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

by E. M. Powell

  ‘You and me both. If nothing else, it would be a relief to stop him talking for once.’ He took another mouthful. ‘My lady.’

  Eimear laughed, the first time he’d seen her do so.

  ‘A better point,’ she said. ‘And I give you permission to use my name. It’s only one word, and not the two you currently address me with. Who knows when we might need that extra second?’

  ‘Then I’m Palmer. Two seconds gained.’

  Her smile left her eyes in one alert blink. ‘Hooves. I swear it.’

  She was right. Distant. With the unmistakeable rumble made by several horses. Their rhythm was too constant, too regular to come from the woods. ‘The roadway.’

  Eimear stood up. ‘We should run.’ She prepared to act with her words.

  Palmer halted her. ‘No. We need to see who they are.’

  ‘And if they’re John’s men? What good will that do?’

  ‘We’ll make sure they don’t see us.’

  ‘Then use some of this.’ Eimear bent to scoop a couple of handfuls of wet mud from the stream bed. Passing one to Palmer, she smeared the other over her forehead as he did likewise.

  ‘If it’s a group of Irishmen,’ he said, ‘we don’t want to miss this chance. Now, hurry. We haven’t much time.’

  They swiftly shadowed their faces in wet mud, and Palmer led Eimear with rapid steps to a dense stand of shrubs near to the roadway.

  The echo of the hooves grew louder. Purposeful. Relentless.

  He forced his way into its centre, the tall nettles that clogged the ground prickling any exposed flesh with their soft leaves worse than any sharp branches or thorns.

  ‘They’re getting closer, Palmer.’ Eimear kept her voice low, but he heard her doubt.

  ‘They won’t see us in here. Not unless we show ourselves. And we don’t know who they—’

  ‘Normans.’ Her whisper reached his ears at the same moment he saw the dull gleam of a metal helmet through the thick leaves.

  ‘Then we keep absolutely still. No noise.’

  ‘Of course.’

  A quick glance showed her melted into the shadowed, dappled green. Her hair, the mud, her darker clothing. Nothing showed. He’d be the same. Good.

  The first riders drew level, men with ill-fitting mail and nervous faces at being out here. Men whom he recognised. On horses he recognised. All from Tibberaghny. John’s men. Men he, Palmer, had led. And now they hunted him.

  Then, their leader. On his huge destrier: the Lord of Meath. In charge of these men of Tibberaghny. Not his own. This made no sense.

  Eimear’s arm against Palmer’s tensed no more than a leaf quiver as his own stomach tightened.

  De Lacy spoke to the men nearest him, his quiet words lost under the thump of the hooves. But even as he did so, his half-gaze went left, right, scanning every inch of the woods on either side, flattened nose up as if the man sniffed the air too.

  Palmer let loose a string of silent curses even as he stayed as still as stone, heart leaping in his chest. One lucky glance, one shaft of sunlight that caught the gleam of the white of an eye: that was all de Lacy needed. He’d be on them, calling the others down on them too. He, Palmer, had one sword. He might as well have held one of the nettles for all the chance he would have. This was not supposed to happen. Not from what Theodosia had told him.

  Palmer didn’t know how such a big horse seemed to move so slowly. Slowly. Until, finally, de Lacy passed from view. It mattered not. Palmer remained taut as a bowstring as the others went by in a close group. Even Simonson had been brought along, God help him. The big young man looked ready to faint, eyes darting from one spot to the next.

  The thud of hooves and the jangle and clink of metal bits lessened, finally died away, and the sounds of leaves in the wind, and birds and flies and bees, claimed the day again.

  Eimear turned to speak to him, but he put a finger to his lips. Waited. And waited.

  Palmer pulled in a long breath. ‘They’ve gone.’

  ‘He didn’t see us. Thank God.’ Eimear’s muddy face beaded with sweat where it had stayed dry as she ran.

  Palmer brought his focus back now that the threat had passed. ‘But I’m sure he wouldn’t harm you, my la—Eimear. If you were to be swift, you could catch de Lacy up. Tell him what John planned to do to you. He could protect you far better than I.’

