by E. M. Powell
John’s abandoned horse stood nearby, nosing at the ground, its sides still heaving after the fast ride. A few stones rolled down the slope, following the path of crushed fern leaves and disappearing into the darkness, confirming where the rider had gone.
Uinseann let loose another stream of curses as Palmer swung off his horse, de Lacy dismounting quickly too.
‘If he’s gone in there, we’ll get him.’ Palmer peered down, trying to make out any kind of movement.
‘That we will.’ De Lacy stepped on a stone that gave way beneath his boot, rolling and bouncing down with a clatter.
Palmer grabbed at his arm to stop him following.
De Lacy steadied himself as Uinseann got down from his horse, eyes locked on the silent opening of the cave. ‘We might not be the only thing to get him. We could be got ourselves.’ He pointed his axe at it. ‘This is the cave of the Luchthighearn.’
‘One of your Irish ghosts?’ Palmer couldn’t help his rude response. The big man had just taken heads from men’s bodies. Yet now he looked ready to flee when facing some sort of imaginary creature.
‘No ghost.’ Uinseann shook his head.
‘Let’s get down there, de Lacy.’
‘Not so fast, Palmer. Rushing in without thinking is a poor strategy.’
The lord could have been Palmer’s squire master. Same lesson. He bit another rude retort back.
De Lacy turned to Uinseann. ‘What do we face if we go in there?’
‘The Luchthighearn is a monstrous cat. That cave is its lair.’
‘A big cat?’ Palmer’s stomach tightened. ‘Like a leopard?’
De Lacy looked at him askance. ‘Leopards are exotic creatures, Palmer. You won’t find them in these lands.’
‘You’d be amazed where you can find them.’
‘You’re not honestly trying to tell me that you think there’s a leopard running loose in Ireland?’ came de Lacy’s testy response.
‘If there was in England, then why not Ireland?’ Palmer knew he asked the question of himself, the memory of dappled, muscled fur and razor-sharp teeth and claws forever in his nightmares. ‘Look, I’m not saying it’s a leopard. All I know is a big cat is cunning. Fast. Jaws that can open a skull like an egg. Believe me. I’ve seen it. First-hand.’
‘Oh, God between us and all harm.’ Uinseann had the spooked look of a horse about to bolt.
‘That’s as may be, Palmer.’ De Lacy frowned. ‘But if there is a lethal creature living in that cave, then it might decide to make a meal of the Lord John. We need to go in there after him.’
‘You could smoke him out,’ said Uinseann. ‘Much safer. You’d be able to stay out of the blasted place.’
‘Bad idea.’ Palmer shook his head, though he’d give a bag of gold coins for it to be an option. ‘Look at the size of that cave mouth. It would take us hours to set fires big enough for that.’
‘Agreed,’ said de Lacy. ‘Worse, it would signal to the camp below that there’s something afoot up here. As things stand, we’re hidden. At least for now. But every moment is another where we could be discovered. And our chance to catch John would be lost.’ He gave his reins to Uinseann. ‘Somebody has to stay here to hold the horses. It might as well be you. Palmer, you’re with me?’
‘I am.’ Palmer thrust his reins at the big warrior, who gave them both a salute.
‘Good luck. I’ll be right here.’
Palmer paused to grab a coil of rope from his saddle pommel. ‘Torches.’ He went to rummage in his saddlebag. ‘Let me get my flint and tinder.’
‘Don’t waste time. Mine’s in my belt pouch.’ De Lacy broke off a few of the bigger branches from a nearby bush as he took a cautious step to where the slope sharply steepened. He took a first step down. His foot slid again and he cursed.
Palmer stepped forward next to him, slinging the rope across his chest to keep his hands free. His feet threatened to go from under him too, tipping him forward at an angle that could snap his neck. Only one thing for it. He dropped to his backside, leant right back and pushed hard with the flat of one hand. He did a fast slide down the first ten feet, slowing himself with his heels.
Stones pinged at his back as de Lacy followed him.
He turned to tell him to move to the side.
