by E. M. Powell
‘Don’t you mean Sister Theodosia?’ Her question came with a shrewd glance.
‘Doesn’t matter what I mean. I serve King Henry. Theodosia does too. We share anything we know in our service to our king. We’re loyal to him. What I told you at the keep is all you need to know.’ He caught her small frown. ‘Yes, more of my rude tongue. I haven’t the breath to flower my words.’
‘Then I’ll permit it. For I’m sure you are loyal. But I wouldn’t advise leaving. I am your only guarantee of getting through these lands safely. Any Irish warrior that saw you on your own would slay you in an instant. You’d make a wonderful prize.’
‘I can fight the Irish. You know that. You saw it at Tibberaghny.’
‘But every fight is a new one. I certainly know that. And what if you lose, Sir Benedict Palmer? Who will go back for Theodosia then?’
He had no answer. The thought of her left alone because he failed threatened to unman him.
‘I won’t abandon her, Sir Benedict.’ Eimear’s jaw set firm. ‘No matter what happens. I reward loyalty and I—’
Palmer grabbed at her arm and hauled her into the cover of the bushes. ‘Listen.’
‘What?’ came her breath of a whisper.
Palmer frowned. ‘I could swear I heard a shout,’ he murmured.
They both listened intently. All he could hear now was the rustle of the breeze in the trees. The chirping choruses of birds. The quiet ripple of a nearby stream.
Eimear shook her head. ‘I can’t hear anything untoward.’
‘I still think I heard something.’ He moved forward again. ‘We have to stay off the road. We can make our way along near it.’
‘It’ll be much, much slower that way.’
‘I know. But the road is too exposed. John will send men out looking for us. I know he will.’
He offered a brief prayer of thanks that Hugh de Lacy had given an oath to guard Tibberaghny. Whoever came after them, at least it wouldn’t be the scarred Lord of Meath.
Theodosia dug her nails into her palms to test whether she dreamt. De Lacy gone. Yet John rejoiced. Her flesh stung back, told her she was awake.
John’s laughing fit had turned him an alarming hue from lack of breath. ‘Your faces.’ He gasped the words out. ‘Oh, your faces. My jest worked wonderfully. You truly believed my rage.’ He brought himself back under control. ‘I will treasure those expressions for the rest of my life.’
‘My lord, I fear you do not grasp the seriousness of what has taken place,’ said Gerald. ‘Mirthful though you may find it, de Lacy has broken an oath to you. A worrying and important betrayal.’
‘His promise before God Himself, my lord.’ Theodosia pressed the point, knowing John’s temper to be as fragile as the thinnest glass, but her fear for Benedict was too urgent. ‘I believe you cannot tolerate it.’
‘What you both fail to grasp is that I am happy for him to leave.’ John’s lips still twitched in a smile. ‘I let him.’
His words made no sense to her.
Gerald’s face showed the same incomprehension.
John continued. ‘De Lacy’s rash actions in breaking his oath have unexpectedly helped my plans. You see, it suited me far better when it appeared that he was fighting alongside the Irish and against me, against the English crown.’ The smile disappeared in his scowl. ‘But then he came back with the heads of the treacherous Irish.’
‘Yet a loyal gesture, my lord,’ said Gerald. ‘Loyal to his king.’
Theodosia nodded.
‘Indeed. Henry’s hero.’ John almost spat. ‘De Lacy’s return made things very difficult very suddenly. Complicating matters when I had everything under control.’
‘Indeed you had, my lord,’ said Gerald, keen as always for favour.
Not control. Theodosia ached to challenge his lie. A vicious, unnecessary conflict. Defeat.
‘Then, a gift from God.’ John threw up his hands, his good humour returned. ‘Palmer makes off with de Lacy’s strumpet of a wife.’
Out of your reach. Theodosia allowed herself the tiny consolation even as her unease whispered within her.
‘De Lacy, hero to his boots, has to chase after her for his honour,’ said John. ‘He couldn’t have moved faster if I’d chased him out with an army of ten thousand men.’ He shook his head to himself. ‘Marvellous. Simply marvellous.’