  ‘And risk my head being atop a spike too, to keep company with the other dead Irish warriors?’ She bent to grab at a handful of dock leaves and crushed them in her hands, releasing their moisture. ‘My so-called husband is interested in one thing only: land. Who knows what deal he has struck with the Lord John?’ She rubbed her nettle-reddened hands with the leaves.

  ‘We don’t know.’ Palmer frowned. None of this made sense. ‘But he has John’s men. Why not his own?’

  ‘Hugh de Lacy makes deals and alliances every day he’s on this earth.’ Her calves were next. ‘I will only trust my life with an Irishman now.’ She flung the used leaves away. ‘And you. Sister Theodosia is lucky to have an ally like you.’

  ‘I’m not much of an ally to Theodosia right now.’ His anxiety for her gnawed at him more sharply than ever. ‘She’s still with John.’ He pushed his way back out through the bushes, Eimear after him. ‘I have to get her out of there.’

  ‘Then we make for Thomond as fast as we can,’ said Eimear. ‘Should we go back to the roadway? They’ve all gone past.’

  ‘Too risky now we know they’re on the road.’ Palmer pointed ahead. ‘The trees look clearer that way. We’ll make the best speed we can.’

  Eimear cast him a frowning look. ‘Doing that will take us so much longer.’

  ‘Better longer than without our heads,’ said Palmer. ‘Come on.’

  The men sent by the Irish kings were the source of much merriment for John and Gerald, with their descriptions becoming wilder and wilder as they egged each other on.

  Theodosia kept her counsel, although she struggled to keep up with their demands to write this way, then that way. She had a plan. She was not sure if it would work. But she had to try. All she needed was for them to be distracted. If only for a few moments.

  ‘I must say,’ said John, ‘I never thought I’d be holding McCarthy’s severed hand in mine so soon after looking into his man’s ugly face. Write that, sister.’

  ‘Oh, keep the severed hand as a surprise, my lord,’ said Gerald.

  John sighed. ‘Yes, it was rather delicious, wasn’t it? Very well: we shall leave that for now. We have discussed the man from Connacht, with his craggy face like an ancient dragon. O’Brien of Thomond’s messenger?’

  ‘The big, damp one? More stupid than the other two put together?’

  Now came her chance. ‘Brother, if I may make a suggestion.’

  One annoyed and one surprised face met her words, but she ploughed on with haste.

  ‘Brother, you told me the most amusing story about the court of the King of Thomond.’

  ‘Did I?’ said Gerald.

  Oh, please do not be as much a teller of untruths as I think you are. ‘The woman he keeps at his court?’ she prompted.

  ‘Oh, yes!’ Gerald turned to John. ‘My lord, this is utterly, utterly choice.’

  ‘Go on.’ John’s pursed lips moistened. ‘Is it a story about his lust?’

  ‘Even better, my lord. The King of Thomond keeps a woman covered in hair as a pet.’ Gerald slapped his thigh.

  John’s jaw dropped as he stared at Gerald. ‘No.’

  ‘It is true, he does. She has a beard down to her waist, and a crest from her neck down her spine.’

  Now or never. They were both rapt: Gerald in the telling, John in the listening. Theodosia put her hand over John’s letter seal and slid it back towards her.

  ‘But this unnatural creature must be a man.’ John’s gaze remained locked on Gerald.

  She scooped the seal onto her lap.

  ‘Not at all, my lord. Not even a hermaphrodite. In all other respects she is s
ufficiently feminine.’

  Next, some wax. Again: cover, slide, scoop.

  John’s face distorted in revolted fascination. ‘You mean she has a cunny?’

  Gerald shot Theodosia a look as she replaced her hands in full view, sweat breaking out over her whole body. The objects were still on her lap. If they were seen, her attempted theft would be discovered.

  ‘I apologise for this talk, sister,’ said the clerk.

  ‘Oh, shut up, Gerald.’ John took a drink. ‘The sister is always a disapproving mope. Tell me more about the hairy woman.’

  ‘Well, she follows the court.’ Gerald embarked on a more lengthy description.

  Theodosia quickly hid her treasures in her belt pouch, waiting for her chance.

  ‘Do many men have sex with her?’ John again.

  Theodosia gave an exclamation of disgust she barely stifled. She put a hand to her forehead as she drew fresh looks of disapproval. ‘I am sorry, my lord. But my head aches so.’

