by E. M. Powell
‘That man Palmer lived too, did he not?’ another knight asked John. ‘The only other to survive with you?’
John snorted. ‘Survived because of me, more like. I had to save him from an Irish axeman. Palmer’s like a broken-winded old war-horse. Well past his prime.’
The unkind mirth that greeted John’s response made her grit her teeth at its injustice. She had not had the opportunity to speak to Benedict yet, though she could hardly eat or sleep until she did so. But she knew in her heart, knew as well as she knew her God was in heaven, that Benedict would not have needed to be saved by John.
‘The Irish wield terrible destruction with those axes.’ John shook his head. ‘Barbarous.’
‘Their barbarity is in every inch of their bodies, my lord.’ Gerald, sat beside her, raised his voice to get the table’s attention. ‘And in every one of their customs. Even in the ceremonies to appoint their kings: in so doing, they have carnal knowledge of beasts.’
A mix of disbelieving disgust and a few sniggers greeted his words as Theodosia’s stomach rebelled.
‘You have knowledge of this?’ John looked appalled, yet the spark of unsavoury interest showed in his eyes.
‘Indeed I do,’ said Gerald. ‘A people in the far north of this isle. The ceremony is not a dubbing or any civilised matter. A white mare is brought before the assemblage, and he who is to have kingship conferred on him has intercourse with this animal.’
Theodosia could not bear to be a witness to this revolting discussion. She went to rise. ‘Permit me to leave, my lord.’
‘Sister.’ John’s expression hardened. ‘You are the one who said you would try to know Eimear O’Connor’s heart and soul. This is yet one more example of the darkness that exists within the Irish.’ He jerked a thumb at the door. ‘Go and hide from the ugliness of the truth if you wish. Like so many in the Church do.’
Gerald waved her away also, absorbed in the attention of his audience as he continued. ‘The mare is then killed immediately and cut up into pieces to be boiled in water. A hideous broth in which the new king then bathes naked, drinking this repulsive brew with open mouth.’
Theodosia made for the door as quickly as she could, willing her ears not to hear this ghastly tale.
‘I saw some of those actions myself, Gerald,’ said John. ‘An axeman landed such a blow to my horse’s leg. He knew where to strike and how hard.’
Theodosia opened the door to see a man clattering up the stairwell, still soiled from the road and dressed as a messenger.
He pushed past the guards. ‘I must see the Lord John.’
Theodosia halted him with a raised hand. ‘He is with his men. He is not to be disturbed.’
‘I have come from Lismore.’
She caught her breath. Lismore Castle. John’s third fortress, a number of miles away. And she knew some of Gerald’s kin had gone there to fight. ‘What news?’
The man shook his head. ‘So many dead.’
Many. Her stomach knotted. ‘The nephew of the King’s clerk?’
He shook his head again.
‘Then come with me.’
Theodosia re-entered the room, cutting John off in mid-flow. ‘My lord.’
‘What on earth do you want now?’
‘There is terrible news from Lismore.’ She ushered the man in.
At first, Palmer thought the howling heralded a fresh attack by the Irish.
Then he recognised the voice: the royal clerk, Gerald.
He hurried to the door of the tent, where he had been discussing with a few of the best remaining men how to deepen the trench that surrounded Tibberaghny.
Theodosia helped the clerk down the steps of the motte, the man’s words a stream of blame and anger and grief. Nostrils flaring, John led the way, clutching a rolled letter, his closest group following after.
‘What’s wrong with Gerald?’ asked Simonson.
Palmer spotted a man he didn’t recognise in John’s group, still wearing the splattered clothes of a rider who has ridden long and fast. ‘Bad news would be my guess.’
As if it heard him, the cool stiff breeze gave another strong gust from the low clouds.
‘More?’ Simonson shivered. ‘God’s eyes. How long has it been since we have received any good?’
Gerald’s shouts continued to draw men from all corners of the camp.
‘What man here wants a reward?’ John held the letter aloft as he reached the bottom of the steps. ‘A reward of many gold crowns.’ He marched into the centre of the bailey, waving the letter.