‘My lord, I doubt if King Henry will see it as marvellous,’ said Gerald. ‘He needs to know of this treachery by de Lacy, though it will be some time before word reaches—’
John held up a hand. ‘There will be no letters to Henry.’ He went over to his table on which a locked chest rested.
Gerald gave Theodosia a bewildered look.
Her unease grew.
‘No word to Henry until I order it.’ Pulling a small gold key from his belt pouch, John opened the chest. ‘I have far more important work for you and the sister now.’ He removed a rolled manuscript and opened it out to reveal its contents. ‘Far more important.’
Theodosia stared at what her half-brother held in his hands. All she had believed about this disastrous mission began to crumble, crumble as quickly as the stones of the Sonning chapel had the day the earth moved.
Though heavily decorated, the attempts at illustration and colour on the borders of the manuscript showed a hand with little skill. The large lettering at its centre lacked sure lines and consisted only of four words. But what words.
John, King of Ireland.
Even Gerald was silenced.
‘Now do you understand?’ John beamed like the vellum was made of gold and inlaid with diamonds.
‘No, my lord.’ Gerald looked genuinely perplexed.
‘Nor I, my lord.’ Theodosia forced the words out through dry lips. Not fully. But enough that a terrible realisation went through her as swiftly as poison surges through a vein.
John’s smile wavered. A little. ‘I forgive you both for your slowness. Most minds lag behind mine.’ He laid the manuscript on the table with careful reverence. ‘This will be included in the great history that you will write for me. My acquisition of a crown. My ascension to a throne.’ He gave the clumsy work a gentle pat. ‘I have drawn this myself. It has taken me many hours.’ Another pat. ‘The throne of Ireland, just as it says.’
‘But – but Henry sent you here in his name, my lord,’ said the stunned-sounding clerk.
‘Oh, yes.’ John’s smile returned. ‘My father’s name. Under his superior lordship. An old man, hanging on to everything for himself, as old men do. Henry. The Pope. But this says otherwise.’ He tapped the manuscript hard with a fingernail, the declaration of himself as king in the poor lettering like a crude bellow from the page. ‘Do you see, both of you?’
‘Yes, my lord,’ whispered Theodosia. She saw it all. But too late.
‘Of course, my lord, of course.’ Gerald gave a fawning bow. ‘Or should I say “your Grace”?’ His high-pitched laugh. ‘Not all men of mature years are set in their ways. I for one can see the benefits of a new path.’ He nodded hard. ‘Change. I must say, yours is a remarkable work. Such a wonderful record for posterity.’
The speed of the clerk’s self-serving capitulation had Theodosia clenching her fists.
‘It is, isn’t it?’ John looked at it fondly once more.
‘May I ask, my lord, how is your’ – Gerald cleared his throat – ‘ascension to the Irish throne going to come to pass?’
‘De Lacy’s delivery of the heads of the Irish brutes gave me a wonderful idea,’ replied John. ‘He defeated one Irish king, one Irish tribe. Yet there are so many others. I shall summon them all here and show them what de Lacy has done.’
‘A gathering of the Irish kings, my lord? Are you sure that’s wise?’ Gerald gave a nervous titter. ‘After Waterford, I mean.’
‘I have de Lacy’s men of Meath at my side to ensure my safety, Gerald. And my plan to bring the Irish kings here is more than wise; it is brilliant. Oh, how I will grieve at his terrible actions. Oh, ho
w I shall proclaim he should be stopped. I will call it “the murder of your fair people”. That, by the way, would be a wonderful title for one of the chapters in my history.’ John nodded to himself as his eyes went to his manuscript again. ‘Eimear O’Connor has helped my cause too.’ He gave a long, satisfied sigh. ‘Now I can claim that even she fled from her own husband because of his slaughter of the Irish.’
Theodosia closed her eyes, opened them, in a long, slow blink. Her doing.
‘I shall of course agree a new treaty with the Irish kings,’ said John.
‘With respect, my lord, King Henry already has a treaty in place. The one that made Rory O’Connor High King,’ said Gerald.
‘That treaty is with my father,’ said John.
And my father. A man who has given you so much. Yet you grasp for even more. You seek to steal a whole land from him.
