by E. M. Powell
For now.
He wrenched his head around to check on John.
The King’s son kept a few attackers at bay with his fine sword. A crossbow-wielding horseman saw to the rest.
‘Stay on your horses, men!’ Palmer roared his order above the melee of squealing horses and yelling men.
A slinger’s stone slammed into Palmer’s right arm in breath-robbing pain. But his armour saved the bone; a bruise wouldn’t kill him. He swore hard, sent another attacker staggering back, the man’s hand a mess of blood.
Ardfinnan wasn’t far. He and John’s men were holding the Irish off. He could ride – any of them could ride – and fetch reinforcements back.
Then a huge, black-haired, long-bearded warrior emerged from the bushes near John, a battleaxe raised in one hand, round shield painted with bright red coils in the other.
‘My lord!’
Too late.
The Irishman struck. Fast. Hard. Brutal. Not at John. At the mounted crossbowman who shot so well. The man’s mailed thigh could have been dead wood. His severed limb fell on one side of his horse as his screaming, dying body fell from the other.
And the warrior turned next for John.
Chapter Fifteen
‘Use your horse, my lord!’ Palmer yelled with all the air in his lungs. ‘As well as your sword!’
But the King’s son didn’t heed him. ‘You’ll not have my leg!’ John yanked his foot from his stirrup as the warrior raised his weapon again.
Forcurse it, John was going to jump from his animal. ‘Stay on your mount!’ Palmer kicked his horse hard, making for John’s defence, blade raised.
But John was off, half-falling from his high seat to stumble on the ground, his panicked horse between him and the warrior.
Palmer swung his weapon, meeting the man’s swinging axe in mid-swipe. The force of the colliding blows sent him hard into his wooden saddle pommel.
The man whipped his axe down in a fast crouch, ducking from a clumsy next blow from Palmer.
John had got to his unsteady feet, sword in one hand, his shield lost in his descent.
‘Remount, my lord.’ Palmer went for another strike.
‘I can’t! My mail weighs me down and the beast won’t stay still!’
The warrior jerked back so Palmer’s swipe went wide.
‘Try!’
The man brought the axe up again at a poor angle.
No. A perfect angle.
The Irishman sent his blade into the right knee of John’s horse and yanked it back out in a vicious strike.
The huge animal squealed and jolted in its agony, its heavy flank thumping John off his feet and flat onto his stomach on the ground.
Eyes rolling, the horse collapsed close to him, blood pulsing from its wound.
‘Get up, my lord!’ Palmer’s destrier heaved under him, his animal spooked and desperate to escape. He knew the perils of dismounting in full armour. But he couldn’t defend John from the back of his own animal, not with the injured horse in the way in this tight space.
He clambered from the saddle with an oath. His horse fled as the warrior scrambled over to the still prostrate John, his axe up high again.
Dodging the huge flailing hooves as he followed, Palmer yelled to John. ‘My lord! Up!’
The King’s son raised his head. Thrust himself to the side as the axe came down.
The warrior bellowed his frustration as his blade sank into mud.
And Palmer was almost on him, his sword raised and ready.
One of the fallen horse’s uninjured legs kicked out. Palmer stopped dead to avoid it, skidding on the wet mud and nearly losing his grip on his weapon.
The axeman was ready again, but John had managed to stand. He waved his sword at the Irishman. ‘Go to hell, you savage.’
Palmer recovered his hold, stepping round the struggling horse. Fast. Quiet.
The man smiled at John’s reaction. ‘You can go first.’
John gaped in shock that the man could answer with his own tongue, then howled as the warrior struck his sword from his grasp.
Palmer went for his own strike.
John’s glance flicked to Palmer.
The axeman saw it. He whirled with a shout, his vividly painted round shield up.
Palmer’s sword bounced off the iron boss at its centre.
The man adjusted the angle of the shield, using its edge to hammer against Palmer’s own, then his axe, over and over, driving him backwards, off balance and towards the moving hooves. Palmer’s sword angle was too shallow, his grip all wrong. He could only defend against the onslaught of blows that drove the breath from his body and rattled his teeth in his head.
