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

by E. M. Powell

  With the door closed tight behind them, they mounted the winding stone treads, Eimear holding the candle high in a hand that still shook.

  They stepped into the croft.

  The steeply pitched stone ceiling arched high above, and a few windows set into it at a lower level gave some air, but only the smallest smudge of faint grey light.

  ‘Plenty of room for us here. And dust.’ Eimear sneezed hard.

  ‘Dust that lies undisturbed.’ Theodosia allowed herself a small smile of triumph. ‘Which means people rarely come up here.’

  ‘That suits our purpose.’ Eimear placed the candle on a stone beam as her gaze roved over every corner. She sneezed again.

  ‘Hush,’ said Theodosia. ‘We need to stay quiet.’

  ‘I know.’ Eimear scrubbed at her nose with the back of her hand. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Hush.’

  ‘I said I was—’

  ‘Hush!’ Theodosia listened out. Her stomach dropped. The tread of metal boots on stone. Eimear’s face told her she heard it too.

  ‘It’s from outside.’ Heart fast again, Theodosia ran across to one of the windows, her wet shoes and skirt sending clouds of powdery stone silt into the air.

  ‘You’re leaving tracks!’ came Eimear’s furious hiss.

  Theodosia cared not. She reached the window and gestured for Eimear. ‘Quick.’

  Eimear joined her, stifling another sneeze.

  A group of a dozen mailed soldiers made their way to the cathedral, following in the footsteps of the monks who had walked there a short while before.

  ‘Why are armed soldiers going to Compline?’ whispered Theodosia, meeting Eimear’s equally mystified expression.

  ‘Those are John’s men.’ Eimear gave Theodosia’s hand a brief, hard squeeze. ‘I am very glad we didn’t try to hide in the cathedral.’

  The door of the cathedral opened to allow the men’s admittance, the spilled light bringing a brief gleam to their mail. It closed behind them, and quiet returned once more.

  Eimear pulled in a deep breath of relief. ‘Who cares why they’re going? It keeps them away from us.’

  Relief Theodosia did not share. ‘Armed men at a cathedral’s door.’ She licked some of the powdery dust from her dried lips. ‘Same as there were on the night of Becket’s murder.’

  ‘But John’s not with them. Nor Gerald. Neither is there any disturbance.’

  ‘John is plotting something, Eimear. I know it. Why else is he here?’

  ‘My guess would be that Hugh and Benedict caught up with him and his men. John will have run away, bringing this small group with him.’ She snorted. ‘We know he’s good at fleeing.’

  ‘No.’ Theodosia frowned to herself as she stared at the dark outline of the huge cathedral. ‘If that were so, Benedict would have been close behind him. None of this is right. None of it.’

  ‘If all is quiet, that’s good enough for me.’ Eimear glanced over her shoulder. ‘What I need to do is smooth out our footprints. They could easily give us away if anyone comes up here.’ Eimear pulled off her cloak. ‘This will have to do to sweep over it.’

  Theodosia remained at the window, unable to shake her deep sense of foreboding.

  Eimear sneezed yet again as she set about her task. ‘I swear this stuff has been here since the time of King Cormac himself.’

  ‘I would think so.’ Theodosia did not move her gaze from the closed cathedral.

  ‘It looks undisturbed again.’ Eimear came back to her side and gestured to the still night. ‘You see? No disaster, no—’

  As if in reaction to her words, the door of the cathedral opened again. Opened to reveal John’s men, swords drawn this time, lit torches in hand as they flanked a line of cowering monks.

  ‘Oh, dear God.’ Theodosia put a hand to her mouth as Eimear gasped in horror.

  ‘Keep moving!’ The shout from one of the guards echoed out.

  Hemmed in as they were, the monks could only comply in a rapid shuffle.

  ‘They cannot hurt them.’ Theodosia’s words came low, fierce as she turned to Eimear. ‘They cannot.’

  ‘Theodosia.’ Eimear’s whisper. Her point with a trembling finger. ‘Look!’

  Theodosia did. Now she feared she had entered a door to hell.

  Exiting the palace was John, the Archbishop firm in his grasp, his sword drawn. His bloodstained sword. An ashen-faced Gerald followed.

  ‘Get a move on!’ The arrogant, bullying tone she knew so well.

