by E. M. Powell
They were gone. De Lacy shook his head. ‘Our odds against John’s castle at Tibberaghny aren’t even slim. They’re non-existent. Palmer, you built a fine mottte and bailey, curse you. My best troops are guarding it. John has my most efficient messengers with which to summon the Irish kings. The lure of my land will bring them running to him.’
‘The offer of land never tempted you to make an immoral alliance, husband?’ Eimear fixed him with a steely gaze.
Benedict cut off de Lacy’s tetchy reply. ‘Then we’ll act as messengers. Go to warn the kings.’
‘Or warn them as they approach Tibberaghny.’ Theodosia already knew from the look on de Lacy’s face that both suggestions were futile.
‘There are six of us. And one is Simonson.’ De Lacy snorted. ‘We have three horses between us; four if by some miracle that boy finds his. We won’t be able to intercept every king, every chieftain that might be making his way to Tibberaghny.’
‘And, Theodosia,’ said Benedict, ‘we cannot risk you falling into John’s hands.’
Eimear’s mouth turned down in a grim arc. ‘He will be out for your blood, Theodosia.’
‘He can have it.’ Her reply came steady. ‘Any mother would do as I have done.’
‘As any father would. Of course they would.’ Benedict’s dark eyes lit with sudden hope. ‘So that is who we have to tell.’
De Lacy scowled afresh. ‘Palmer, that’s what we’ve just said we can’t do. We can’t find a way to warn all the kings.’
‘No.’ Benedict shook his head. ‘Not the kings. At least, not us. The Irish will tell them themselves. Through Eimear.’
Eimear mirrored Theodosia’s bewilderment as de Lacy answered in disdain.
‘Palmer, Eimear is one woman. Are you sure you didn’t hit your head when you fell off that horse?’
‘Everything else. But not that. Yes, Eimear is one woman. I’m not suggesting she travel alone. We head with her for the nearest village. Eimear can tell them that the Lord John is out for the blood of Irish children. That they should leave, hide, do anything they can to protect their own from him, spreading the word to as many as they can as they go.’
‘It will be very slow, Palmer.’ Eimear’s voice held doubt. ‘Too slow. People may not believe this news, not second- or third-hand. As Hugh says, there’s only one of me.’
Benedict stepped over and grasping one of her wrists, raised it. ‘Yes, but you have ten digits. So many rings on each. A gold ring to each of their fastest men, so they have your authority.’ Benedict released Eimear. ‘Your word will spread and spread.’
‘A way to stop this.’ Theodosia looked at him with deep, grateful pride.
De Lacy nodded. ‘A good plan.’ Then he was on Eimear in an eye-blink, his broadsword out of her hand as he moved it between Benedict and Theodosia. ‘But you’ll not use my wife for whatever scheme you are planning. Not until you tell me the whole truth.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Benedict had the mace.
‘Your slip, sister.’ De Lacy pointed the broadsword right at her. ‘Since when has a nun known the heart of a mother?’
Theodosia took a step back. Her foolish words.
‘The whole truth. Now. Or we’re gone. You can carry on with your own lies.’
She exchanged a glance with Benedict.
He gave an unhappy shrug but nodded. ‘We have to tell them, Theodosia.’
She hated to do it, yet she had no other choice. ‘You have a devotion to Saint Thomas Becket, my lord?’
‘I do.’
‘Then I swear on his life that I speak the whole truth.’ Theodosia took a deep breath. ‘A life that Benedict and I saw taken before our very eyes. My account will not take long.’
Hugh de Lacy, Lord of Meath, never expected to see a wife of his squatting before a stream to clean the dirt of fighting from her face and clothes like a foot soldier. ‘Make sure you get as clean as possible: even I hardly recognised you.’ Next to her on the bank, he filled his leather water bottle. ‘There is a lot riding on this plan of Palmer’s.’
‘I don’t need you to tell me that.’ She scrubbed hard at her cheeks.
He ignored her sharp retort, looking instead to where Palmer and the woman they claimed to be his wife, the daughter of King Henry himself, sat on an old tree stump. Theodosia cleaned his face with water-soaked linen, absorbed in a quiet conversation with him.
