by E. M. Powell
De Lacy hunkered down next to him. ‘Where is he, Aylward? Where’s John?’
The serjeant spat, shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I swear to you, I don’t know.’
‘Don’t know?’ Palmer shook him like an errant dog. The man had led him a fool’s dance in that cave and had done his best to kill him. ‘Won’t tell, more like.’
De Lacy had already received word from the group of Irish warriors that John was nowhere to be seen.
‘I don’t know!’ said Aylward. ‘I am sworn to the Lord John, the Lord of Ireland, so I did what he ordered, led you away. He took twelve men with him. And the King’s clerk.’
De Lacy sighed. ‘Aylward, I’ve trained you well. Very well. Perhaps too well.’ His look hardened. ‘In.’
Palmer shoved the man’s head beneath the surface once more. ‘Do you think he knows?’
Aylward held still at first, keeping his breath.
De Lacy frowned. ‘I don’t think so. Which worries me.’
‘And me.’ The first twitches began under Palmer’s hand. Became squirms. Wriggles. Thrashing.
‘Don’t drown him, Palmer. At least not yet.’
Palmer hauled him back out.
Aylward sounded like a hoarse bullock as he pulled in gasps of air, coughing and retching. ‘I tell you I don’t know anything. Whatever you do to me. I can’t tell you.’
‘We haven’t time for this.’ De Lacy stood up with an oath. ‘We should get going, Palmer. Head for Dublin. We know that John planned to take Eimear there.’ His backhand caught Aylward on the side of the head. ‘And you’ll spend time in my prison for this.’
Palmer looked at de Lacy. ‘If you still have a prison.’ He stood up, hauling the drenched, shuddering Aylward to his feet. ‘So in the meantime, we’ll make use of what we’ve got.’ He grabbed the serjeant under one of his bound elbows, hauling him back down the slope that led deeper into the cave, the man stumbling to keep his footing.
‘What are you doing?’ Aylward’s eyes widened in fear. ‘I don’t know where John is.’
‘We’re in a hurry to find him. We haven’t time to deal with you.’ Palmer paused. ‘De Lacy. I need your help. And your rope.’
The lord followed.
Palmer fixed his glare on Aylward. ‘We can put you back in the hole you led me to. You can lie in there, hoping that we don’t take too long to find the Lord John. Because if we do, it might be too late for you by the time we come back.’ He started the man walking again, though Aylward twisted in his hold. ‘Or we might simply forget. Mightn’t we, de Lacy?’
‘Indeed we might,’ came the mild reply.
‘No, Palmer. No. My Lord de Lacy, you know me. I’m a truthful man!’
De Lacy shrugged. ‘No one’s saying you’re lying.’ He took hold of Aylward on his other side. ‘Only that you will have to wait.’
‘Please, my lord.’ The serjeant tried to kick out, but Palmer wrenched him forward. ‘I don’t know anything!’
Palmer stopped. ‘The problem is, Aylward, that all men know something. And you know quite a lot. You’re just not telling us.’
‘I don’t, I don’t.’ Aylward’s voice held panic.
‘Nothing at all?’
Aylward’s glance shot to the darkest depths of the cave.
Palmer recalled his own terror when he thought he’d be buried alive in there. He saw it now in the serjeant’s face.
‘I don’t know where the Lord John went – I swear.’
De Lacy gave a snort of disgust. ‘Same tune, Aylward.’
Palmer didn’t bother replying, started to haul him off again.
‘But I do remember something he said. When we were at the village where we found that old woman’s body.’
Palmer stopped again. ‘Oh?’
‘He explained how he wanted me to lead any pursuers away.’
‘You’ve told us all this,’ said de Lacy. ‘His robe, his horse, the fires. Your idea to use the cave to keep the deception going when you came upon it, if it were needed.’
‘There’s more.’ Alyward’s look went back and forth between Palmer and de Lacy. ‘The clerk Gerald was talking – you know how he talks. He was raving on about how if the Irish could slay an old dying woman, then everyone could end up martyred in this terrible country. Martyred, he said, like Saint Thomas Becket himself. On and on.’
