by E. M. Powell
‘No, brother. Please. Do not.’ Theodosia stared at the knife in Gerald’s hand, twisting frantically against the rope that bound her.
‘I’m sorry, sister.’ He raised the blade.
John flung his wet cape aside and reached for the jug of wine, pouring himself a large goblet. The warmth of the palace was most welcome after the chill outside, a chill that was closer to autumn than midsummer. Even better, all of Archbishop O’Heney’s mounds of documents had been cleared. John nodded to himself. He couldn’t bear disorder.
The manuscripts would provide such excellent tinder in the chapel. And the holy men would provide reliable tallow.
That was quite a good jest. Pity he had no one to share it with. Never mind. That was the price of bold leadership, of being a rare individual whose mind worked in great leaps, no matter what events came at him.
A respectful knock sounded at the door.
‘Enter.’
One of his men, one of the many who plundered Cashel tonight, walked in with a broad smile. The smile disappeared when the man’s eyes lit on the cooling body of the late Brother Fintan in a puddle of blood.
Goodness, how easily some folk were distracted. ‘Yes?’
‘I think there is something you need to see, my lord.’
John sighed. ‘I do not want a riddle contest at this time of night. What is it?’
‘It’s the Round Tower, my lord. There’s great wealth on the first few floors.’ His smile was back. ‘But you should see what’s on the top one.’
‘You really expect me to go out in the wet and the cold and the dark again to go and see it. Bring it to me, man! That’s what I told you to do.’
‘But that’s just it, my lord. We can’t. At least not in one sweep. Or even two, three.’ His eyes lit up. ‘There’s so, so much of it. It’s a wonder to behold.’
John kept in the huge cheer that threatened to break from him. Now, this was good news. The very best. He got to his feet. ‘Very well. I’ll come and have a look.’ He picked up his damp cloak again with a grimace and walked to the door.
‘Should I send someone to remove the dead brother, my lord?’
John swung his cloak over his shoulders. ‘When the task of gathering Cashel’s wealth is complete. And make sure they bring me the head. It will make an excellent display high on the Rock.’ He nodded to himself. ‘I’ve seen that done elsewhere. I rather like how it looks.’
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Theodosia tried to twist away from Gerald’s knife with a cry.
But she could not.
The clerk brought it down on the loops that bound her to the post. ‘I am sorry for alarming you.’ He sliced through the knots at her wrists and the tight rope fell away.
Her knees felt as if they were about to give, and she could not trust speech, not for a few thudding beats of her heart in the hiss and drip of the rain.
Gerald continued. ‘But I had to think fast when we were discovered, and it was the best I could do.’
‘You have my heartfelt thanks, brother.’ Her voice sounded like another’s.
‘We can still leave and try to find help. But we’ll have to hurry. No time now to attach a cart to a horse.’
‘Brother, I am not going.’ She swallowed hard. ‘I never intended to. I was trying to arrange it so I could get Eimear out of here. I knew she could summon help. With your aid, of course.’
‘Sister, you are staying here? With the risk of the Lord John finding you? Are you quite mad? He will tear you limb from limb!’
‘Brother, I cannot abandon the Archbishop to his fate. Nor the monks. Eimear’s fate now too.’ She clenched her fists. ‘I will not have that on my conscience.’ Not as Becket’s is. Forever will be. ‘I have the best chance while John’s men are still occupied with stripping this place of its sacred possessions. Once they are finished, it will be too late.’
‘Then you have greater courage than I.’ His face fell. ‘God help me, I am too afraid. I cannot fight much with one arm, but at least my feet and legs are working. I shall go with all haste to seek help at the nearest monastery. I’m sure they will find those who can come to Cashel’s assistance. And I have my knife to defend myself on the way.’
As he flung the shredded rope back into the cart, Theodosia did a quick search of it. Her hands closed in triumph on an intact coil.
Gerald poked around under the seat. ‘You might as well have this too.’ He held up a small hatchet. ‘For all the good it will do.’
‘Thank you, brother.’ She took it from him. ‘Godspeed you.’ She set off in a run back up the hill.
