by E. M. Powell
‘Of course. Thank you for all you have done.’
The monk bowed and left.
De Lacy went to her side and sat on the stool he’d vacated. ‘How much does it hurt?’
Eimear shrugged, coughed again. ‘I’m still alive. Still here for William.’ She gave the ghost of a smile. ‘You?’
‘Well, as you can see, my reputation as a comely knight is at an end.’
Her smile turned to a laugh, more coughing.
‘A few more marks on a face and body that have plenty.’ He hesitated. ‘Eimear, I need to tell you what we are doing about John.’
No more smile. ‘I’d like to gut him like a fish.’
‘As would I. But we can’t.’ He explained what would be done, and she listened without interruption. ‘I hope it isn’t too much to ask.’ His voice lowered. ‘I always seem to be asking something of you.’
‘No.’ Eimear shook her head, and he was shocked to see the silver beads of tears forming at the corners of her eyes. ‘It’s not too much.’
‘Then why are you crying?’
‘I’m not. I’m just grateful.’
‘As am I. Your son still has his mother and—’
‘I’m grateful for you. You. You came for me.’ She raised one hand to his face, put gentle fingertips to where the gouges of his burned flesh began. ‘You, who’ve been almost consumed by fire.’
Her touch called to something deep within him. He could not speak.
The tears slid from her eyes now, flowing slowly and steadily as she went on. ‘I thought you had paid your debt to me. I thought we didn’t owe each other anything.’ Her fingers moved over the sensitive whorls of his scars, tracing each one.
De Lacy pulled in a ragged breath. ‘Someone came for me once. With no care for his life. So little care for it, he lost it for me. I have regretted it every day of my life.’ He put his hand over hers. ‘You’ve done so much for me. If I had abandoned you to the agony of the flames, I would have regretted it every day for the rest of my life. And regret is a poison. I want no more of it.’
He took her hand from his face.
But she kept it clamped in his. ‘Nor I,’ she whispered.
He lifted her hand to his lips. Still she didn’t remove it.
‘Nor I, Hugh.’ She held his gaze with a fierce tenderness.
John opened his eyes, and his head pounded in its familiar pattern on waking in the brightness of the morn.
Wait. He closed them again. This was no wine headache. It radiated from the back of his head, sending shooting fire through his skull.
He put a hand to the source of the fire and his fingers met a thick bandage over a poultice. Fire. Of course. The chapel.
He opened his eyes again.
If he could have, he would have sat bolt upright in the bed in which he lay.
Hugh de Lacy stood in the lower circular room of the Round Tower, Gerald with him.
Both were watching him. The mail-clad de Lacy with his one-eyed stare. Gerald in his cleric’s robes, with less of a fawning look and more one of accusation. Much more.
‘You are here, de Lacy.’ John frowned at the croak in his own voice.
‘I am, my lord.’ A bow. That somehow had no respect in it whatsoever. ‘For it is where my wife came to.’
‘She came here with that spy. That Sister Theodosia.’ His head cleared, though it still banged like the Devil. ‘And that spy, that nun, tried to kill me.’ He managed to sit up, pushing the coverlet from him, though he wore only a long undershirt. ‘I want her hunted down. I want her—’
‘My lord.’ Gerald held a hand up.
‘You dare to—’
‘My lord.’ Firmer. ‘Listen to me. As we speak, the Archbishop of Cashel is making the strongest of representations to your father about recent events. Henry is unlikely to be pleased, which is putting it mildly, as the death of Archbishop Thomas Becket almost cost him his throne.’ Gerald drew his mouth down. ‘It was a sinful endeavour, my lord.’
‘I will find her.’ John’s fists tightened on the coverlet. ‘I will.’
‘My lord, you will not be pursuing a nun across Ireland. The Lord of Meath and I have agreed to take you to the relative safety of Dublin to sit out the rest of this miserable mission.’
‘For your own protection, my lord.’ De Lacy gave him his one-sided smile. ‘Of course.’
‘But she isn’t only a nun.’ John drew in a breath, waiting for their stunned response, for their change of heart. ‘She claimed to be my sister!’