‘You really think that is enough to save you from your fate?’ De Lacy almost smiled. ‘I expected more from you, I—’
‘Hold.’ Palmer’s spine prickled at the mention of Becket’s name. ‘Was there anything else said?’
Aylward nodded. ‘John was getting on my horse as I was about to set off on his. I wished him Godspeed, said I prayed he didn’t meet the fate of the slain Becket like Gerald so feared. John just laughed, said: “I’m not concerned with any dead archbishop. A live one is much more valuable to me.”’
Palmer’s hope faded in his disappointment. ‘Canterbury’s in another land, across a sea. Weeks away.’ He went to take hold of Aylward again. ‘John-talk. Nothing else.’
‘Leave him.’ De Lacy. Barely a whisper. ‘You’re sure that’s what he said?’
‘Positive. But, my lord, that was all, and it may be nothing and—’
De Lacy held up a hand to cut him off.
Palmer frowned at him. ‘De Lacy? What is it?’
‘I think I know where John has gone.’ His voice came thick with emotion. ‘I’ve been there. With King Henry.’
The prickle was back. But not in a way Palmer liked. ‘Where?’
‘The seat of an archbishop. But it’s not Canterbury. It’s much closer than that.’ De Lacy swallowed hard. ‘Palmer: John is headed for the Rock of Cashel.’
Chapter Twenty-Seven
‘I do not think we are permitted to come up here.’ Theodosia climbed the steep ladder in Cashel’s Round Tower, a few rungs behind Eimear; her hands were slippery with sweat from exertion and from her fear of the shadowed drop that opened up below her feet.
‘Of course we are,’ came the reply. ‘The Archbishop said this tower was our refuge. We’re only exploring the rest of it.’
Theodosia had no desire to explore. Brother Fintan had walked every sacred building on the Rock of Saint Patrick with them that morning, his pride obvious. While Theodosia had been awed by its ecclesiastical riches, she’d ached to return to the lower room in the tower that the Archbishop had provided for them. Not for the comfort of the large bed with its clean linen, sweet with rosemary. Nor the well-stocked table with its fresh breads and rich, creamy cheese. Though Eimear had passed a peaceful night’s slumber in the bed and had feasted on the food, Theodosia had done neither.
She had spent the hours of the previous night, and so many today, kneeling at the carved faldstool in the room, praying without cease for a stop to John’s wickedness. Praying for Benedict’s safe return. Until God answered her prayers, she would continue. Sleep could wait.
But Eimear had grown increasingly restless in the confined space, prowling up and down like a caged cat. This scaling of the ladders to reach the top had struck her as an excellent idea, and she had persuaded Theodosia to pause from her devotion for a short while to come with her.
‘We’re here.’ Her much cheered tone rang down.
Theodosia let out a relieved breath. Her skirts were so much longer than Eimear’s.
Eimear’s tone shifted. ‘And, Theodosia, wait until you see what it contains.’
The sudden loud clang of a bell almost sent Theodosia plummeting from her perch. ‘I think perhaps it would be too easy to guess now.’
‘Not the bell.’ Eimear leaned down to offer Theodosia help as she climbed from the last rung. ‘This.’ She gave a wide sweep of her hand.
Theodosia caught her breath.
The room took up the entire top of the tower, in the same way as their own accommodation did. But up here, high as a bird in flight, four tall, triangular-headed windows, each one at an even space at four points in th
e rounded walls, gave views for miles. The yellow light of the setting sun poured in from one, illuminating the contents that already gleamed with a life of their own. Altar after altar, every one containing a treasure beyond price. Reliquaries of gold and silver, studded with jewels. Caskets and boxes covered with scenes from the Bible and the lives of the saints, the enamel fine as any paintwork. Statues carved so lifelike, they looked as if they would speak. Missals, psalters, gospel books – their glorious tooled and coloured covers proclaiming the exquisite work that would be found inside.
Eimear’s eyes rounded as she took in the sight. ‘Have you ever seen such riches?’
‘Never.’ Theodosia shook her head. ‘I have seen great wealth at the court of King Henry. But not like this. Not devoted to the glory of God.’
‘Well, the Archbishop has made sure he has put it in the right place, hasn’t he?’ Eimear went to the far window. ‘We’re halfway to heaven up here. Come, have a look.’