  ‘I pray, slow down, my lord.’ The little Archbishop stumbled hard. ‘My eyes. In this light.’

  John ignored him, brought him to the head of the column, where he paused to address the holy inhabitants of St Patrick’s Rock. ‘You will come to no harm if you do as you are ordered. I want you all in the chapel!’

  The chapel. Theodosia grasped Eimear’s arm. ‘We have to go.’

  ‘No,’ came Eimear’s equally firm response. ‘Think, Theodosia. John is putting the men of Cashel into the chapel downstairs. I would like to kill him with my bare hands for how roughly they are being treated, and I pray I’ll get the chance. What’s more, those bloodstains on his sword concern me greatly. But for now, this is where we should stay. This is the last place anyone will look.’

  The monks had set off again, orderly as before but with shocked uncertainty on the torchlit face of every holy man.

  Eimear went on. ‘Not only are we safe, but we may be able to help. We’re invisible to John, remember?’

  Her words made sense. ‘A great advantage.’ Theodosia dropped her hand.

  ‘The best we have at this moment. So we stay put.’ Eimear caught back a stifled sneeze. ‘Oh, God rot this dust. I swear I shall stay quiet.’

  Another shout from outside. ‘You’ll stay in there until I command otherwise!’

  A terrible realisation came to Theodosia. ‘What you said. Just now. God be merciful, I think I know what John is planning.’ She met her friend’s frown.

  ‘How—’

  ‘The dust: you said it was here from the time of King Cormac.’

  ‘Dust? Have you lost your reason?’

  ‘Listen. John wants to be King of Ireland. But we have foiled his ambition. Yet Cashel is the ancient seat of the Irish kings. You told me so. Before one of them gave it to the Church.’ Theodosia’s fists clenched. ‘I think John wants to strike back at being so thwarted. And I fear to the depths of my soul what that means for the Archbishop.’

  Eimear stared at her. ‘Theodosia, my hope is you’ve gone mad. But I don’t think you have. We need to try to get help.’ She glanced out of the window. ‘They’re almost here.’

  ‘Come on.’

  Dust bloomed again in the air as they ran to the stairwell.

  Theodosia led the way down the tight spirals of the steep stone staircase as fast as she dared, pausing when she reached the bottom. She opened the door a crack. ‘The chapel’s still empty,’ she whispered. ‘Quick.’

  They made for the door through which they’d entered, swift, silent, as noises came at the north door.

  Theodosia turned the metal handle with careful, sweated hands, anxious that she should make no sound.

  ‘Hurry, Theodosia.’ Eimear’s anxious whisper. ‘They’re on their way—’ She cut off to stifle another sneeze.

  ‘Out. Before you do another.’ The door swung open soundlessly in Theodosia’s hands, and they slipped through.

  Easing it shut behind them, they stepped outside, breathing hard.

  Rough, uncouth commands floated on the rain-spattered night air.

  ‘Where should we go?’ said Eimear, her voice low.

  ‘We stay where we are for now,’ replied Theodosia. ‘There are too many eyes that could see us. We should be sufficiently concealed—’ Theodosia froze.

  Voices raised in argument. John. Gerald. She crept as close to the corner as she dared.

  ‘You can have your manuscripts, Archbishop. It’ll help you to pass the time.’ John gave the bewild
ered-looking little man a wave as his soldiers slammed and locked the door of Cormac’s Chapel.

  He hunched his cloak tighter. This rain went through him on this filthy night. He went to set off for the warmth of the palace but was halted by a hand on his arm. ‘Oh, what is it now, Gerald?’

  The clerk wore one of his haunted looks. ‘My lord, may I make, with the utmost respect, a suggestion?’ He quivered hard.

  ‘Go on.’ John knew what was coming, though he was surprised that Gerald dared to say anything.

  Only a short while ago in the palace, the clerk had thrown up in shock when John had run the young Brother Fintan through with his sword. John had explained the problem, that Fintan had threatened to prevent him from taking the Archbishop prisoner. That simply could not be allowed. Hence, the running through.

  Gerald and the Archbishop had failed to grasp the simplicity of the argument.

  Now here the clerk was again. ‘My suggestion, my respectful and humble suggestion, is that you do not imprison the Archbishop of Cashel in one of his own chapels.’

  ‘It won’t be for long, Gerald.’