They said nothing.
Then they laughed. Laughed.
John glared from one to another. Sat up in bed like this, listening to their indulgent mirth, he might as well be a small boy relating a dream about dragons to his nurse.
‘My lord, you must be confused from the blow to your head when you fell face first into that grave.’ Gerald’s long-toothed smile went. ‘A fall that I believe was God’s vengeance.’
John wished he had his strength. He would set about the pair of them. But he couldn’t rise. ‘She told me. In the cathedral.’ And of course. ‘Sir Benedict Palmer was there, another traitor, defending her.’ He pointed a shaking finger at Gerald, de Lacy. ‘You bring me Palmer. I’ll get it out of him.’
‘Palmer is dead, my lord.’ De Lacy smiled no more too. ‘He perished in the fight here, alongside so many others. He is buried in the graveyard, as are they all.’
‘Now, I suggest you get some rest, my lord,’ said Gerald. ‘You will need your strength for the journey to Dublin.’
‘I have a guard outside. In case you need anything.’ De Lacy’s meaning was clear.
The two men left.
John knew they were lying, both of them, all of them, which he would deal with another day.
His head felt like it was about to burst with pain as well as anger. He lay down again, wincing as his injured skull met the mound of pillows behind him.
He’d been so close to a throne. The throne of Ireland. But close would never wear a crown. Instead, he lay alone. Shamed. Defeated.
He, John, youngest son of the great Henry. He was still Lackland. Lackland. He swore hard to himself for a good minute.
Yet, even injured as it was, his mind still thought ahead.
He would spend his time in Dublin working out a credible story for his father. The old fool would believe anything John told him. He, John, would lay most of the blame at Hugh de Lacy’s door. Henry would definitely swallow that. Doubtless an account of the treacherous Irish too. Claim an alliance between the two sides, united against him, John.
Then it hit him.
De Lacy wasn’t the only man who could form alliances with the Irish.
As the bell high in the tower above rang out, calling the monks to prayer, John marvelled at his own speed in changing strategy.
That was what came of having a brilliant mind.
Chapter Thirty-One
Cloughbrook, Staffordshire, England
6 September 1186
Palmer rode back to his hall at Cloughbrook, spent from his long day on his land. The last of summer always brought an urgency. Every hour of daylight had to be spent overseeing his tenants, checking yields, taking in harvests and crops, bringing them to store and kitchens. Short yields benefitted no one, and he did everything in his power to make sure that didn’t happen. He’d even spent two hours on his haunches helping to mend a broken wagon wheel. It didn’t bother him. Hands got jobs like that done, not titles.
He had left his loyal tenants toiling on, though it bothered him to do so. Most had risen before dawn and would work on with little rest until well after nightfall.
Palmer eased his aching shoulders. He would work on tonight too, with Theodosia’s help. As lord, he had to record all the workings of his lands. Well, the money that was attached to them. He could add up things with ease in his head but still found the written word more exhausting than pushing a plough. She’d help him, as she always did, with her quick reading and her swift, neat, precise q
uill.
A first few dead leaves blew across the ground as he approached the hall. Yes, today had brought hours of hot sunshine, and his lands had never looked so reliable, so ordered. But as with all September days, the light was changing. Shortening. The tips on the leaves of many of the trees were turning yellow and brown. After so many months, only a few short weeks remained before the dark and the cold returned. They would all need to be ready for when it did.
As he turned his horse for the stable yard, a groom walked out to take it. ‘Good evening, Sir Benedict. Finished with your horse for the day?’
‘I am, thank you.’ Palmer dismounted, pointing to his animal’s hind leg. ‘Have a look at that, will you? I’m sure there’s a few ticks in there.’
‘Benedict!’
Palmer looked over at the source of the call.
Theodosia stood in the front door, face pale, holding something tight in both hands. A letter.
‘I need to speak with you,’ she said.
Palmer nodded to the groom. ‘See to the ticks. Please.’
He hurried over to Theodosia, unease replacing his tired contentment from his day. ‘Is it from the King?’ He kept his voice low.