Excited calls broke out as word spread. ‘That’s right. Go summon your fellows; go and tell every man here what I am offering.’
‘I’d quite like a go at that, Palmer,’ said Simonson.
‘Wait.’ Palmer stepped forward with an arm across the chest of the younger man. ‘None of us has been paid for weeks. Why does the Lord John have sudden wealth to throw around? I need you here, like I need everyone we have.’ He frowned as John carried on shouting his dubious offer of crowns. Tibberaghny’s defences were already weak. They shouldn’t be losing any more men.
Theodosia had her arm around a quieter Gerald, murmuring words of comfort to him. She gave Palmer a quick glance, which didn’t help his doubt.
John now stood in a deep circle of eager faces. ‘Yes, you have heard right. I offer great riches. I offer them because we have suffered another grievous loss, this time at Lismore.’
Unease rippled through the crowd.
Palmer shared it. Another defeat for the Lord John.
‘Amongst others who have died is the kinsman of the King’s own clerk, Gerald of Wales.’
Moans broke from Gerald, Theodosia gently patting his good arm.
‘Saints guard us.’ Simonson shot Palmer a shocked look, a response shared by many present.
John nodded. ‘I see your disbelief. I too could hardly comprehend it.’ His voice climbed. ‘That these people, these wild dwellers on the edge of the world, could so easily overcome the best of my men. These people who are uncivilised, immoral savages. Defeating my men.’ He smacked the letter on his other, open palm. ‘But I know how they are doing it. There is only way to explain how these backward brutes are succeeding.’
‘It will be the devil guiding their hand.’ Gerald put a palm to his face.
‘My royal clerk speaks the truth,’ said John, to a wave of panicked whispers.
Palmer wondered if he’d heard right.
‘A devil that you have all seen.’ John pointed to some of the faces that his words held rapt. ‘You. And you. And you.’
The whispers loudened to cries.
John nodded. ‘A devil who has a name. And that name is Hugh de Lacy, Lord of Meath.’
The cries became angry shouts.
Palmer took a long breath in. Despite John’s hysterical description, the King’s son was partly right.
‘De Lacy has not been seen by any here for over five weeks. It is my solemn belief that he is out there, helping the Irish, guiding them with his wicked talents, using the skills he learned in Henry’s armies against his own people. He is the greatest traitor, and I need volunteers to track him down. Our greatest, greatest enemy!’ John thrust the letter up in the air to yells of hatred. ‘Who will fight for me?’
Palmer caught Theodosia’s horrified look. He had to. Not for the money, but to try to stop this tide of defeat. And he could fight with a small band, leave as many as possible to keep Tibberaghny safe. He went to raise his hand.
A grip on his arm halted him.
‘Sir Benedict.’ One of the guards from the gatehouse had a stricken look. ‘You must see this. At once.’
Palmer followed him with rapid steps as the wind whipped across the camp again.
The shouts broke off into exclamations and questions.
‘By the love of the Virgin.’ John dropped his hand. ‘What on earth is that smell?’
Uncaring of his injured hand, Palmer climbed to the top of the ladder so fast
his feet barely met each step.
Surely the guard had been wrong. He got to the platform at the top, the terrible stench still filling his nose and throat. A couple of strides got him to the wall. He looked over. And yes, the guard had spoken the truth.
Hugh de Lacy sat astride a huge destrier at the head of a line of mounted men in mail and iron helmets. And behind de Lacy, the source of the smell.
A large cart, filled with severed, decaying heads. The heads of men that had long, flowing hair and beards. The heads of Irishmen.
‘Ah, Palmer. I’m glad they found you.’ Half of de Lacy’s ruined face lifted in his crooked smile. ‘May I come in?’
Chapter Seventeen
The huge fires set in the bailey flared high, sending sparks and orange light into the deepening dusk.
Yet their fierce flames were not even close to the anger that burned within John’s chest. He kept his smile plastered on. For now. This huge celebration, swelled many times over by de Lacy’s men, would have to be borne.