Theodosia stepped over to join her. The sight of ground so far below made her lightheaded. She put a hand to the reassuring solidity of the stone that surrounded the window.
‘Do you see that mountain? The one with the large dip in the centre?’ Eimear pointed to a line of distant hills, above which a line of full, low clouds approached. ‘That’s Devil’s Bit. Some people say that the Devil took a bite of the rock but dropped it here when fleeing from Saint Patrick. That’s the rock we stand on now.’
‘Oh, Eimear.’ Theodosia gave a little shake of her head. ‘That is not mentioned in the Bible. I am sure it is only an outlandish tale, the type of which Gerald is so fond.’
‘I know.’ Eimear gave a broad grin. ‘Why do you think people keep filling his ears with them? He’d believe anything.’
Theodosia tried and failed to look disapproving. Her own laugh met Eimear’s.
Another chime of a bell came, this time from far below.
Theodosia looked out again, still with a firm hold on the stone.
A lone monk walked around the outside wall, ringing a small bell at regular intervals.
‘What is he doing?’ Theodosia turned to her.
‘A blessing for this place.’ Eimear’s expression grew solemn. ‘To ward off evil.’ Then every trace of colour left her face. ‘Dear God. It’s not working. The Devil himself is here.’
Theodosia looked back out to see what so terrified Eimear and gave a loud gasp. ‘No.’ She gripped the stone even harder as she was sure she would fall. ‘No. No.’
John. Here. At Cashel. With Gerald. A monk leading the two men up the hill that led from the entrance gate to the group of main buildings. Heading their way.
‘Where—?’ Theodosia’s head whirled, but no longer from the height. ‘Where is Benedict?’ She willed him to appear, sword drawn, John under his authority. ‘Where is your husband?’
‘They’re not here.’ Eimear’s voice came tight with shock as the Lord of Ireland strode on. ‘Which means John has bested them. Got our location from them.’ She swallowed hard. ‘I don’t think either of them would have given him that without the worst of torture.’
‘No.’ Theodosia’s jaw set. ‘Benedict would have gone to his grave rather than betray me.’ Her words came fierce in her belief, in the grief that threatened to overwhelm her.
‘But look at John,’ replied Eimear. ‘He has the bearing of a victor, of a—’
The ladder gave a rattle, a shake. Shuddered.
Theodosia’s panicked look met Eimear’s.
Somebody was climbing up.
Hide. She mouthed the word to Eimear as she scanned the room for anywhere that they could.
But Eimear grabbed hold of one of the larger wooden statues and moved to the hole where the ladder emerged, lifting her weapon high and ready.
‘Sister?’ A hissed whisper. ‘My lady? Are you up there? The Archbishop has sent me with an urgent message.’
Theodosia recognised the voice of the monk who served the Archbishop. She stepped forward to block any strike that Eimear might make. ‘Leave him.’ She raised her voice a little. ‘We are here, brother.’
‘Oh, thank the Lord.’ The ladder shook again, harder. The face of the young Brother Fintan appeared. ‘The Lord John is here. At Cashel.’
‘We know.’ Eimear lowered her arms but kept her hold on the statue. ‘We have seen him.’
‘He has come for us, brother.’ Theodosia spoke with a composure that belied her terror – a terror not only for her own life, for Eimear’s, but that Benedict had already lost his. ‘I am sure of it.’
‘Please do not fear,’ said the monk. ‘The Archbishop does not think that John knows you are here. There was no mention of either of you at the gate when the King’s son asked for admittance to meet with the Archbishop. He said he was here on campaign in the name of King Henry. He has his clerk with him, and a group of a dozen men for his protection on his travels.’
‘A small band of fighters remaining.’ Eimear nodded in grim satisfaction to Theodosia. ‘Then at least Hugh and Benedict put up a good fight.’
‘With respect, my lady,’ said Fintan, ‘I would question if any of these men has been fighting in the last couple of days. I took a discreet look when they arrived at the gate so I could report to the Archbishop. Yes, they are travel soiled, but that is all.’ His calm face matched his tone.