  John jerked a thumb at the door. ‘Out with you. Your constant interruptions are ruining this.’

  ‘You do look peaky,’ said Gerald. ‘I said so earlier.’

  With a swift bow, Theodosia left, the men’s attention back on the hair-covered woman of the Irish court of O’Brien of Thomond. The court to which she was headed.

  Theodosia approached the fenced area of the bailey that held the horses, her stride purposeful, though she could not allow herself to run. She knew she had little time. If John were to see her, see what she held in her right hand, she would be dead within the hour.

  She was not even sure that she had guessed this right. But Benedict’s words had come back to her, clear as if he stood beside her: Eimear can seek sanctuary with her own people.

  He and Eimear would be making for the nearest court to do so. Of the three kings that had sent men to Waterford, McCarthy was dead. O’Connor’s lands were farther away. That left O’Brien of Thomond. And where Benedict and Eimear went, so de Lacy would follow. This she had surmised. She swallowed hard. She hoped.

  She would go there too.

  One of the grooms, a man whom she did not recognise, shovelled manure onto a cart. He must be one of de Lacy’s fighters. So many of them were here now. None of them knew her, as many of John’s men did from her ministrations to the wounded.

  ‘Good sir, I need the services of a messenger.’ She spoke with authority as she walked up to him. ‘At once.’

  The groom took in her habit and bowed in respect. He whistled to a group of men who sat relaxing and dozing in the breezy sunshine.

  One rose, yawning and scratching his thick, fair hair as he walked over. ‘I’m needed?’

  ‘The sister here.’ The groom went back to his work.

  The messenger also gave her his respect. ‘What can I do for you, sister?’ He could not have been much older than her own son.

  She held up the object she had in her grasp. ‘This letter has to go to the court of the King of Thomond. Immediately and with all haste. It is from the Lord John.’

  The messenger looked at the seal and extended his hand. ‘Of course, sister.’

  Theodosia kept it in her grasp. ‘I have to deliver it personally. I will need to ride with you.’

  ‘Sister, I don’t wish to be disrespectful, but you will not be able to ride as fast as I. Also, it’s a very risky journey.’ The man shook his head. ‘I’ll go to the Lord John and ask him to rethink his decision.’ He went to take the letter from her.

  Pulling it back from his grasp, she gave him her fiercest look. ‘Good sir: I have been tasked with this message because it is of the utmost importance and concerns urgent matters that relate to the business of the Church.’ She stepped aside. ‘If you want to question the decision of the King’s son, then please feel free to do so. While you do, I will seek out another messenger. One who responds to orders. I am sure the Lord John will have a view on your loyalty.’

  The young man glanced up at the motte, then back at Theodosia.

  Her heart pounded. The blank parchment she held came from a store Gerald kept in his tent. Applying the seal to satisfactory neatness had taken her four attempts, such was the trembling of her hands.

  Another look back at the motte.

  She clicked loudly with her tongue in displeasure. ‘Very well.’ She started for the group of men.

  ‘Wait, sister. Wait.’

  She halted. ‘What is it?’

  ‘May I please check the seal?’ The man held out his hand again.

  With an elaborate sigh, she handed the letter over. Now she glanced repeatedly at the motte as the man made a close examination of the imprinted wax. John, Gerald: either could arrive out of the keep at any moment.

  The man nodded. ‘It’s as it should be.’

  ‘Well, of course it is as it should be. The—’

  He held up a placating hand. ‘I have to check seals are intact before I set off. We can go.’

  ‘Then I thank you.’

  The man bowed. ‘The name is Nagle, sister.’

  ‘Sister Theodosia. We must make all haste.’

  Nagle hurried off, calling to the groom to prepare two horses.

  Theodosia slid the fake letter into her belt pouch, her eyes still drawn to the motte. A few minutes, a few more minutes. That was all she needed.

  ‘Stop,’ said Palmer to Eimear. ‘One moment.’

  She halted in the quiet of the dense woods as he pounded his cramping leg muscles with his fists yet again.

  ‘Remind me to run away with a young man in future,’ she said.

  ‘I might not be young but I got you out, didn’t I?’

  His testy reply got a grin. ‘You’re so easy to rile, Palmer.’

  He grunted in reply as he pushed his way through thorny bushes to the next clearing.