‘No. It is from his royal clerk.’
‘Gerald?’ Palmer’s own confusion was mirrored in her eyes. ‘Why would he write to us?’
‘I do not know. I have not opened it yet. I wanted you to be here when I did.’ She looked past him to where the groom had disappeared with Palmer’s horse. ‘No one else.’
Palmer nodded. ‘Let’s go inside.’
He followed her in, and she halted with a poor attempt at a smile. ‘Go and wash from your day,’ she said. ‘I have waited for many hours; I can wait a little longer.’
‘And I can see from your face that you’ve spent every moment of that wait in a frenzy.’ He slipped an arm across her shoulders. ‘So you’ll have to put up with your mud-splattered husband.’ He led her to the peace of the hall. ‘Do Tom and Matilde know about this letter?’
‘No. I have sent them out on an errand to the far end of the estate. They will be riding for some time.’ She sat on the stone window seat to get the best light from the setting sun, Palmer close next to her.
She broke the seal with an unsteady hand and rolled it out.
Palmer recognised his own name. He focused on trying to make out the first lines.
‘No.’ Theodosia’s soft gasp, her hand to her mouth, told him it did not contain good news. ‘Oh, no. No.’ Sudden tears pooled in her eyes.
‘Tell me.’ Palmer laid a gentle hand on her arm. ‘Please.’
She began to read it to him. And the words of the King’s clerk came to Palmer’s hall at Cloughbrook.
Every Grace of God and salutation to you, Sir Benedict Palmer. I trust that this finds you and the Lady Theodosia in the best of health, and if it does not, that God will grant you relief from your troubles.
I write, in secret of course, with the most solemn of news. I write of further treachery in Ireland. I write of Hugh de Lacy, the Lord of Meath . . .
Durrow, Co. Offaly, Ireland
26 July 1186
Six weeks earlier
Hugh de Lacy tipped his head back to look up at his new castle, finished and complete on its fresh motte. It soared high into the clear, blue, blue sky, higher even than the towering ancient oak trees that flanked the bailey.
Have to cut down some of those trees. He smiled to himself. His advice to Palmer at Tibberaghny, and yet he hadn’t followed it. Not yet. He would. That would be his next task. Then he would plan out a keep of stone, one that would take much longer to build but would last for generations.
Generations. Still to come. He looked over to the lip of the motte, where his son rolled down yet again, shouting his joy.
‘Be careful now, William.’ Eimear’s call to the lad.
He met her gaze and she smiled. Waved.
‘I can’t climb down after him if he gets stuck.’ She brought her hands to her swollen belly. ‘You’ll have to do it, Hugh.’
‘As my lady commands.’ He bowed extravagantly, drawing a laugh from her.
He’d never seen her look so beautiful as today, as at this moment, so near to bringing this child into the world. Not even the night they had first lain willingly together, her skin pale and smooth and soft against him, her long hair covering him as she brought her mouth to his, uncaring of his ruined flesh. As they had done for so many nights since. They belonged to each other now.
As he watched William climb up again, the midday bells of the nearby monastery of Saint Colmcille rang out, their deep chimes reminding him as they did every time he heard them.
He’d chosen this place for his Eimear. For them to be together.
Sacred. Blessed. The saint himself making it a holy place many centuries ago. A huge carved high cross, itself fashioned in times long past, stood at the edge of the holy community, facing the castle, a path beside it connecting his motte to the monastery. The cross called to his heart, a tribute to this land that he loved and to his wife who came from it, whom he loved even more.
A shout from the base of the motte, where a group of men from the nearby settlements worked with shovels.
‘I think we need to reinforce the ditch, my lord.’ Simonson’s large face shone from his toil. ‘Make sure it holds.’
‘Let me take a look.’ De Lacy descended the steep slope.
‘The ground’s boggy, even in this sun,’ Simonson explained as others chimed in with opinions.
‘My Lord de Lacy.’
They were interrupted by an Irishman who made his way towards them, on the path that led from the cross, fine-robed, bearing a large leather water bottle.