‘Use your sword, Palmer!’
‘The stripling teaches fighting now, does he?’ The towering Irishman laughed as he struck again and again.
A metal-clad hoof missed Palmer’s legs by a whisper.
Palmer dropped down and forward to a crouch.
The warrior’s strike was off the mark, his own momentum pitching him over Palmer.
Hoof met bone, but Palmer didn’t stop to check.
He was on his feet and at John’s side, thrusting John’s sword back into his hand.
‘How can we fight all of them?’ John’s look was ashen.
Palmer already had the answer. The Irish warriors overran the column of knights and horses, slaughtering all before them. ‘We can’t. We run.’
He grabbed John by the shoulder and hauled him into the bushes.
Running in chain mail got harder as you got older.
Palmer’s breath came in deep gasps, his legs like water as he forced his way through the thick undergrowth. Ropes of ivy snared him and brambles and sharp branches ripped at his face. But he still moved quicker than John.
‘Palmer. Stop.’
Palmer did as John ordered. ‘My lord, we have to keep going.’
John looked close to collapse as sweat poured down his scarlet face, a face equally as scratched as Palmer’s. ‘Give me one minute.’
‘We only have to get to Ardfinnan.’ Palmer pointed forward. ‘The river’s in that direction. It’s not far. Once we get there, we can follow it to your castle. It leads there, the same as the road we were on.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I spoke to the men who have been there.’
‘I need to get rid of this cursed mail. It’s too heavy.’ John tugged at his helmet’s fastening.
Palmer grabbed his hand down. ‘No.’
‘Do not dare to touch me.’ John’s face pinched in anger as he shook him off. ‘Who do you think you are to order me to do anything?’
Palmer raised his hands. ‘I’m sorry, my lord. I’m not trying to order you to do anything. But you need to keep your armour on.’
‘We have to move quickly, do we not? So we can get to the safety of Ardfinnan?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Well, no one saw us go. That bearded monster will have his head cracked by my poor horse’s hooves by now. We are not being followed. My gambeson will suffice.’ John pulled off his helmet, his red hair plastered wet to his head. ‘That will protect me enough, without the weight of—’
Palmer stopped him with a raised hand. ‘Listen.’
A flock of wood pigeons clattered through the canopy above.
‘Birds.’ John ground the word out. ‘I thought I told you not to give orders to me.’ Then his face paled, despite the heat. He’d heard it too.
The shouts of many Irishmen, men who knew they were in reach of quarry. Men who didn’t need to be cautious because they knew they far outnumbered that quarry. Men who knew how to use their axes with devastating effect.
‘Palmer.’ John began to shake from head to foot. ‘What do we do now?’
‘We have to make the river.’ Palmer took off, faster than ever, crashing through the bushes, John following as he fumbled his helmet back on.
‘To fight?’
‘To not die.’
‘Palmer, I can see it. The castle.’ John’s words came in panicked, exhausted gasps.
At least he’d learned to keep his voice down. ‘I see it too, my lord.’
The barest glimpse through the trees, rising on a high crag above the river. And as Palmer had feared, still too far away. The shouts behind them echoed louder. Nearer.
‘Then where are you going?’ said John. ‘We should be heading straight for it.’
‘We’re not going to make it,’ said Palmer. ‘They’ll be on us before we get there.’ He kept his path through the dense shrubs and bushes.
John’s eyes bulged. ‘We just keep running around in these woods and wait for them to kill us?’
‘No.’ Palmer ploughed on, his ears alert for the sound he needed.
‘Then what do you suggest?’ John’s enraged hiss held the threat of violence.
So be it. If what he, Palmer, planned didn’t work, he’d need as much fighting blood as possible flowing through John’s veins. ‘You’ll see.’
A drumming broke out. Swords and fists on wooden shields. A beat that readied men for slaughter.
‘They want our heads.’ John stifled a sound that could have been a sob.
Palmer took a glance back. Still not within sight. ‘Hurry.’ He picked up his pace in a last push. The beating of the shields got louder, faster.