‘Some more wine, my lord?’ Sat to John’s right, in the place of honour, the scarred-faced lord offered him the jug as though he ruled this place.
‘Good wine it is too.’ If John gritted his teeth any more, they would break. The splash of the wine into his vessel brought him the only tiny comfort.
Raucous, feasting cheer filled the bailey; tables set out again as they had been on the disastrous day of the slinger attack. All of it because of what Hugh de Lacy had done. And no showers of stones, of sharp javelins ruined it. The Irish would be staying far away from this place. De Lacy had seen to that, with his defeat of the men of the north who had dared to try to seize land in Meath from him, and his return with their heads as trophies. Everyone said his name with awe as they drank and cheered him. Even Gerald had taken to wine-bibbing.
‘A most wondrous victory, my lord de Lacy!’ The clerk’s hooked nose shone red in the firelight. ‘I shall be writing an account of your great deeds.’
John gripped his goblet stem hard lest he throw the vessel at Gerald’s head.
‘Thank you, good brother.’ De Lacy gave him a gracious bow. ‘Though I see your arm still is not healed?’
Gerald slipped into his usual whine. ‘No, my lord. The sister here does my bidding though her efforts do not match what my own would be.’
‘Not to worry, brother,’ said de Lacy. ‘Your success at supping wine with one hand is second to none.’
John braced himself for one of Gerald’s tirades and for a string of admonishments to be called down on de Lacy’s head. But no.
Gerald gave a high peal of laughter, his skinny frame rocking back and forth as all others joined him. ‘Very good, my lord.’
By God and all the saints, the clerk was as drunk as an alewife’s husband.
‘Very good. Oh, very good.’ Gerald nodded and nodded to more laughter.
Only the sister didn’t laugh. Or even smile. She sat with her eyes lowered as she busied herself with Gerald’s plate of untouched food.
Time he, John, drew some mirth from this table. His table. ‘Perhaps some wine would cheer you, sister? Make you and Gerald better friends.’ He gave her a broad wink. ‘Perhaps even the best.’
The only reward he got was a few half-hearted sniggers and the flush that rose in the nun’s face.
De Lacy remained impassive, curse him. Instead, he addressed the nun. ‘I believe you have already been a constant friend to Gerald, sister. As you have to my wife.’
John tensed at the mention of Eimear. He’d done nothing to that arrogant Irish bitch and here was de Lacy implying that she’d somehow suffered.
‘Thank you, my lord.’ The sister’s flush grew deeper.
‘It is I who should be thanking you,’ said de Lacy. ‘Your health, sister.’ He held up his goblet, with a nod to the table that everyone should follow.
Like foolish sheep, they did, some even following de Lacy’s bow before they carried on talking and laughing and drinking.
John took a bite of roasted meat. He wouldn’t be honouring that Theodosia woman. All she’d done was divert him from his true purpose. And de Lacy looked far too pleased with himself. ‘Your wife is not joining us then, de Lacy?’ He licked his fingers as he said it.
‘No, my lord. Eimear is at prayer tonight.’
‘In my keep.’
‘In your keep, my lord. Where she tells me she has been kept safe. Secure, one might say.’
John could see the shadow of deep displeasure in the man’s one working eye. He was doing a good job of keeping it in check. ‘I would have thought she would want to join you here at the feast. It’s been weeks since she’s seen you.’
‘That is why she prays, my lord. She gives thanks to God for my safe return. Once my tent has been cleaned and suitably prepared for my wife, she will return to me there. I will resume my responsibility for her.’
A tall figure emerged from the noisy throng. Palmer.
‘My lord de Lacy.’ His deep tone held respect, and his face and hair shone with the sweat of exertion.
De Lacy turned to him. ‘Have you and your men done what I have asked, Palmer?’
‘Yes, my lord. We’ve finished.’
John looked at the man who’d escaped the Ardfinnan rout with him. Straight-faced as ever. Impossible to tell what lay behind his neutral expression.