The man smiled, held it aloft as he walked up. ‘I came on pilgrimage to the well of the Saint. I heard you were here, so I came to offer my greetings and to offer you this gift of its blessed water for this hot day.’
‘And my greetings to you.’ De Lacy took the bottle from him. ‘I’m most grateful.’ Closing his eyes, he tipped his head back to drink deep.
The cold, pure water from the well of Colmcille brought a coolness to his throat.
And more.
A calm to his soul that he hadn’t felt since Robert died, maybe that he’d never felt. A peace. True happiness. He opened his eyes again, looked into the endless blue of the sky.
Then a rush of air, a scream that could be his own.
But he could scream no more. Instead he was falling into the blue. The peaceful, peaceful blue. Falling. Falling off the edge of the earth.
The murderer was sent by an Irish chieftain of Meath, a chieftain who claims that he ordered the murder to atone for the wanton destruction of land sacred to the great Saint Colmcille on which de Lacy has built his castle at Durrow.
I believe this to be a sinful lie and that the act was one of treacherous revenge. One of the chieftain’s sons was slain by de Lacy some eight years ago, when Hugh de Lacy first took the lands of Meath.
The murderer sent by the chieftain carried out his heinous act with great guile. Those who were present say that the man approached de Lacy as the Lord worked on his motte with some of his household. His wife, Eimear, and their son were nearby.
There was nothing to make anyone suspicious, for the murderer had concealed an axe beneath his cloak. He took de Lacy’s head off with one savage blow, and the Lord of Meath’s mortal remains, head and body both, fell into the ditch of the castle.
Praise God the Lady Eimear remained unharmed, as was their son. She was safely delivered a few days later of their second child, a daughter. She is said to be bereft at the murder of her bravest of husbands.
‘Oh, Benedict.’ Theodosia paused, her tears spilling over. ‘Such terrible, terrible news.’ She leaned against his chest, sobs flooding through her. ‘For Hugh to die in such an awful way.’
‘That it is,’ said Palmer quietly, his own heart sore at the loss of a good man, a man who’d fought so bravely by his side. �
��But he knew the risks of conquest. And he got his wish. He told me he never wanted to leave Ireland. Now he’ll lie there forever.’
‘That is no consolation. Not to Eimear. Nor to him. Never to have seen his child’s face.’ Her tears carried on but her voice angered. ‘He was taken too soon, Benedict. Too soon. What if a similar fate had befallen you?’
‘It didn’t.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘Nor you.’ Kissed her again. ‘We’ve had great good fortune.’
‘Or we have God’s protection. I thank Him every day and night for it.’ She looked again at the letter, pulling in a shuddering breath as she scrubbed at her eyes with fury though tears still fell. ‘There is a little more. Pray God it is not so shocking.’
She read silently for a moment. Then gasped. ‘It is. Oh, truly: it is.’ She read aloud again.
The Lord John is said to have rejoiced when the news of de Lacy’s savage death reached him at Windsor. Henry also shared in that rejoicing. The King prepares to return John immediately to Ireland.
‘Henry’s sending John back?’ Palmer stared at her. ‘To fail again?’
‘How can he do this?’ Her face flushed in anger. ‘What more do we have to do to convince Henry that John is dangerous? Unfit to rule?’
‘We tried, Theodosia.’ Palmer shook his head at the memory of the guarded letters Theodosia had sent and Henry’s terse replies. ‘It’s clear he believes his own son’s account over ours.’
‘You mean John’s lies about de Lacy’s disloyalty?’ With an angry shake of her head, her eyes lowered to the letter once more.
Then.
‘No. Dear God, no.’ Her hands tightened on the letter. ‘No. No. No.’
The look of horror in her eyes set his heart thudding faster. ‘What is it?’
She read with fast breaths:
The Lord of Ireland is to return there, his new opportunity thanks to the hand of the man who killed de Lacy, a man sent by the Chieftain Sinnach Ua Catharnaig. The chieftain is known as The Fox because of his wily ways. It appears the Irish have not lost their love of treachery.