Then he saw it, through the trees. The rushing waters of the strong, fast river that flowed past Ardfinnan Castle.
He forced his way out onto the bank, praying he’d find what he needed.
John joined him, his gaze moving back and forth to the woods behind. ‘We’re going to swim for it? Upstream? Have you lost your mind?’
‘No, my lord.’ Palmer grabbed a handful of John’s surcoat. ‘And no.’ He tore the garment open with a quick slash of his sword.
John stifled a yell. ‘But you have!’ He took a step back as Palmer yanked the garment from him. He looked ready to flee.
Only the noise of the Irish from the woods, audible above the river, stopped him.
‘You’re going to have to trust me, my lord.’ Palmer shoved the surcoat under his arm and laid his sword against a bush.
‘Trust a madman?’
Palmer quickly worked his mail glove off his left hand, Theodosia’s bandage still tight on his injured knuckles. ‘It’s me or the Irish, my lord. And we’re running out of time.’ He nodded to one of the big piles of debris that lined the riverbank, cast there by winter floods. ‘Find me the biggest branch you can.’
‘You will build us a boat before the enemy is on us?’
‘Now. Please.’
In frowning disbelief, John hurried over to the pile of muddied dead wood and rotting grass and leaves.
Palmer did a quick scan of the woods as John cursed and tugged at a hefty forked tree limb.
No one in sight. Yet. Their calls told him it would be any minute now. He sliced the bandage off with his knife, then angled his blade against the big, healing scabs. He bit down. And cut hard.
‘This one’s the biggest.’ John straightened up, his words stopping as he gaped at Palmer.
The quick flow of new blood was enough. Palmer let it seep onto the ruined surcoat, smearing it out as much as he could.
He stepped over to John, whose mouth curled down at the sight of the bloodied cloth. ‘I’m not doing that. I can wait for my blood to be shed.’
Palmer ignored him, snapping off one of the branch’s forks, the movement sending more pain through his hand. And more blood. He pierced a wide section of the surcoat with the sharp, jagged branch, then rammed his mail glove onto a bunch of small twigs.
Now he could hear the definite cracking and breaking of branches that meant men forced their way through the woods.
‘Palmer.’ John’s word came through clenched teeth.
‘I hear them.’ Palmer picked up one end of the branch. ‘You take the other end.’
John didn’t stop to argue.
‘As far into the middle of the current as we can.’
John nodded.
They pulled back the heavy branch, and with a hard, high swing, it sailed over the surface of the river and in with a loud splash.
It turned over, the surcoat submerging.
Palmer’s guts coiled. It hadn’t worked. At all.
Then the current nudged it, and with a slow, slow roll, it turned over. The bundle of bloodied white cloth showed clear against the rotting wood. The river took it into its brisk flow and it headed off downstream at a steady pace.
‘Come on.’ Palmer signalled to John. ‘We need to get to that.’ He pointed a few yards upstream to a tangle of branches and old leaves that had piled up against the roots of a long-dead fallen tree, rotting as they sat trapped at the edge of the water. A few low branches, heavy with leaves, jutted out over it.
John broke into a run, but Palmer halted him. ‘Step carefully,’ he whispered. ‘Stay out of the mud.’
Sweat trickled down Palmer’s back as he too forced himself to move with caution. Every inch of him braced to run from the axemen. But they had to do it this way.
And they were there.
‘Get in the water.’ Palmer had his sight fixed where he guessed the first men would emerge. ‘Use your sword as an anchor. And keep low in those branches.’
Palmer started to wade into the clogged water as he spoke. The angled bank fell away in a steep drop. He slipped, his chain mail a terrifying weight that threatened to pull him under into water that had him gasping with cold. His hands locked on his sword, buried deep in the mud.
John panted like a warm dog as he stared, not moving.
Then past his shoulder, Palmer saw the bushes move.
‘My lord,’ he whispered. ‘In. Now. And hold on.’
John had seen it too. He slid in next to Palmer.