  And came face to face with the mounted Simonson.

  The big young man was at the far side of the clearing, relieving himself from the back of his horse. But he saw Palmer. ‘Hey!’

  Palmer thrust Eimear back into the bushes. ‘Stay in there.’

  He drew his sword. And charged.

  The horse reared in fright.

  Simonson clung to the pommel with one hand, uncaring of his disordered clothing as he fumbled for his sword with the other. ‘Get away, you Irish devil!’

  Palmer lunged for the reins, but Simonson’s shouting startled the beast even more.

  ‘Away, I said!’ He swished his sword at Palmer’s head.

  ‘Stop!’ Palmer ducked. ‘It’s me, Simonson. Have you no eyes?’

  ‘Palmer?’ Simonson’s voice squeaked up in shock. ‘But you look like one of them. And you’ve taken one of them.’

  Palmer grabbed at the reins again and missed, cursing as the horse stood on his foot. ‘No time to explain.’ He held up his sword. ‘Give me your horse.’

  ‘No, Palmer. No way.’

  Palmer’s hand got the reins this time, pulling the horse’s head down. But the leather slipped through his muddy fingers as the animal jerked back at Simonson’s shriek. ‘Forcurse it, Simonson. The horse.’

  ‘No! De Lacy will kill me!’ The sword again, this time nicking the horse’s ear.

  The animal wheeled in shock and pain, and Palmer dodged a swift, hard kick.

  He weighed up his sword. ‘And I’ll kill you if you don’t give me that animal.’

  ‘No, no.’ Simonson hauled the horse’s head down and kicked hard at its sides, forcing it forward and on.

  About to be trampled, Palmer jumped back.

  Simon’s yell and fall happened at the same second.

  He crashed to the ground next to Palmer, blood pouring from his lip, eyes and mouth gaping as the wind drove from his big body.

  ‘The horse!’

  Palmer looked to the source of the female call.

  Eimear ran from the bushes, gesturing at him to catch the animal. ‘It’s all right. Your man Simonson’s not dead.’ She trailed her long, braided belt on the ground,
the makeshift sling with which she’d delivered such a fast, accurate shot.

  Palmer corralled the horse in a corner, judging when best to grab the reins again, as Eimear stood over Simonson, refastening her belt on her tunic. ‘I didn’t use a big stone.’

  Pleas for help from the Virgin gasped from the fallen Simonson, his breath returned.

  ‘See?’ She gave Palmer a quick grin. ‘Now let’s get on that animal. We’ll make Thomond in no time.’ Her face changed. ‘Down!’

  Palmer dropped to the ground.

  The bushes next to him broke open in a shower of snapping twigs and torn leaves as de Lacy’s huge destrier charged out, the lord swinging his broadsword in a deadly arc where Palmer’s head had been the moment before.

  ‘Damn you, Palmer!’ De Lacy roared his frustration and went for a lower strike.

  Palmer parried with his own sword as Eimear, hidden now from his sight on the other side of de Lacy, screamed at him to stop.

  ‘Listen to your wife, man!’ Palmer fended off another strike.

  ‘You know my wife, do you?’

  ‘I haven’t touched your wife!’ And another.

  ‘You’re dead.’

  Palmer landed a perfect heavy strike that blasted the sword from the lord’s hands. The weapon flew into the bushes in a high arc. He raised his hands, still holding his sword in one, to show he meant de Lacy no harm. ‘My lord.’

  ‘You’re still dead.’ His hand went to the side of the saddle Palmer couldn’t see.

  ‘Palmer, go!’ came Eimear’s unseen scream. ‘Now!’

  She was right.

  De Lacy held a mace, and murder showed in his half-face.

  Palmer shoved his sword back in his scabbard, running for the abandoned horse. He mounted in a fast scramble, shouting the animal into a panicked bolt. He took off through the trees.

  But de Lacy was right behind him.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  ‘Palmer! You’re a dead man!’ De Lacy’s shout rang through the trees.

  Palmer kept his head down, dodging low branches that whipped at his face and eyes, tore at his skin, as he slapped hard on the horse’s rump with one hand to keep up his speed. He had only one stirrup, so his balance was bad. He gripped the pommel with his free hand. If he came off now, de Lacy would get his wish.