  ‘That is good news, my lord.’

  John went on. ‘It won’t be for long because he and the other monks are being held while I find every last item of value that this site holds. It may be that some treasures are hidden, and therefore I will require the help and assistance of those men in the chapel.’

  The clerk’s face and entire body sagged in relief, and he passed his unsplinted arm over his sweated brow.

  John held in his smile. ‘Once the looting is complete, I am going to burn the chapel to the ground, and those locked in the chapel will be the seat of the fire.’

  A terrible moment passed where John thought the clerk was going to spew again. But the old fool rallied.

  ‘My lord, as a man of God, I am appalled, appalled by the killing of Brother Fintan, a young holy man in God’s house, and your plan to kill more.’ He flung a hand towards the chapel. ‘You would murder the Archbishop of Cashel? Another murder like that of Saint Thomas Becket?’

  John tensed at this outrageous challenge to his authority. He was tempted to lock the clerk in there with the rest of them. But he needed Gerald’s skills at recording. ‘Gerald, I’m sick and tired of you and your drivel. Leave this place if you want. Go out amongst the Irish that you’re so afraid of. I’m sure they’ll welcome you with open arms. And axes. I’m going back to the comfort of the palace. My palace.’

  He set off, then paused. ‘You should know, Gerald, that it was your harping on about Becket that gave me the inspiration for this. My thanks to you.’

  A ridiculous keening broke from the clerk as John went on his way.

  Then he rolled his eyes to himself.

  It sounded like the clerk was being sick again.

  Theodosia fought her own bile, and Eimear’s face showed her rigid with shock.

  John’s words – so vicious, so casual. His taking of Brother Fintan’s life. His intention to take that of Archbishop O’Heney, of others, in such a heinous manner. All terrible echoes of those who had come to take her Lord Becket’s life, and what followed after. Never again. If she had to lay her life down to stop it, she would. And she had to do it now, while she had not yet been seen and before Gerald walked away.

  She moved right to the corner, peeking with caution around the wet stone wall. ‘Brother.’ Her urgent whisper. ‘Over here.’ She beckoned as Eimear pulled at her arm in panic.

  ‘Theodosia, what are you doing?

  Another. ‘Here.’

  Gerald looked over in trepidation. His face changed as he saw her.

  ‘He’ll bring the Lord John down on our heads.’

  ‘Trust me.’

  ‘Sister Theodosia.’ Gerald’s thin face in the shadows looked stunned as he came to her. ‘You were a spy for Cashel? And you’ – he stared at Eimear in open revulsion – ‘the savage.’

  Theodosia raised a hand. ‘Brother, please. I beg you to listen to me. Neither of us is a spy. I swear on God’s name that Archbishop O’Heney himself gave us the Church’s sanctuary here.’

  ‘You expect me to believe your word?’ Gerald drew breath to call out.

  ‘I saved your life, brother,’ said Theodosia as panicked sweat engulfed her. ‘As Eimear tried to too.’

  He paused.

  She continued. Fast. Steady. ‘If you doubt me, then make your way to the door of Cormac’s Chapel and ask the Archbishop if he received us here. But, in so doing, you will make it impossible to save him, for my presence will then be known.’

  Gerald opened his mouth. Closed it again.

  ‘We have to save him. We have to.’

  ‘We must.’ Eimear pressed the point.

  ‘I don’t think we can.’ Gerald raised his injured arm. ‘Look at us.’

  ‘But we have to try, brother.’

  His face showed the war waging within him. Then he swallowed hard. ‘You are right.’ He crossed himself several times. ‘Such wickedness must be countered.’

  Theodosia allowed herself a small breath of hope. ‘Brother, John said you were free to leave. If we go down to the gate now, you could go to the stables and get a horse and cart, and we could conceal ourselves in the back. No one is going to question your leaving if the Lord John has given you permission.’

  ‘Once we’re out, we can get help,’ said Eimear.

  ‘Eimear is held in great esteem by the Irish, brother. You would be quite safe.’

  ‘Very well.’ Gerald’s anguished look went to the chapel again. ‘Let us make all haste.’

  ‘Agreed,’ said Theodosia. ‘Now, come.’ She took his arm in the usual hold to steady his steps, hoping to speed them as she did so. ‘Eimear?’