‘God’s eyes, Palmer. I’m going to drown.’
‘Hold on. Stay as low as you can.’ Palmer sank, the water rising over his chin and mouth, using his nose to breathe.
The first Irishman stepped out into the open, axe raised and ready. It had the stain of fresh blood on the blade. Several more joined him, their colour high from their battle, their eyes keen for their prey. Last came the huge, hulking warrior that Palmer had thought mortally wounded by the horse. But no. The man had a gash on his head from which blood had drenched one shoulder. Yet he stood as straight as a statue, ready to take on another fight.
The quiver of the water next to him told him John had also witnessed their pursuers.
Palmer offered a brief prayer that he’d done enough. Their dull metal helmets should blend with the colours of decaying nature and the muddy river. The low branches overhead kept them in deep green shade.
The men spoke rapidly to one another, shielding their eyes from the glare of the sun with their shields as they scanned the bank.
Downriver. Just look downriver. The log with the bloodied surcoat, the mail glove. That would surely have them following. Unless it had rolled over again.
A loud order came from one, causing the men to separate, calling to each other as they fanned out along the riverbank.
The injured warrior started to make his way upstream, striding on long, powerful legs, his axe resting on his shoulder, his eyes to the ground. Only one thing for it.
Palmer nudged John with his knee, signalling with his eyes what they had to do.
John’s look showed him terrified but that he understood.
Rising enough to take his mouth from the water, Palmer gulped down as many lungfuls of air as he could hold. John did the same.
He sank into the muddy water, the shouts of the Irish becoming thin and faint against the thud of his own heart and the rumble of the river. The murk of the water meant he could make out some of the bank and the branches directly above him, but nothing else.
He wanted to gasp from the cold but held the breath in his lungs.
A moving shadow darkened his vision even more.
The man was here. Rig
ht above them.
Then the movement stopped.
The muscles in Palmer’s chest, his throat, ached for release, an ache that grew by the second. He couldn’t give in to it.
Still, the shadow above.
Palmer’s chest tightened more, the desire for air pressing like a hand on his ribs as he strengthened his grip on his sword. He could try a swing. But his sword kept him anchored to the riverbank. If he loosed it, his mail would carry him to the bottom of the river and pin him there while he drowned.
And he had to breathe now. He had to. One more second, he told himself. One more. One more.
His ears buzzed, his chest seared. He had to breathe. He had to. Even if it meant an axe in his skull. He had to.
The shadow disappeared in an abrupt flick.
Palmer shoved his nose to the surface and the sounds of the world broke through again.
The Irishmen shouting. And running. Running downstream, pointing and gesturing at the log bearing John’s surcoat.
He pulled hard on John’s arm, and he emerged too, coughing and gulping and spitting. ‘Ardfinnan?’
Palmer thrust his own face clear from the water. ‘Fast as we can,’ he gasped. ‘It won’t be long before they find out what we’ve done.’ He pulled in lungful after lungful of air. It might stink of rotten leaves and mud, but it was the sweetest he’d ever tasted.
Chapter Sixteen
‘Nineteen dead. Nineteen.’
Theodosia dug her fingernails into her palms at John’s words, repeated so many times.
He sat at the head of the table in his keep at Tibberaghny, his loyal group of young confidantes with him. She had her usual place next to Gerald, tending to his instructions for scribing while every inch of her wished to be elsewhere. This was no feast, no celebration. The sombre group listened to John’s account as he veered from simmering rage to boastfulness and back.
‘At least you are returned safe to us, my lord,’ said Fitzmiles.
Benedict too. Theodosia offered her deepest thanks to God for the thousandth time. The news of the men lost, spreading through the camp like a miasma bringing plague, had brought her a terror that had almost stopped her heart. She had not been able to ask about Benedict, lest she draw attention to herself. All she could do was race to where her brother had entered, craning past those who had gathered, trying with increasing desperation to see if Benedict had returned. She’d wanted to weep in relief when she saw his broad-shouldered frame standing next to a ranting John, but would not allow herself as tears should be for those who had lost their lives.