‘You see, Palmer?’ The thick blanket of fine rain deadened de Lacy’s call. ‘We’re here. Nothing appears untoward at Cashel tonight.’
Palmer pushed his wet hair from his face as he stared at the hulking rock. The shadowed buildings above it showed many lights. ‘If Theodosia and Eimear are dead, it wouldn’t look any different, de Lacy.’
He frowned. Footsteps.
A lone figure ran along the road towards them, knees up, one arm flailing, in the most bizarre gait he had ever seen.
Now de Lacy’s brows drew together. ‘Is that the royal clerk?’
‘Palmer! De Lacy!’ The familiar wail floated over to them.
‘It is,’ said Palmer. ‘Something’s wrong.’ He kicked at his animal to get to Gerald more quickly.
‘No, no.’ The weird flailing wave again. ‘Get off the road. You shouldn’t be seen.’
‘Hell’s teeth,’ said de Lacy. ‘What’s the matter with him?’
‘Off the road. I beseech you!’
Very wrong. ‘Do as he says.’ Palmer gave a sharp whistle to the other riders who followed a short way behind. He urged his horse to trample a path into the darker shelter of the soaked, dripping trees.
De Lacy and the rest of the group abandoned the roadway with him, converging together to share hushed questions in heightened alert.
A loud crashing announced Gerald’s arrival through the bushes. As he burst through, his eyes lit on Uinseann and the other Irish warriors. ‘Don’t let them kill me!’ he shrieked. ‘I have terrible news!’
Palmer’s fear became a knife that might stop his heart. ‘They won’t touch you, Gerald. What’s going on?’
‘Palmer. De Lacy.’ Gerald sobbed without cease as he staggered over to them. ‘Oh, dear God. You must help.’
‘Spit it out, man,’ said de Lacy.
Palmer swung off his horse and was on the clerk, grabbing his bony shoulders to pull sense from him. ‘Is Theodosia hurt?’
‘What of Eimear?’ De Lacy’s horse jigged at his strident question.
‘The sister is unharmed.’
Relief surged through Palmer.
‘That I know of.’
Stopped. ‘What does that mean, Gerald?’ He tightened his grip on the clerk.
‘And Eimear?’ De Lacy again.
‘I’ll tell you, let me tell you.’
‘Let go of him, Palmer,’ said de Lacy.
Palmer did as ordered, listening with growing horror.
Gerald didn’t take long. Though he delivered a heart-stopping account with sobs and wails, the clerk used no extra words, no flowery words.
The face of every member of their small band told of their shock.
Palmer wanted to grab the clerk by the throat this time. ‘Are you trying to tell me you let Theodosia go to try to free the Archbishop?’
‘Everyone in the chapel. The wounded lady Eimear too.’ Another wail. ‘I couldn’t stop the sister!’
Forcurse it to hell. Theodosia was trying to fight a war. Single-handed. ‘I’ll stop her.’ Palmer was back at his horse in a few strides.
‘Palmer.’ De Lacy’s order. ‘Get back here.’
‘Damn you, de Lacy. I’m going for Theodosia.’ He went to remount, grabbing hold of his saddle, foot up to one stirrup.
Muscled arms grabbed him.
‘You heard the man.’ Uinseann hauled him down and back fro
m his horse.
Simonson lunged in to grab hold of one wrist.
‘Get off!’ Palmer threw Simonson off with ease onto the wet ground, but the warrior held him in an iron grasp.
Palmer strained in his hold, his own balance off in the mud. ‘I said, off!’ He swung a fist, got one of the man’s eye sockets.
‘Have this, Englishman.’ Uinseann hit back, his thumping fist straight in Palmer’s stomach.
Palmer’s breath grunted out, and he doubled over, swearing with what he had left.
De Lacy shook his head. ‘Palmer, have sense. She’s gone to the chapel. To the Archbishop’s aid. To my wife’s. Not the palace. The Lord of Ireland’s in the palace, so she’s not near him.’ He pointed to the darkness of the Rock. ‘John wants the place looted before he starts his murdering fire. Plundering a large site like that is going to take hours.’
