by E. M. Powell
‘Foolhardy?’ His dark eyes had a tease now.
‘If you insist, sir knight,’ she teased back.
He offered her another drink, but she shook her head. ‘I am feeling much better.’ She stood up, the last of her dizziness clearing.
Benedict continued. ‘The Almighty also has my thanks that he puts more miles between you and John by the hour.’ His face became the serious mask she dreaded. ‘Because there’s been a change of plan.’
‘What change?’
‘You and Eimear are to travel to the seat of the nearest Archbishop. It’s at Cashel, a place called Saint Patrick’s Rock. You will be able to seek sanctuary there. It’s a lot closer than the court of the king of Thomond. Nagle and a couple of the Irish warriors will go with you to keep you both safe on the journey.’
Her mouth dried again, but not from thirst this time. ‘You?’
‘Theodosia, I’m going after John. And de Lacy is coming with me.’
Palmer stretched his aching back as much as he could in the confines of his saddle. He already had his fair share of bruises and cuts from fighting for the Lord John. Getting knocked off his horse as de Lacy chased him had only added to them. As always, the battle aches got worse as he came to the end of the day. The sun beginning to sink towards the dense canopy of the thick forest should be a sign that he could slide his weary body from the saddle and lie in welcome rest.
There’d be no rest tonight. No rest any night, until he had his hands on John.
I’m going after John. Palmer had said those words so easily to Theodosia, knowing in his heart it was going to be far more difficult to make happen. First, they had to find the man. Then they’d have to wrest him from de Lacy’s trained force.
He looked ahead to where his own unlikely fighters rode.
The men of Thomond used no saddles on their horses, had no stirrups. But then they wore no mail either. Not even boots on their feet.
If he didn’t know better, he’d say that they wouldn’t stand a chance against the armour that he and de Lacy wore.
Simonson too, wobbling without a saddle on the small, sturdy horse given to him by the Irish. As if sensing Palmer’s attention on him, he looked back, clutching his mount’s mane for balance.
‘Are we really going to try to arrest the Lord John, Palmer?’ Simonson’s eyes were wider than a player in a mystery play beholding the wrath of a vengeful God. ‘Us?’
‘Yes, Simonson.’ Palmer caught the grin of the huge warrior, Uinseann, to his fellow warriors.
He said something to them in his own tongue, and they bellowed with laughter.
Simonson’s look shifted to wary. Worried. Again.
Palmer shook his head at Uinseann. ‘I need as much heart in this fight as I can.’
Uinseann made a massive fist and flexed a powerful arm. ‘This is all the heart I need.’ He leaned over to slap Simonson hard on his podgy back, almost sending the young man from his unstable perch. ‘You need some muscle, lad. That’s what works.’ He slapped him again. Harder.
The air huffed from Simonson as Uinseann’s friends roared their approval.
‘Like at the riverbank near Ardfinnan, Uinseann.’ Palmer gave him a sage nod. ‘Worked for you then, did it?’
Uinseann snorted hard. ‘It would have if I’d found you.’
‘But you didn’t,’ said Palmer. ‘You see, Simonson? Uinseann might have hands the size of shovels. Still couldn’t find his backside with both of them.’ He winked at the younger man.
He got a ghost of a smile back as Uinseann’s friends guffawed, the warrior taking a swipe at Palmer with a good-humoured oath.
‘Come on, lads.’ The big warrior brought his horse in beside Simonson, gesturing to his friends to draw near too. ‘Now, let me tell you a few things about fighting. First, don’t piss yourself. That’s always a good start.’
‘Says the man with the wettest trousers in Munster.’
More laughs, hoots.
Palmer left them to it. He had no mind for sport. Sending Theodosia on her way had pained him deep in his heart, with her increasingly angry, desperate pleas to stay with him. For him not to go, that he’d had to refuse over and over. Eimear had helped, holding his side of the argument: now that the men of Thomond had joined them, they had to go after John. No Irish lives had been lost so far. But the fires showed the depths of John’s rage. He had to be stopped before he succeeded in murder.
Theodosia had clung to him with a fierce strength in their last embrace, and he had been the one to break it, with his promise that he’d be back by her side soon. He pulled in a deep, long breath. And he would. Once he’d dealt with John. But first, he had to deal with de Lacy.