John carried on. ‘The old, slow-footed English king. It has been weak and useless since the day it was agreed. The time has come for change. My treaty will be to agree a brand new settlement. I will divide up de Lacy’s lands amongst them. Land, you see – that’s what they all want. And de Lacy will be left with none of it.’ He pulled in a long breath of delight. ‘Same as Henry.’
‘My lord. I am not trying to cast gloom.’ Gerald wore his best obsequious smile. ‘But Henry has always had the greatest of difficulty getting them to hold the peace. And many times they have not.’
‘That is because my father is limited, Gerald. Limited.’ John jabbed a finger at him. ‘I, however, am not. I might have lost one hostage today, thanks to that scoundrel Palmer. But I will have many, many more. I will ask the Irish for their children as part of their land deal. Same as my father has done in the past.’
Theodosia’s breath stalled. She knew what John had desired to do to Eimear as a hostage. What of these children?
‘They’ll be a messy, noisy handful, my lord.’ Gerald grimaced. ‘Are you sure you want a royal court full of Irish whelps?’
‘They won’t be a handful.’ John shook his head at his own thoughts. ‘They’ll be wonderful decoration. At least the girls will. I will adorn the walls of my castle with their little heads. I have de Lacy to thank for such wonderful inspiration.’
Theodosia clamped a hand to her mouth to stifle a cry as Gerald gasped.
‘I will tell the Irish kings that the boys will follow unless they serve me with absolute loyalty. The howls of protest are depressingly predictable. But they will bow down to me.’ John gestured to the window, to the green below, the curve of mountain beyond. ‘Then all this land will be mine. I may be a king’s youngest son, but I will have a crown.’ He nodded. ‘John, King of Ireland.’ He brought his triumphant gaze back to Gerald and Theodosia. ‘You see? Lackland no more.’ He held a hand out to his manuscript again. ‘Now, shall we begin?’
Chapter Twenty-One
Theodosia sat at the table in John’s solar, scribing with her usual diligence even as she wanted to hurl herself at John and tear at his eyes.
The King’s son had spoken for almost two hours about the very beginning of his conquest of the country, Gerald chiming in with equally lengthy embellishments. They ordered her to pause frequently while they encouraged each other in increasingly elaborate suggestions of how events should be described. Their current debate concerned John’s clothing on the day of his arrival at the port of Waterford. If John had worn as much gold, as many jewels as he claimed, he would have been unable to stand upright.
She cared not. Her head thumped in a horrified rhythm, her heart matching it so hard that she thought it would break apart.
The children. The children of the Irish kings. Bile rose in her throat again in her shock, her disgust, as John’s intended plans for them hung in a revolting picture before her. Plans that she had no doubt would work. She put her hand to her mouth lest she lose control. Nothing mattered now. Nothing. No lands, no wealth, no kingdoms. Nothing. Nothing, except the delivery of those so young from this hideous fate.
‘Sister, put down that I wore the emerald ring that the Pope sent to my father many years ago,’ said John, wine goblet in hand, despite the early hour. ‘The one that is for the King of Ireland.’
The ring Theodosia had herself seen, the one Dymphna had brought to Sonning. She bent to the manuscript again to reluctantly comply with another untruth. If only Benedict were still here. He would know what to do. But she had sent him away with Eimear. And now the murderous de Lacy pursued them. Her head pounded afresh.
‘Ah. Hold one moment, sister.’ Enthroned in a large, carved chair, Gerald bared his long teeth in a wide, indulgent smile at John. ‘King Henry keeps that under secure lock and key, my lord. We must have accuracy.’
She paused, her hand to her forehead to ease the pain that coursed through it. Her attempts to save Eimear had condemned others so much more in need of protection. She knew the agony of a child’s life being put under threat. She had to – had to – stop it. But, God forgive her, she did not know how.
‘But who will be lauded as the King of Ireland?’ John grinned back at Gerald, his face aglow with his triumph. ‘Accuracy!’
‘Of course.’ Gerald raised his hands in exaggerated delight. ‘As the Lord John says, sister.’ He glanced in her direction. ‘Are you feeling unwell?’
‘Only a headache, brother.’ The ink flowed from her quill, with her script neat, orderly, mocking the terrible disorder that raged within her. She tried to calm her upset. She had to think.