‘Can’t stop, Palmer!’ De Lacy clawed at fern fronds that snapped off in his hands, sending a growing pile of rocks and stones bumping into Palmer as de Lacy descended too fast.
Palmer pushed off again.
But de Lacy careered down, out of control, cannoning into Palmer’s back in a burst of pain and sending him rolling, spinning, in a slide of rocks and stones that struck his face and hands as he fought to slow his fall.
He landed at the bottom. Stopped. Breathless. Flat on his back. On stone that oozed wet. At least five times the height of a man above him, the black of the roof of the cave blocked out the light of the night sky.
De Lacy’s body slammed into him again as the lord ended his descent, driving more breath he didn’t have from his body and flipping him onto his face.
‘Well, we’re down.’ De Lacy levered himself up with a hand to Palmer’s back, his voice low. ‘You make a good cushion, Palmer. Wouldn’t think it to look at you.’
Palmer gasped in a painful lungful of air. ‘And you have a kick like a mule.’ He climbed upright and spat a piece of fern leaf mixed with bloodied spittle from his mouth. ‘But yes, we’re down.’
The air was cooler, damper than it had been up where Uinseann waited with the horses, and little of the moonlight reached down here. ‘But we made enough noise to warn the Lord John.’ Or attract the interest of the big cat. He could see nothing in the blackness of the cave but could swear eyes were on him. Amber eyes. Fixed. Before the creature leapt. He shook the thought away.
‘Can’t be helped.’ De Lacy handed him the sticks he held. ‘Let’s get some light.’
Palmer fastened lengths of rope round the sticks in tight twists as de Lacy got to work with his flint and tinder.
The rope took hold in a smoking sulk but yielded a small flame.
‘That’ll have to do.’ De Lacy handed one to Palmer. ‘God’s eyes.’ He held his torch aloft. ‘This place is huge.’
‘I thought we’d reached the bottom,’ said Palmer. ‘But it carries on down.’ He moved his feeble light, caught a glimpse of a huge column of stone like human hands had carved it. A gleam of something reflecting his flame. He paused. ‘Water.’
‘Is it flooded? If it is, that’s good news. Nowhere to go.’
Palmer moved closer. The water shone black. Still. Nothing to stir its surface. He hoped. ‘No. It’s just a pool.’
‘Pity.’ De Lacy moved away, his tread deliberate as he planted each step. ‘Watch your feet. Lot of moss on these rocks.’
Palmer followed.
With the ground beneath them still sloping down, they walked farther from the entrance.
Palmer had thought the light there poor. Now the weight of total darkness had them in its grip. The flames they held barely pierced it, made shadows on the grey stone that gave it faces, movement at the edge of sight, yet showed cold and dead when Palmer fixed on it.
It grew colder. Water dripped from above, in a relentless, sparse seep.
Palmer could sense a vast emptiness over him, but his lungs insisted the ceiling pressed down inches from his head, robbing him of air.
Then.
The rattle of a stone.
Not from his boot, not from de Lacy’s.
The lord looked back at him, the half-smile on his scarred face near demonic in the faint, flickering light against the black. ‘My Lord John!’
Palmer started, expecting silence where he got a shout.
No echo. The ancient rock deadened the sound as well as it did the light.
De Lacy shouted again. ‘My lord! It’s Hugh de Lacy. Sir Benedict Palmer is with me.’
Silence except for the drip, drip, and the hiss of the meagre flames when a drop stru
ck them.
Palmer turned slowly, his gaze trying to find any shift in the black.
‘We mean you no harm, my lord.’ De Lacy again. ‘But we need you to come with us.’
Another tiny clatter. Palmer could swear it. He poked de Lacy on the arm, nodded to the part of the cave the sound had come from. He put his mouth close to de Lacy’s ear, slipped his own torch into the man’s free hand. ‘Keep talking. I’ll use the dark.’
‘I am loyal to King Henry,’ called de Lacy, ‘as is Palmer.’
The bounce of a stone. Harder this time. Something stirred in the darkness farther back in the depths of the cavern.
Palmer made for it as quickly as he dared. He could see nothing. Nothing. He raised a hand in front of his face to protect it; in the utter blackness he could run nose first into rock and not see it.