Farther along the bank, the bushes parted.
De Lacy reached for his sword as he saw Palmer did too.
‘Hold,’ said Eimear. ‘It’s only Nagle and Simonson.’
De Lacy raised his voice. ‘Anyone, Nagle?’
‘No, my lord.’
Simonson beamed. ‘But I found my horse!’
Palmer met de Lacy’s look with a shrug.
‘Then have a drink,’ said de Lacy to the messenger and Simonson. ‘You’ll need it.’ His gaze returned to Eimear. ‘Do you believe them?’
‘Nagle and Simonson? Of course.’ Her pale, smooth skin revealed itself once more.
‘No, I mean Palmer and Theodosia. Do you believe what they’ve told us – that she is the daughter of the King?’
‘I do.’ Eimear undid her long plait, sluiced dirt and scraps of leaves from her hair, returning it to its deep, deep red. ‘Theodosia’s actions to me have been without question.’ She gave a humourless laugh. ‘Though it astonishes me that she has sprung from the same parentage as John, even if only partly. But no, I have no doubts. Nor do I have any about Palmer. You?’
‘Unless he’s a much better liar than I think he is.’ De Lacy shook his head. ‘But no. It makes sense now. I knew there was something not right about his choosing to stay close to Tibberaghny, about his whole demeanour.’ He drank a mouthful from the bottle. ‘I was correct in my suspicion.’ He cursed inwardly for not having paid it more attention.
‘It looked to me like you were more concerned that he and I might have run away as lovers.’ Eimear reached into her belt pouch and took out a carved horn comb.
De Lacy drank again. ‘Palmer is clearly a knight of great prowess. And when he disappeared with you, I didn’t know what he was doing with you – or to you. He fully understood your noble birth, how important you are in this land.’ He filled the bottle up again. ‘As I told the Lord John, it was a matter of honour, plain and simple. You are still my wife, as I am your husband. We are still married.’
‘Married? Bound to each other more like.’ Eimear pulled the comb through her hair with hard tugs, sending it free and shining over her shoulders, same as it had fallen on the night he’d had her.
A night five years before. Impossible to believe. The time had flowed as swiftly as the stream before him.
‘Now I see it.’ Eimear pinned him with a look. ‘You were more worried about your truce with my father. If I were gone, that would be shattered. That’s what you broke an oath to John for.’ She pointed the comb at him. ‘Land. That is all you care about. I swear you would pick it up, sod by sod, and carry it in your cloak if you could.’
‘That’s not true, Eimear.’ It was once. He met her accusing look, as he stoppered the bottle with a swift smack. Not anymore. ‘Only this land.’
‘I have never understood it.’ She combed on. ‘Why this one? Why Ireland? You had your lordship in England; you were Lord of Weobley. It came to you through noble birth. Yet you came here, even let Henry take your castle at Ludlow so you could remain.’
Lord of Weobley. But not the first lord. His heart constricted at who that had been. He scowled at Eimear to hide his pain. ‘Who’s been talking of my past?’
Combing complete, she braided her hair now with quick twists. ‘You’ve left me on my own in your castle at Trim for much of our so-called marriage. The servants are the same as those who looked after your first wife. They gossip.’
‘They have no business gossiping. Especially not about Rose. Neither have you.’
‘I have few others to talk to.’ Her veil was back on, white, w
ith a circle of gold to keep it there.
‘It’s not becoming. Not for a woman who is the wife of the Lord of Meath.’
‘Oh, isn’t it? I am no wife to you.’ Her dark blue eyes, angry as a storm cloud, bored into his. ‘You told me, the day William was born: “You are done.” Those were your very words.’
‘That’s right. I did say you were done. You agreed to our marriage and gave me our son. You did everything that was asked of you.’ De Lacy fastened his water bottle to his belt. ‘But, in doing so, you put me in your debt. I came after you because I owed you a debt, Eimear. Now I’ve paid it. We are both done.’
‘We need to get going,’ called Palmer, hand to Theodosia’s shoulder.
Nagle and Simonson reacted to his order at once.