He glanced back. The lord rode alone at the rear of the group.
Palmer dropped back to move alongside him. ‘I’ve got a question for you, de Lacy.’
‘If it’s about tracking John, then you need to ask Uinseann.’ De Lacy faced ahead, wouldn’t meet Palmer’s stare. ‘John’s trail of fire is a lot harder to follow now that we’re on lower ground.’
‘No,’ said Palmer. ‘It’s a question I’ve been waiting to ask for a while.’
‘Then ask away.’ De Lacy still looked ahead.
‘You killed that old woman. Didn’t you?’
‘I did not expect the seat of an archbishop to look like this,’ said Theodosia. Despite her grief at being parted from Benedict and her overwhelming, sickening dread at what might happen to him in his pursuit of John, she looked in wonder at what lay ahead as the tired horse she and Eimear shared plodded on.
Eimear nodded. ‘The Rock of Cashel. A marvel of our land.’
‘A sight I’ve never tired of, my lady,’ added Nagle, close behind.
All around, the land lay in low, undulating green curves, with the only mountains blue in the distance against the clear sky. Yet right in the middle of the gentle vale sat a huge craggy outcrop. Atop it, a group of stone buildings that soared even higher into the sky, with a rounded tower the tallest of all, spearing the evening light with its pointed tip.
‘Now I see why you made the decision to come here,’ said Theodosia. ‘I did not expect a cathedral that looks like a fortress.’
‘It wasn’t always in the hands of the Church,’ said Eimear. ‘It was the ancient seat of the Irish kings of Munster. One of them gave it to the Church almost a hundred years ago. He called it a gift to God’s Church that no king had ever given before him.’
‘I very much doubt if any king has given one like it since.’
‘Certainly not either of our fathers.’ Eimear gave Theodosia one of her rare smiles. ‘But thanks to the generosity of King Murtagh O’Brien, we have a place where we can claim the sanctuary of the Church.’
As if in response to her words, a bell rang out from the tower on the Rock, calling the monks to prayer.
Theodosia took some comfort from the familiar sound. They would be safe there in God’s protection. She would implore her God, day and night in this holy place, for Benedict’s safe return.
The magnificence of the sight before her did not diminish as they neared it. She could make out several different buildings, many of the type typical of religious houses. Most were built of grey stone and located at the lower levels. At the height of the Rock, the most spectacular, where every building spoke of design and craftsmanship that strove to bring man closer to the heavens and to God.
A church that must be the cathedral, simple in form, with no transepts or tower, but of considerable size. A smaller, more elaborate chapel with two towers and a steeply pitched roof of pale yellow stone that shone almost gold in the late evening sun. Between cathedral and chapel, what she supposed to be the Archbishop’s Palace. Highest of all, the Round Tower with its pointed roof.
As they approached the gate set into the high surrounding walls, Eimear halted their animal to speak in her own language to the two silent but alert warriors who’d accompanied them here.
Nods and bows greeted her words.
‘I’ve given them the thanks of the High King’s daughter. We’re safe now, so they can leave.’ She nodded to Nagle. ‘You need to go as well. You can all do more good elsewhere.’
Do more good – that would mean the fight against John.
‘As you have already done,’ said Theodosia to Nagle. ‘I thank you from the bottom of my heart.’
‘God be with you both.’ Nagle set off to catch up with the departing warriors as the gates of Cashel opened.
Theodosia gave silent thanks for their safe arrival. But her worry for Benedict surged back afresh.
Palmer waited for de Lacy’s answer.
But the Lord of Meath said nothing.
Ahead, the other men still discussed battles. The tales that floated back on the soft evening air would keep a troubadour in gold.
Palmer didn’t care. ‘You did, didn’t you? Killed her?’ He wasn’t going to let this pass.
De Lacy shrugged. ‘She was nearing the point of death, Palmer. I saw it for myself.’ He fixed Palmer with his one-eyed look, his face lit with anger as well as the flare of the setting sun. ‘I know what John is capable of. My men too: they will do what they are ordered to do. If they’d found her alive, they could have done anything to her. Anything,’ he repeated. ‘And probably would. So I put my dagger straight through her heart. She didn’t know a thing – gone between one breath and the next.’