  ‘Quickly, brother.’ She took the other arm.

  Together they bore Gerald away from the chapel, heading down the rock with the clerk protesting at their pace.

  Theodosia’s heart jumped in her chest. The darkness, the blustery rain in her face. The ground muddy and slippery under her feet. She should descend with care. They all should. But the deep shouts and raucous calls of the looters floating on the wind made her reckless.

  ‘Pray God they stay occupied in their foul work.’ Theodosia steadied her footing as her feet almost went from under her.

  ‘I’m sure they’ll be like pigs at a trough,’ said Eimear. ‘Thanks to their greed, the stables look deserted.’

  The low buildings indeed sat in dark quiet, with the ground on which they stood levelling off in a neat, cobbled stable yard that was far easier underfoot.

  Her tone hushed, Eimear pointed to a small cart in one puddled corner. ‘I’m sure I can hitch that one up.’ She let go of Gerald to investigate. ‘I can. We don’t even need a groom.’

  Theodosia gave a quick glance up at the Rock. So many lights. Someone could discover them at any moment.

  ‘I could drive such a tidy cart.’ Gerald nodded hard.

  ‘Then let’s not delay,’ said Theodosia.

  ‘Help me lift it, Theodosia.’ Eimear went to pick up the shafts to manoeuvre it out of the corner.

  ‘What are you lot doing?’ A male voice. Its owner walked out of the shadow of the stable block. Wearing chain mail. With his hand to the hilt of his sword.

  Gerald clutched for Theodosia.

  ‘Eimear, don’t!’

  Her scream came too late.

  Eimear flung herself at the soldier, her nails going for his eyes, her teeth on his hand.

  With a surprised oath, the man tried to fend her off.

  She grabbed for the handle of his sword. ‘I’ll have that.’

  ‘Off, bitch!’ His iron boot met her kneecap in a sickening crack.

  She dropped to the wet, muddied cobbles, grinding out a long, long scream through clenched teeth.

  ‘Dear God, no.’ Theodosia went to help her, but the man drew his sword.

  ‘The Lord John will hear of this.’

  Theodosia looked for something, any
thing she could use to stop him. Then froze as Gerald’s plaintive wail rose up.

  ‘Do not use your sword on me! It’s me, Gerald. The King’s clerk. These harridans were forcing me to leave with them as a hostage. And me a poor, defenceless man, with my broken arm.’

  The coward. She could kill him herself.

  ‘I know who you are, brother,’ said the man. ‘Let me deal with these two.’ He sucked at the blood from the bite on his hand. ‘This one first. Definitely.’ He raised his sword to Eimear, who clawed at the ground, trying to escape from his weapon’s reach.

  ‘Spare her! I beg you!’ Theodosia went to step forward, but the man turned his sword on her.

  ‘Pray stay your hand,’ said Gerald. ‘The moaning savage on the ground is of royal Irish blood, surprising as it may seem. Too valuable to the Lord John. Put her in the chapel with the rest, and I will stand guard over this nun.’ He nodded at Theodosia. ‘Secure her to that post. I will watch her until you get back.’

  ‘If that’s your order, brother.’ The man looked disappointed.

  ‘It is.’

  Theodosia tried to back away, but the man held his sword up again. ‘Move and I will cut your legs from under you.’ He placed it out of her reach on the cart and beckoned for her to come over.

  ‘Let her be.’ Eimear hurled a string of oaths.

  Theodosia complied, knowing he would carry out his threat. ‘I beg you, sir. I only want to leave this place.’

  ‘I’m sure you do.’ He took a piece of coiled rope from the cart and bound Theodosia’s wrists to the wooden upright in tight, quick knots.

  Breathing hard in her pain, Eimear raised herself on one elbow. ‘Gerald, hell won’t be hot enough for you, you know that?’

  ‘Enough of your noise.’ The man grabbed his sword and went back over to Eimear ‘Up, you.’ He yanked her to her feet and she bit back a howl of agony. He dragged her away at a relentless pace. ‘I’ll send someone down for the nun.’

  Eimear’s contained cries of pain tore through Theodosia as she watched the guard haul her off into the darkness. She glared at Gerald. ‘How could you? How—’

  Her question died.

  Gerald held up his knife, the same knife with which he’d slain the Irish warrior in his tent. ‘And now. Sister.’