‘Certainly,’ Eimear called back as she also rose to her feet. ‘I am glad we are even. Husband.’
De Lacy stood too. He should feel relieved that he no longer owed Eimear anything, nor she him. Not the flicker of envy he felt of Palmer. He pushed it away.
He’d made his choices long ago.
The fear on the faces of the mothers was the worst. Theodosia remembered it so vividly, the visceral, overwhelming terror that threatened to stop her heart when she thought her children’s lives were in danger. For the men, it was anger, shouting. The children themselves looked bewildered, at least the little ones, who could not understand what was taking place in their peaceful little village. They could only cry and wail at the frightening noise, the commotion, the entreaties to pull on cloaks, hoods, to hurry, to be quick, quick, quick. The solemn-faced older ones locked hands together, ordered to do so tightly – even tighter – and not to let go.
She did not need to understand the words that Eimear spoke in loud, clear tones from the back of the horse she’d taken from Simonson. Their impact hit like a stone thrown into a still pond, the ripples spreading in all and every direction at once. She did not need to understand the responses either.
The men who took rings from Eimear were the youngest, the strongest. The angriest. A few small horses were brought. No saddles, and men shared each animal as they raced from the village with the briefest goodbyes.
She met Benedict’s dark eyes as he sat behind her on the mount they shared. She was so lucky – they were so lucky. They were still together. Their children had been saved from murder, were safe now.
Then a terrible, screaming, wailing cry as a woman of around her own age was pulled from her tiny, thatched, wattle-sided home by her husband and older children.
‘What is happening?’ she asked Benedict.
‘I don’t know.’
Eimear glanced over. ‘Her mother is still inside,’ she explained. ‘The old woman is dying. Too sick to move. They have to leave her.’
‘Benedict. There must be something we can do. Anything.’
He shook his head.
Theodosia swallowed down her sadness. She had no right to be upset when this family before her had their hearts broken. All she could do was pray for the soul of the dying woman being left behind and for the consolation of the daughter who’d had to abandon her.
The inhabitants of the small settlement streamed away now, some walking fast, some running, a few driving protesting cattle. But none of them chose the road. They made for the nearby fields, and from there to the woods, the sounds of their leaving fading by the moment.
‘A wise choice,’ said de Lacy. ‘John would have a hard time tracking them down in there. Even with my men.’
‘Indeed, my lord,’ said Nagle.
Clinging to the messenger on the back of his horse, Simonson only stared in sombre silence.
One small knot of people went more slowly than the rest, the sounds of weeping still carrying fitfully on the warm breeze as they crossed the pale gold of a ripening barley field. The dying woman’s daughter, in her anguish, was being half-carried by her family.
To Theodosia’s surprise, de Lacy swung himself from his horse and went quickly to the low wooden door of the cottage, bending to disappear inside before coming out a few moments later. ‘Eimear.’
She looked over. ‘Husband?’
‘Tell that woman that she need not fear for her mother any longer,’ said de Lacy. ‘Then we need to leave.’
Eimear nodded, commanding her horse to a fast trot to catch them up, its hooves leaving a dark scar behind her in the smooth crop.
‘Has that poor sick woman been granted the merciful release of death?’ asked Theodosia.
Quiet had fallen over the barley field, and the little family had picked up pace.
De Lacy nodded. ‘A merciful release indeed.’ He climbed back onto his horse.
Theodosia crossed herself, her heart filled with thanks.
Benedict gave de Lacy a long look, before turning to Theodosia. ‘We can’t be found either, especially not you.’ Unseen by the others, he gave her wrist a comforting squeeze. ‘We’ve done what we can for now. We have to ride on.’
‘We do.’ De Lacy looked up at the sky. ‘We won’t make Thomond today. But we can still cover a few miles with the light we have left.’ He kicked his horse to lead them off.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The last time the bridge at Tibberaghny had dropped behind John as he left on horseback, his insides had threatened to humiliate him. Every tree, every bush, every leaf looked like it concealed a murdering Irishman, ready to bury a hefty blade in his face. How right he had been. The attack on the road to Ardfinnan still came to him in nightmares. But that was all in the past. Things were different now. On this fine, clear morning, he rode with the men of Meath. The ones who had defeated the king of the north.