‘You call that a merciful release.’ Palmer shook his head. ‘If she was that close to death, she’d have been gone long before John got there.’ He jabbed a finger at him. ‘You’d no right to do it, de Lacy.’
‘The release wasn’t for her.’
‘Who else did you murder in that house?’
‘No one. The merciful release was for her family. Regret is a poison, Palmer.’ He gave a short, bitter laugh. ‘I should know.’
‘You think you’re the only man to know that?’ came Palmer’s retort, sharp from his own conscience.
‘I carry the scars of it every day of my life, for all the world to see.’
Palmer wouldn’t allow him that. ‘There’s no shame in battle scars, de Lacy. Many brave men carry those. But not from killing defenceless old women.’
‘How about those that have acquired them through killing their brothers?’
Palmer missed a breath in disbelief. ‘You killed your own brother?’ Treacherous: Henry had been so clear in his fears about de Lacy. And here the Lord of Meath admitted to one of the greatest betrayals a man could commit.
‘Robert, Lord of Weobley before me. Yes. I did.’
Palmer took in de Lacy’s powerful shoulders, the man’s sword ready for use and one that Palmer knew had such deadly effect. ‘That must have been some fight,’ he said drily.
‘Me against Robert?’ replied de Lacy. ‘Robert, with his shortness of breath the fear of our mother’s life, always needing to be kept warm, to be nursed. Me, with my muscles that outpaced my stature in growth, and so much thick, dark hair all over my body that Robert said I could have been a wolf leader.’ He gave a brief smile to himself. ‘Yes. Some fight.’
‘I thought you more of a man than that.’ Palmer eyed him in disgust.
‘Steady down, Palmer. It’s not what you might think. I didn’t kill with a sword or a knife.’
‘Poison, then. Or smothering. Kind, were you?’ He knew he sneered. He couldn’t help it.
‘No.’ De Lacy’s voice dropped. ‘There was no kindness. I killed him with my own stupid, selfish behaviour.’
‘How?’
‘It doesn’t matter.’
‘Yes, it does.’ Palmer looked to the hooting, jostling group ahead.
They were getting Simonson to practise whistles now.
He went on. ‘You pulled my secrets, Theodosia’s past, pulled them from us with the point of a sword, threatening to help no more if we didn’t tell you everything. You at least owe me the same courtesy.’
‘Or you’ll leave?’
‘No.’ Palmer’s jaw set. ‘The Lord John needs to be stopped. But that won’t be easy. I fight best when I have men alongside me who I can trust. Doubt makes for mistakes.’
De Lacy rode in silence.
Palmer waited.
Still nothing.
‘Well, at least I know who I have on my side.’ He went to kick his mount on to join the others.
‘You have a man who made the biggest mistake of his life.’
Palmer eased back in the saddle. Waited again.
‘I loved my brother. When we were boys. It was simple, everything was simple.’ De Lacy’s words came clipped, careful. ‘As the eldest, Robert would get the lordship. Didn’t bother me, the second son. By God, I think I came out of my mother’s womb ready for war. As I was near enough the age John is now, preparing to seize my part of the world. The larger the better. For myself. When our father told me I had to stay.’
‘Serving your father isn’t a mistake.’
‘If only my service had been to him.’ De Lacy gave an impatient shake of his head. ‘My father announced he would be resigning his lands to Robert and joining the Templars. I would have to stay, to serve and protect Robert. I railed against my father, day and night. He wouldn’t budge. Robert became our lord in his stead.’
‘There are worse fates, de Lacy.’ Palmer couldn’t help his terse barb. His own father had died unable to put food on the table.
‘I know that now, Palmer. I should have been glad for Robert. This was not his doing.’ His voice tightened. ‘But I was more jealous than Cain was of Abel. My meek and mild brother, a lord while our father lived. My father, a glorious Templar. Me, the fighter: nothing, except a prop to my older brother. To my young mind, I suffered the greatest injustice. I was being penalised for my strength. Robert got rewarded for weakness. But I was angry with the wrong person. Robert had not asked for any of this either. Father had abandoned him, same as he did me. It broke Robert’s heart when I forsook him too. I did as little as I could to help him. Found my solace in the bottom of a wine barrel as I carried on fighting, waiting for my time. I was surly, vicious.’