‘I’m going, de Lacy.’ He forced the words out as he straightened up.
‘No, you’re not. And I’ll put a sword through you myself if you don’t calm down and listen. We will rescue everyone. Including the sister. I promise you.’ He stressed the word sister.
Of course. Not everyone here knew Theodosia was Palmer’s wife. And it had to stay that way. ‘All right. I won’t. Now let go.’
De Lacy nodded to Uinseann, who released his hold. ‘We need to keep this very simple. Simonson, you stay here and keep watch over the King’s clerk.’
Simonson straightened. ‘Yes, my lord.’
‘As for the rest of us, this,’ said de Lacy. ‘We get to the palace by scaling the wall beneath it and climbing up the outside of the rock. It’s not a difficult climb, but it’s steep and it’s dark and wet. At the top is a wall the height of more than two men. Try not to break your necks. Once we have John, we have control and we stop it. Stop it all. John is the one we need to get our hands on. In the meantime, you take the innards, the heads from any man in chain mail that says he is loyal to the Lord John. Understood?’
A chorus of agreement met his words.
Palmer added his mumble of agreement.
For now. But he’d follow orders for only so long. First chance he had, he was going for Theodosia.
‘These ladders are so steep. Why on earth are there no stairs?’ John climbed up what the soldier told him was the last ladder in this tall tower. He prepared his wrath for the fool who said he should come out here. Granted, he’d seen plenty of valuables on the lower floors. But nothing to warrant enduring the Irish rain yet again
‘It’s how these towers are designed, my lord.’ The man’s voice from above.
John climbed out from the hole through which the ladder protruded.
And wondered if he’d climbed into a dream world.
Gold. Silver. Ivory. Jewels on the precious metals. So much wealth. Wealth beyond what he’d ever thought possible. And miraculously, he held his dream in his hands once more.
Yes, he’d planned to take whatever he could get from here. Killing the Archbishop would cause terrible problems for Henry. Might even cause him to lose his throne. It would certainly send the Pope into an impotent rage. Both men, both old, stupid men, would realise their profound folly in passing him over.
But that no longer mattered. He had the means to buy a kingdom. An entire kingdom. He had the means to raise an army, seize a crown with what this room contained.
He had, literally, ascended to greatness. Ascension to greatness. That would be a chapter in his book.
He bent to look at yet another jewelled reliquary. ‘Go and fetch every man I have here. I want all of this brought to my palace. All of it. As quickly as possible.’
John, Lord of Ireland, let out a long, slow breath of triumph. He was lord no more.
Cashel, seat of the ancient Irish kings, had just birthed a new king within its walls.
And the Archbishop served no further purpose.
The time for the flames had come.
Theodosia slowed her pace as she approached Cormac’s Chapel, looking right, left in the soaking darkness. She could see no guards. Unless they lurked unseen, like the man at the stables. And she did not know where he had gone.
She tightened her hold on her hatchet. At least she had something, however meagre, to fight someone off with. The rope slung over her right shoulder would surely help her too.
All still seemed without watching eyes, guarding swords. She hurried to the south door. Locked, the planks far too strong for the weapon she held. Quick strides took her to the main entrance at the north. Drips fell from the tall, carved arch that also held a formidably stout door. She put her ear to the wet planks.
Her heart turned over. The monks prayed quietly, calmly. They trusted John, that he’d locked them in there simply to steal their treasures. But no. Eimear had been locked in there too. She would have told them what was happening. So they knew death drew near. That was what their prayers were for. They had no way of knowing that no guards patrolled outside.
A hot anger, strong and fast as a lightning strike, went through her. All this for power, for wealth. That John would inflict such a hideous, agonising end on others for his own gain. On men who had not fought back and who still did not resort to violence as a response. Who simply waited for death to come and take them to their God.
Hurrying back around the corner, she estimated the height of the three windows that were set into the west wall. She could get up there. She had to. Had to climb.
She yanked her veil from her head, then used the sharp hatchet blade to tear off most of her long, soaked wool skirt.