‘Good.’ Gerald already had his attention back on John. ‘We should turn to the arrival of the Irish at Waterford, should we not?’
‘Oh, yes.’ John flung himself into a low chair opposite Gerald, legs dangling over the arm. ‘The men of the three Irish kings. Imagine if the three kings who visited the stable in Bethlehem had been as hideous in their appearance as those fellows, eh? Armed with axes to visit the Christ child?’
Theodosia finished the words about the emerald ring, gripping the quill so hard she thought it would snap in her fingers. She would not record blasphemy.
‘Oh, very good, my lord.’ Gerald gave his high-pitched laugh. ‘They were indeed a sight. I had a mortal fear of an axe shattering your royal skull.’
‘As had I. But I held my nerve.’ John exhaled a long, proud breath. ‘Sister, those words: shattering my skull. I like those. Very dramatic.’
His words jolted through her even as she nodded. Shattering a skull. Of course. The person to whom she should turn for help. The man she had seen murdered in precisely that brutal manner before her very eyes at Canterbury, even as he had saved her life. Saint Thomas Becket, Saint Thomas the Martyr. She began her prayer to him even as she wrote, begging him to the depths of her soul for an answer.
‘You must name whose treacherous courts they came from,’ said Gerald. ‘McCarthy of Desmond. O’Brien of Thomond. O’Connor of Connacht.’
I beseech you, my Lord Becket. Please come to the aid of the blameless, the innocent.
‘O’Connor.’ John scowled as he gestured for Gerald to refill his cup. ‘Sounds like a coward. With his truce with de Lacy so he wouldn’t have to fight him.’
Answer those who cry to you for your intercession.
‘I don’t think I would want to fight the scarred lord.’ Gerald shuddered. ‘I see those heads on spikes outside in my dreams. And yet he makes such a show of being a devout supporter of the Church.’
Oh, blessed, oh, merciful, Saint Thomas: hear my prayer.
‘De Lacy?’ John looked askance at Gerald.
I beseech you with humble and contrite heart: hear my prayer.
‘Oh, yes, my lord.’ Gerald nodded. ‘Difficult to countenance, but he has made extensive ecclesiastical benefices over the years, especially to the abbey in Dublin where he buried his first wife.’
I beseech you: hear my prayer.
John grunted. ‘Unexpected. The Church has enough wealth, if you ask me.’
Hear my prayer.
Gerald’s
smile became more fixed. ‘De Lacy’s first wife, Rose of Monmouth, was a fine woman, by all accounts.’
Amen.
The clerk went on. ‘Her tomb at the abbey of Saint Thomas the Martyr is a fitting memorial to her.’
Theodosia’s mouth dried at his words, but she forced herself to speak. ‘Should I write of this holy abbey, my lord?’
‘No.’ John waved her question aside. ‘The hideous men. Where was I?’
‘I have written their names only,’ she said.
‘Then we will describe them. This will be good sport.’ John settled back, his good humour returned.
Theodosia waited, her hands folded in her lap so no one could see them shaking in anticipation.
Her Lord Becket had answered her as he always did. Now the rest was up to her. She had to find a way out of here.
And find Hugh de Lacy.
‘A brief stop, my lady. Nothing more.’ Palmer pushed his way through the high fronds of vivid green ferns, making for what he craved. He hunkered down on his protesting calf muscles at the edge of the shallow stream and plunged his hands into the clear water, sluicing its cooling relief over his head.
Eimear pulled her veil off to do likewise, releasing a long, twisted plait the colour of dark copper. ‘You’ll have to forgive my shameless appearance for a few minutes, Sir Benedict.’ She soaked her long hair with many handfuls.
‘How you look doesn’t matter, my lady.’ He drank mouthful after mouthful of water, with cupped hands, in grateful slurps. ‘It might be better to leave your veil off until we get to safety. White catches the eye far more easily than your hair colour in these woods.’
‘A good point.’ She bundled the veil into her leather belt pouch. ‘And I will look more like a savage.’
Palmer glanced at the gold Eimear wore on every finger and thumb. ‘You’re no savage, my lady.’
‘That is Gerald the clerk’s word for me.’ She grimaced. ‘I’d love to string him up by his sinewy neck.’