‘Like thwarted young men are. But being thwarted is a poor excuse for murder.’
De Lacy shook his head. ‘The night I killed Robert, I had been drinking and riding with lances all day. It was a winter’s day: iron cold, with a hard, hard frost. I felt nothing. The exercise kept me warm, as did the wine flowing through my veins. All the others gave up early from the cold and made for the castle. I mocked their weakness and carried on. When dusk fell, I couldn’t be bothered to go to the castle. I was too tired. Too wine-soaked, more like. A nearby barn gave me all the shelter I needed. I often slept there when I was too drunk to go any farther. I collapsed onto the straw.’
Palmer nodded but said nothing. He could definitely guess the fate of de Lacy’s older brother now. A drunk, angry young man with a sword. They made mistakes often. And with mistakes came regret. But de Lacy’s next words had nothing to do with a blade.
‘A kick woke me,’ said the scarred lord. ‘Not the kick of another man, like a watchman. But a huge hoof into my back. I opened my eyes, not to a barn, but to hell. Blazing flames. Heat that was making my skin bubble. Bellowing, panicking cattle. Smoke filling my lungs.’ He took a sharp breath. ‘I scrambled for the door, but it was bolted from the outside. The screams of the burning animals drowned me out as I hammered on it, screamed too. A chunk of burning thatch came down from the ceiling, then another. Caught my hair. So fast. I was howling, beating at it – then my cloak caught too. Fire was eating up the right side of my face. Someone finally got the door open. I fell out, the dousing with water hurting even more. I lay on the ground, still howling like a beast in my agony. Faces bent towards me, their mouths moving. I could hear nothing above my own voice. Then the only face that mattered. Robert. He’d come for me.’
‘Then you regret the fire?’ Palmer looked at de Lacy, shocked by the man’s unexpected, horrific account. No wonder de Lacy had flinched at h
is offer of sizzling beef the night they’d sat by the fire at Tibberaghny.
‘No, Palmer.’ De Lacy shook his head. ‘I regret that Robert had to come running to save me. He’d heard the commotion that a barn was on fire. Then the panic when word spread that that was where the drunkard brother often lay.’ He gave a taut smile. ‘They all knew me better than I realised.’
Ahead, Uinseann was the butt of another joke; the laughter and the last of the birdsong in the darkening woods another world from what de Lacy related of his early life. And from the lord’s actions in murdering a dying woman.
‘He did what any brother would do,’ said Palmer. ‘You can’t regret that.’
‘Oh, no?’ De Lacy’s voice deepened. ‘He breathed smoke and frigid air for hours on that icy night. And with me back in the castle, he sat with me while my burns were bandaged and I writhed and howled, my right eye a bloody mess and my skin peeling off. Sat with me the day after. Then the night after that, as I slipped into a fever from my wounds. Sat urging me to life, uncaring of his own fragile health.’
‘A good man.’
‘He was.’ De Lacy’s voice came quieter than Palmer had ever heard it. ‘Robert died a month later. No one dared say it, but I could see in everyone’s eyes that they blamed me. I blamed myself. The cold, the exhaustion: his chest filled with a fluid that drowned him slowly. His meagre strength ebbed like a tide that never washed back in, leaving me, alone. Alone, and Lord of Weobley.’
‘You’ve said he wasn’t strong. You can’t know that it was your fault.’ Palmer knew his words reached de Lacy in the same way that an arrow reaches the centre of a rock.
‘Keep your pity, Palmer. If I hadn’t been a jealous, drunken oaf, then I would have known that Robert had a tenant that bore him deep ill will. It was he who set the fire in the barn. The man hadn’t even realised I lay in there. He was screaming that at me when I hanged him from its ruins.’ De Lacy nodded to himself in satisfaction before he went on.
‘All I know is that I had power, wealth – everything I’d always prayed for, wished for. Resented my brother for. I was twenty and I was a lord, an important tenant-in-chief of the Crown. But I only had it because my beloved brother was dead. I came to despise every stone of the castle, every blade of grass of that cursed place.’ De Lacy spat hard. ‘It was like it had been poisoned. By me. I couldn’t stay there.’