She took the few steps to one of the tall gravestones set into the earth and uncoiled some of the rope. Once she had looped it around the cold, wet stone twice, she secured it in a few swift twists. Then she returned to the wall below the window, playing the cord out and praying hard that it was long enough. Prayed harder she could do this without being seen.
One prayer was answered: it looked like she had enough length.
Sticking the hatchet into her belt, Theodosia put a hand to the rough wet stone of the chapel’s wall and pulled herself up with fingers, toes. Most of her weight hung from her arms, arms that no longer had the full strength of youth. She didn’t care. She let her rage carry her, up three feet, four, five, more, more until her hands grasped at the carved arch that surrounded the right-hand window.
Hanging on with one hand, one arm, almost had her fall. She tightened her grip, uncaring of the scream of tendons in her shoulder and of her leg muscles that shook with effort.
Her free fingers sought the hatchet. Found it. Brought it up in a heavy arc. And smashed it through the window.
Cries of fear met the bang and the shower of broken glass.
Theodosia put her face to the gap. ‘Brothers, fear not. It’s Sister Theodosia.’
‘Blessings to you, sister, blessings.’ The Archbishop’s quavering voice sounded. ‘You see, brothers?’ She heard it steady and lift in delight. ‘God does answer our prayers.’
‘Please stand away if you are able. I’m knocking out as much of the window as I can.’
Another blow, more glass and a muted chorus of rejoicing.
She thrust the hatchet back in her belt, then hauled herself to the sill with both hands, pausing to steady her balance as she looked down.
Where earlier the only other faces in the chapel had been those on the carved stone heads that gazed down from the ceiling, now so many live ones looked back at her, suffused with fear and jammed in tightly behind where O’Heney stood. She could make out Eimear’s too. She lay at the altar amongst the piles of the Archbishop’s manuscripts, her leg at a terrible angle as she lifted a hand in triumph to Theodosia.
Theodosia raised her voice as much as she dared to call again. ‘Hurry. I have a rope to help you climb out.’ She dropped it down, its coils opening to end a couple of feet from the floor. That didn’t matter: it would suffice. ‘But let me come in first.’
‘Stay out, sister,’ called the Archbishop. ‘We will
be with you shortly.’
‘I am coming to get my friend.’ Theodosia climbed in over the sill, her linen underskirts tearing on shards of glass and twisted lead. She grasped at the rope to lower herself into the chapel, hand over hand, landing to clasp the Archbishop’s outstretched one.
‘God has sent you this day, sister.’ His soft eyes filled with gratitude.
‘Get your brothers out.’ She thrust the rope to a strongly built monk. ‘You will assist?’
He nodded, taking it from her as O’Heney clapped his hands. ‘We have the sacred gift of life, brothers. Take it and run once you are out.’
‘You first, Archbishop.’
O’Heney drew breath to protest, but his fellow monks swept him along with them to clamber to freedom.
Theodosia moved past them to kneel at Eimear’s side.
‘Theodosia.’ The sweat of pain beaded her forehead yet she managed a smile. ‘You got away from Gerald.’
‘He was on our side,’ said Theodosia. ‘He did what he could.’ She drew breath to tell Eimear how she planned to get her out of the chapel, but an urgent sound cut across her.
Bells.
Not a call to prayer. Nothing so orderly.
This was a clamouring jangle. And it came from the Round Tower.
John dropped the reliquary he held, and a fine carved image of the Virgin on its ivory lid snapped off.
The bells, right above his head, had started with no warning, clanging so loudly they could be right inside it, throbbing, vibrating.
He swore long and hard. A small fortune had fallen from his hands. He went to the ladder. ‘Wait till I get my hands on the fool that is doing this.’
One of the other men stood up, raising his voice over the din. ‘I’ll do it, my lord.’
‘No, I want to speak to the oaf personally.’ John was already climbing down. ‘Get a move on. I want everything in here in my palace, with all haste.’
He descended, ladder after ladder, the echoing chorus above him still continuing.
As he arrived at the last, his stomach contracted. One of his own soldiers lay on the floor, clearly dying from the gaping axe wound in his chest, his hand threaded through the rope as he pulled and pulled on it with his last strength.