John took a quick glance back over his shoulder and caught his breath. He’d not seen Tibberaghny’s decoration with the severed heads of traitors from outside before. The effect was stunning, even now in the light of day. Flocks of shiny black rooks and jackdaws fluttered around the rotting skulls, pecking, squabbling, calling, bringing a strange life to the horrible tableau even as they consumed it. He faced forward again. What a day, what a night, when the head of the Church’s spy would join them.
He snorted to himself. Such a brazen disguise to present herself as a nun, with her modest habit and cowed gaze. When he found her, she’d wear that habit no more. Whipping her naked body would make a good start to her protracted death. By the end, she’d be begging him to take her head from her shoulders.
And it would not be long. The men of Meath would help him to make sure of it. Fully armed in shining mail and helms, swords ready in scabbards, polished shields slung across their backs: they would devour any resistance from the bearded savages. Male or female. He recalled the clerk’s description of the woman at the court of Thomond, with a smile at the idea of her.
Gerald rode with them, silent and morose, his broken arm stuck out at an angle.
John gave a sigh to himself at the idiot clerk. The man really was a hindrance. As soon as he, John, had his own court properly established, he would send the man packing. Back to Henry. Perhaps with his hands missing. Now, that would be amusing. A scribe with no hands. Shame there was no one to tell. John rolled his shoulders, relaxing fully into the glorious sunshine of the day and what it would bring. Once they returned, he might just tell Gerald what he was going to do with him. That would make for an interesting couple of weeks.
A great thrill passed through him. Yes, weeks. Days, really. Not much more than that. Before he got his throne. Maybe a bit less. Had it not been for this bloody woman, Theodosia, he would be able to count the days. Damn her, damn her. A tiny white cloud blocked out the sun, a shadow on this perfect day in the same way that she had created a wrinkle in his smooth, perfect plans. His hands tightened on the reins. It would not be long before they would reach the first village. The serjeant, Aylward, had told him that it was only one of the places the woman might have hidden, that each settlement, however small, should be searched thoroughly. John would do more than that. A few carefully chosen slit th
roats would be far more efficient in getting people to reveal whether they hid a fugitive.
‘Pick up the pace! All of you!’
They responded immediately to his shout, and as one. So immediately John was nearly unseated trying to match them. It didn’t matter. He made a quick, sure recovery. Quick. Sure. Like his mind.
The sun came back out, its rays piercingly hot as it climbed towards midday.
So similar to how he ascended towards his throne.
He basked in its fierce glare, riding hard, until finally – the call he awaited.
‘Settlement ahead!’
He thrilled again inside even as wariness nudged him. It was one thing to suspect that the enemy hid in the trees. Quite another that he would come face to face with them. Any minute now. The roofs of straw and dried heather lay but a short distance away. He took in the broad mailed backs and shoulders ahead. Such muscle reassured him. He had the superior force. Of course he had.
‘Searchers, dismount.’ The order came from Aylward as the party clattered up the narrow street. ‘Not you, my lord.’
John nodded as if he understood completely, many of the knights reacting, others staying mounted. He had actually started to respond, quailing inside at being on foot and vulnerable when the Irish were here. Or somewhere. No sign of life greeted them, only wretched, rounded dwellings set close to the earth, with tightly shut doors. Deserted enclosures, surrounded by wicker fences, added to the eerie quiet.
‘Where is everybody?’ he asked Aylward, also still on horseback.
Gerald of course hadn’t budged, clung to his pommel like a drowning man clinging to a plank.
‘Shut inside, having seen our approach.’ Aylward shrugged. ‘It’s what people do. Waste of time.’
‘Indeed.’
The men on foot made for the doors of the hovels, shouting, pounding on them with fists, hilts, then breaking them down with blows from weapons and hard boot strikes.
John squared his shoulders, anticipating the moment that the first brute would be pulled before him. ‘I will show the first villager mercy,’ he said to Aylward. ‘That will encourage others who might be hiding to show themselves.’