De Lacy kept his words flowing. Meaningless words. About loyalty. Forgiveness. Words that John would rarely have uttered in his life. But they covered Palmer’s movements.
Another clatter.
Palmer didn’t pause. He could only pray that whatever made the noise had two legs and not four. And that the owner of the two legs couldn’t see him enough to gut him with a sword.
A yell from de Lacy. ‘Palmer!’
He whirled round.
De Lacy was on the ground, yelling, John’s shadowy form landing a hard kick in his ribs as he wrenched one of the torches from him.
With a flick of his white robe, he was off, running, running for the blackness beyond. Running deeper into the cave.
Palmer was at de Lacy’s side in a few strides. De Lacy thrust the remaining torch at him. ‘After him. I’ll get another one lit and follow you.’
Palmer took off after John. ‘Stop!’
But the King’s son ran on, glimpses of him disappearing, reappearing as he rounded rocks, ducked behind others. Panic gave him reckless speed.
Palmer followed close behind. ‘There’s no way out!’ He’d no idea if there was or not. For all he knew there could be an easy tunnel around the next corner, leading out into the night air.
A skittering sound and a strangled oath. John had fallen.
He had him now. Palmer rushed forward. An unseen rock sticking out from the wall of the cave caught the side of his head in an agonising thump and scrape. Staggering hard, it was his turn to swear now. He put his hand to his head, and the warm wet of his own blood soaked his fingers.
He forced his steps straight again.
No sign of John.
He picked up speed, waiting for the flash of movement in the poor light to reappear.
It didn’t.
Palmer paused, his hard breaths fogging in the glow of his own flame, making the only sound other than his heartbeat in his ears.
Still no sign.
He moved forward again, more cautious this time.
The little swine could be waiting to jump him. Or had been eaten. He cursed himself for a fool. A big cat consuming a live person wasn’t quiet. The whole place would ring with the horrible sounds.
His boot clumped into something. Not rock. Something soft.
Palmer crouched down, ready for an attack, hand out. It met fur.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Palmer jerked his hand back with a yell, his paltry flame lighting up the skin of the animal he’d felt.
Ermine. John’s robe.
His heart still raced like it wanted to leave his chest, and he swallowed hard to steady its fool’s rattle.
John’s robe. But no John.
Now Palmer didn’t even have the paleness of the fur to follow.
All he could do was press on, keep his eyes focused on the gloom, look for any movement, any sign of the tiny flame of the other torch. And where was the Lord of Meath?
‘De Lacy!’ His shout went unanswered. ‘Are you with me?’
Silence.
Palmer frowned. The King’s son couldn’t have gone past him. But he’d been dazed for a few seconds when he’d struck that rock with his head. John might have slipped past him then.
He hesitated. Back or forward?
One of his feet skidded on another wet rock. Recovering his balance, he saw a better path to the side, with the rocks less jagged. He’d follow that for as long as he could. Then he’d turn round and make for the entrance. He stepped over, stepped again onto a shadowed rock. His boot met air. He was falling.
His light blinked out, fell from his grasp.
Falling.
He was dead.
The crash of stone against his head and back told him he wasn’t. The groan of his own voice in his ears told him he wasn’t. The sparks of pain through him told him he wasn’t. But his eyes told him nothing. Not which way was up, down.
Whether he lay on a sloping, narrow ledge, where any movement would send him plunging down, down to where his bones would shatter. He was moving, sliding.
He pulled in a cry. No. He wasn’t. His head spun. From the blow as he landed. Not his body. Instinct had him crush his eyes shut to halt it. No difference. Of course. He opened them again. He had to get his bearings.
He stretched out a cautious right palm, flat from his body. Rubble. Loose, cold stones. Big, small. He swept his hand farther. More. He did the same with his left. The same. His legs. More rocks, loose debris. Good.
‘De Lacy!’ His shout came hollow. Contained.
He must have fallen into another cave. He should move, try to find a way out. But what if he couldn’t? Who would know he was down here?