‘If you’ll excuse me, my lord.’ De Lacy got to his feet. ‘I need to check that Palmer has correctly carried out the task I charged him with.’
‘Yes, yes.’ John waved him away, keen to see the back of him. Of them both.
With a bow, the two men headed off into the darkness.
Good-humoured shouting and whistling broke out from another table.
A couple of men had struck up a piping tune with a bone whistle and a small drum.
‘Let’s hear it all!’ John clapped his hands along to encourage them, and everyone followed suit.
Good. Let them all be distracted with such a dreadful din.
He filled his goblet once more and settled back in his chair.
De Lacy might think he ruled this night. But John had other plans. He needed time to think.
Palmer led de Lacy up a ladder that led to the wall walk, far more careful in his movements than when he’d rushed up to the gatehouse earlier on.
He stepped onto the wooden platform, de Lacy stepping after.
‘All as you ordered, my lord.’ He wiped the sweat from his forehead with his forearm, his stomach still rebelling from his labours.
De Lacy looked up at the tall, new spike. Impaled on it was one of the terrible cargo of heads. ‘Very good.’ He nodded. ‘The others?’
Palmer swept his hand to indicate the circle of the wall of the bailey. ‘At regular intervals.’
The flames from the enclosure below cast a glow on the many, many heads on spikes. Fixed in their masks of death, the flickering light brought an eerie life back to their faces. The horrible stench remained whenever the breeze eased. The joyful music and singing from below made the sight even more nightmarish.
‘What of the head of the king from the north who would steal my land?’ asked de Lacy.
‘On top of the keep.’ Palmer pointed to the Lord John’s tower, lit in one narrow window. The head on the long pole made a dark silhouette against the last pale light in the western sky, its lifeless mouth open in a silent scream.
‘And the torches?’ asked de Lacy. ‘They are all in place and ready to be lit?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Excellent.’ De Lacy nodded again. ‘I wonder if the Lord John doubts my loyalty to the King now?’
Palmer tensed. He himself had doubted it. Utterly. Not anymore. ‘How could anyone, my lord? You taught the enemy a lesson that they won’t forget.’ Are teaching John one too: that you can win, while he can’t. De Lacy was openly rubbing John’s nose in his victory.
De Lacy smiled as if he had overheard Palmer’s thoughts. ‘Thank you for your hard work. I’m
going to rejoin the feast now. Come with me – I’ll find you a place at the Lord John’s table. You’ll have a great thirst. And you’ll want to share in John’s approval when he sees this display.’
‘You’re most generous, my lord.’ Palmer had no mind for anything other than getting the chance to talk to Theodosia. Everything was changing and they should be altering their plans.
A burst of laughter came from the bailey.
In the fire’s light, the clerk Gerald hopped in an untypical dance.
‘Now, there’s a sight.’ De Lacy shook his head.
Thank the Almighty for a holy man who couldn’t hold his drink. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d far rather go and clean up, my lord.’ Palmer held up his bandaged hands, stained from his stomach-turning labours. He grimaced. ‘These stink from the rancid flesh, but I fear my own may be turning as well.’
De Lacy’s look shifted to concern. ‘Then get them seen to, man.’ He went to the ladder.
‘Thank you, my lord.’ He followed de Lacy down. ‘Sister Theodosia, the one who looks after the King’s clerk. She has seen to my wounds too. I’d be grateful if she could leave the feast. It’ll only be for a while.’
His feet met the ground, his heart thumping.
But de Lacy didn’t even turn around. ‘No need to bother her for such an unpleasant task. I’ll send one of my barber-surgeons.’ He set off for the Lord John’s table with a wave of his hand.
Palmer tipped his head back with a string of soundless curses.
His gaze met the distorted leer of a head above him, as if the dead man mocked him.
‘De Lacy.’ John greeted the man’s return to the table, refilling de Lacy’s goblet with a hand that remained steady. Good. He could not show de Lacy so much as a hair-quiver of uncertainty.
‘Thank you, my lord. I apologise for having to leave’ – De Lacy gestured up to the keep – ‘but I wanted to make sure all was complete.’
