  The long-bearded warrior stepped farther into the tent, his axe tight in his heavily muscled hold.

  Theodosia stared at the sharp-bladed weapon, then him, then it again, terror flooding her veins. ‘Please do not hurt us, sir,’ she said, lips dry. ‘We are no threat to you.’ She held the shield with the tightest grip she possessed.

  The man answered her in his own tongue.

  ‘I am afraid I do not understand,’ she said. ‘Perhaps if—’

  His axe struck hard against the shield.

  She screamed – Gerald too – as it was wrenched from her grasp and landed in a far corner.

  The warrior stepped towards them, with a longer stream of words this time, his d
eadly weapon firm in one hand.

  Pain sparked through Theodosia’s hands, but she cared not. She could not speak, could not scream, could not even breathe as the man advanced.

  ‘Help! Murder!’ Gerald’s thin shout did not even fill the tent and would make no impression on the noise outside.

  The warrior raised his axe.

  Theodosia braced in terror, with a last prayer for her children.

  Then he froze.

  A sharp voice, issuing a string of words that sounded the same as the man’s, came from the door of the tent. A woman’s voice.

  Eimear marched in, her breath fast, her arm outstretched in an accusing point at the warrior.

  Theodosia gasped in a breath as Gerald let out a long cry.

  ‘Now what’s to become of us?’

  The man lowered his weapon, turning away to face Eimear.

  She stood before him, continuing her tirade.

  A great trembling took hold of Theodosia. They were saved.

  Eimear’s words, delivered in a sharp tone, continued to pierce the air as she flung her arm to gesture towards the door.

  But Gerald was moving too, silently, his good hand raised.

  Theodosia caught the flash of a blade. ‘No!’

  The man half-turned at her scream. Too late.

  Gerald sank his pointed knife into the man’s back, and he crumpled from his knees, with a useless swipe at the clerk.

  Eimear gave an anguished shout. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘Sent a devil to hell.’ Gerald waved his bloodied knife at Eimear. ‘Stop where you are, or you will join him.’ He made for the door with surprising speed. ‘Guards! There is treachery within! Treachery!’

  ‘Brother, no.’ Theodosia went to halt him. Her legs would not hold her. She sank to the ground, the horror that was the murdered man’s lifeless stare inches from her own.

  Gerald’s calls continued to ring from outside in a dreadful chorus in her head. Treachery.

  Chapter Thirteen

  ‘The rain’s stopped too.’ Simonson puffed worse than an old carthorse as he laboured. ‘It’s a good omen, isn’t it, Palmer?’