De Lacy hadn’t answered his shout before he fell, could be lying dead with John’s sword through his heart.
Uinseann might come looking. But when? Fighting raged outside. And the warrior was terrified of this place. Even if he did come to search, he might never come across this place into which he, Palmer, had fallen. He’d chased John for a long way, and who knew how many tunnels and caverns were in here?
So he, Palmer, would stay in here, in the smothering black, calling, shouting, as he grew weaker and weaker until thirst would take him in a slow agony . . .
Sweat broke out over his whole body. He cursed himself for a witless churl. He had a sword, a knife. He wouldn’t wait for an end like that. What he needed to do was to get out of here.
Hands and knees first. He knew he had that amount of space. He moved one hand, one leg. His other limbs. Turned over with small, careful movements. And he was there. Ready to crawl. Like Tom had. Matilde had. While his heart surged with pride and he and Theodosia had laughed in joy together at their healthy, beautiful children.
He saw them for a second in the blackness. Now his sight played tricks. He didn’t care. He was getting out of here.
‘De Lacy!’ His call bounced back into his own ears again.
He edged forwards, checking every inch was solid before he put any weight on it. So slow, so slow. But he couldn’t risk going any faster. An impatient move could have him put most of his weight onto empty space, toppling, with no way of seeing what to grab to save himself.
But what if he edged away from the hole he’d fallen down? What if that was at his back and before him lay an endless tunnel, one that brought him deeper and deeper underground, where he would no longer be able to hear the cries of any rescuers, nor they him. He paused, sweat pooling on his back. He should turn around. Yet a cave side could be just a few feet away, the hole above it. A side he could climb up. And out.
He balled his fists in frustration and ground out a long, long oath. All he could do was go on.
He put his right palm flat on the ground once again. Loose rocks, but solid beneath. Good. His left. The same. Right knee. Left knee. All good. Right hand.
No rock. Something smooth. Leather.
His mind made that much.
Then his jaw exploded in pain as the boot cracked up and into it.
But Palmer had hold of the mail-wearing leg that wore the boot, yanking it down towards him. Mail. It had to be John.
A punch landed on his shoulder.
‘Have some of that back.’ Palmer swung in response, met air. Swung again, got the smack and sting of his knuckles on flesh. His hand closed on cloth, pulled hard at it, keeping his hold on his attacker as he returned kicks, punches.
Then his hand found a face, a face that yelled into his own as his nails dug into the flesh even as his other hand fumbled for the throat.
A knee in his stomach made him loosen his hold. But Palmer didn’t let go.
He threw all his weight on his attacker, straddled him to pin him down, received another hard punch to the head.
So hard, light flicked across his vision.
He landed a strike of his own.
Light again. Not from his head.
The faintest of gleams came from above.
Thank the Almighty, there was an above. ‘Down here!’ He yelled and yelled, even as the man pinned under him landed punches, roaring too.
‘Here!’
The light brightened. A little.
Dazed as much from darkness as the blows to his skull, Palmer could make out the edge of the hole he’d fallen into; then the unmistakable shape of Hugh de Lacy’s head and shoulders appeared in it.
‘De Lacy! It’s Palmer!’ Palmer shoved his forearm onto his opponent’s throat. ‘I’ve got John!’
‘You have?’ De Lacy thrust the light into the hole as Palmer got off his beaten opponent.
‘You. Up.’ He forced him to his feet by the scruff of his neck and the light finally fell on him.
Palmer froze.
He knew the bloodied face that glared back at him. But it wasn’t the King’s son.
‘John?’ came de Lacy’s roar. ‘That’s not John. That’s my bloody serjeant.’
The cold pool in the cave of the Luchthighearn, still black even in the wan light of dawn, might usually be empty. Not anymore.
Palmer pushed the serjeant’s head under its surface for the fourth time, held the back of his neck down as the man writhed, trying to escape his firm grip.
‘Out again,’ came de Lacy’s calm order.
Palmer hauled him out, the man gulping in great mouthfuls of air as spittle and water streamed from his mouth, unable to wipe any of it away, his hands secured with rope behind his back.