His words brought a tiny comfort to Theodosia. ‘Any man who had managed to defeat Benedict would carry severe injuries,’ she said. ‘But John’s sudden proximity bodes the gravest of ills: I am sure of it.
‘I can assure you the Lord John made no threats,’ said Fintan, ‘displayed no violence, showed no force.’
No threats, no violence, no force. His words brought terrible reminders to Theodosia. Not like that freezing cold December evening at Canterbury, when the knights descended to brutally maim and murder Archbishop Thomas Becket. When they came for her. She swallowed hard. ‘Then what is his purpose here, brother?’
‘To receive the hospitality of the Archbishop of Cashel. That is what he has said.’
‘I do not believe him,’ said Theodosia.
‘Neither do I.’ Eimear moved quickly back to the window to look out. ‘They’re going into the Archbishop’s Palace.’ She turned back to address Theodosia. ‘All seems well.’ Her tone lifted in cautious hope.
‘Precisely,’ said Fintan. ‘Archbishop O’Heney knew that if he refused entry, it would only make the Lord of Ireland suspicious. John does not know you are here. The Archbishop says to keep yourselves hidden in the tower and you will be safe. He also asked me to remind you both that you have the full protection of the Church. You are here, within the tower, its refuge. Its sanctuary.’ He readjusted his grip on the ladder. ‘I must go. I do not want to attract any attention through my absence.’
‘Of course,’ said Theodosia. ‘Bless you, brother.’
Eimear muttered her thanks too as he disappeared from sight.
The ladder stopped moving. He was gone.
Eimear let out a long breath. ‘I would not have chosen John’s arrival. But, with Cashel’s help, we should get through it.’
‘I fear the men of Cashel are being naive.’ Theodosia’s thoughts jumped from one possibility to the next. ‘We need to move from here.’
‘Perhaps they are. But it’s too risky,’ said Eimear. ‘We’re hidden from any prying eyes in here.’ She glanced around. ‘We’re with the Archbishop’s wealth. We’re in the most secure place on the entire of Saint Patrick’s Rock.’
‘Secure. You mean like in a cell?’ Like the security of the cell of an anchoress. A cell from which her beloved Thomas Becket ordered her out. To leave. And saved her life.
Eimear shrugged in incomprehension. ‘I would think that secure.’
‘Then you are wrong. A hiding place that no one knows of is far more secure.’ Theodosia grabbed her hand. ‘Come. We have to get out of this tower.’
‘But where can we go?’
‘I think I know.’
Now, this was disappointing.
John had had such high hopes entering Cashel.
His journey here had been one of painfully slow stealth. Hacking through the densest of woods. Giving a wide berth to any settlement. Hiding at the sounds of any other riders. All to make sure he was not discovered by any of the savages who roamed the many miles he’d travelled.
When he’d finally laid eyes on this place, it had pleased him that the buildings had an impressive, if foreign, grandeur, and their position on the enormous lump of stone looked really quite remarkable. And yet its Archbishop, hurrying to greet him and Gerald as they entered his hall, was neither impressive nor remarkable.
‘You are so welcome to the Rock of Saint Patrick, my Lord John. Every blessing to you, every blessing. The King’s clerk too! Every blessing.’
In fact, the man was a mess. Covered in ink, hair askew. Eyes like a blind frog’s.
Gerald didn’t seem to notice, was grinning at the man with every one of his long teeth. ‘Archbishop. It is such an honour.’ Bowing. ‘Such a great honour.’
‘The honour is mine. Let me see, let me see.’ The fat little man searched for a place to sit free from strewn and piled papers and manuscripts.
John kept his own smile fixed. So very disappointing. He’d imagined that a tall, imposing Irishman ruled over this place. This O’Heney could pass for a friar buying apples on a muddy town street.
‘My apologies, my lord.’ O’Heney picked up papers, peered at them, put them down again. ‘If I had received word, my lord, you would have found my hall waiting to receive your noble presence.’
‘No need for apologies, Archbishop,’ said John. ‘Your hall is most fine, and its contents show your devotion to your work.’
The man looked delighted with the risible platitude.
‘Devotion, indeed.’ Gerald had an equally pleased mien.
John doubted if the clerk would have noticed if the hall had a roof or not, with his covetous appraisal of the manuscripts.
