The Lord of Ireland (The Fifth Knight Series Book 3) (15 page)

John panted like a warm dog as he stared, not moving.

Then past his shoulder, Palmer saw the bushes move.

‘My lord,’ he whispered. ‘In. Now. And hold on.’

John had seen it too. He slid in next to Palmer.

‘God’s eyes, Palmer. I’m going to drown.’

‘Hold on. Stay as low as you can.’ Palmer sank, the water rising over his chin and mouth, using his nose to breathe.

The first Irishman stepped out into the open, axe raised and ready. It had the stain of fresh blood on the blade. Several more joined him, their colour high from their battle, their eyes keen for their prey. Last came the huge, hulking warrior that Palmer had thought mortally wounded by the horse. But no. The m
an h
ad a gash on his head from which blood had drenched one shoulder. Yet he stood as straight as a statue, ready to take on another fight.

The quiver of the water next to him told him John had also witnessed their pursuers.

Palmer offered a brief prayer that he’d done enough. Their dull metal helmets should blend with the colours of decaying nature and the muddy river. The low branches overhead kept them in deep green shade.

The men spoke rapidly to one another, shielding their eyes from the glare of the sun with their shields as they scanned the bank.

Downriver. Just look downriver.
The log with the bloodied surcoat, the mail glove. That would surely have them following. Unless it had rolled over again.

A loud order came from one, causing the men to separate,
calling
to each other as they fanned out along the riverbank.

The injured warrior started to make his way upstream, striding on long, powerful legs, his axe resting on his shoulder, his eyes to the ground. Only one thing for it.

Palmer nudged John with his knee, signalling with his eyes what they had to do.

John’s look showed him terrified but that he understood.

Rising enough to take his mouth from the water, Palmer gulped down as many lungfuls of air as he could hold. John did the same.

He sank into the muddy water, the shouts of the Irish becoming
thin and faint against the thud of his own heart and the rumb
le o
f the river. The murk of the water meant he could make out some of the bank and the branches directly above him, but nothing else.

He wanted to gasp from the cold but held the breath in his lungs.

A moving shadow darkened his vision even more.

The man was here. Right above them.

Then the movement stopped.

The muscles in Palmer’s chest, his throat, ached for release, an ache that grew by the second. He couldn’t give in to it.

Still, the shadow above.

Palmer’s chest tightened more, the desire for air pressing like a hand on his ribs as he strengthened his grip on his sword. He could try a swing. But his sword kept him anchored to the riverbank. If he loosed it, his mail would carry him to the bottom of the river and pin him there while he drowned.

And he had to breathe now. He had to. One more second, he told himself. One more. One more.

His ears buzzed, his chest seared. He had to breathe. He had to. Even if it meant an axe in his skull. He had to.

The shadow disappeared in an abrupt flick.

Palmer shoved his nose to the surface and the sounds of the world broke through again.

The Irishmen shouting. And running. Running downstream, pointing and gesturing at the log bearing John’s surcoat.

He pulled hard on John’s arm, and he emerged too, coughing and gulping and spitting. ‘Ardfinnan?’

Palmer thrust his own face clear from the water. ‘Fast as we can,’ he gasped. ‘It won’t be long before they find out what we’ve done.’ He pulled in lungful after lungful of air. It might stink of rotten leaves and mud, but it was the sweetest he’d ever tasted.

Chapter Sixteen

‘Nineteen dead. Nineteen.’

Theodosia dug her fingernails
into
her palms at John’s words, repeated so many times.

He sat at the head of the table in his keep at Tibberaghny, his loyal group of young confidantes with him. She had her usual place next to Gerald, tending to his instructions
for
scribing
while every inch of her wished to be elsewhere.
This was no feast, no celebration. The sombre group listened to John’s account as he veered from simmering rage to boastfulness and back.

‘At least you are returned safe to us, my lord,’ said Fitzmiles.

Benedict too. Theodosia offered her deepest thanks to God fo
r th
e thousandth time. The news of the men lost, spreading through the camp like a miasma bringing plague, had brought her a terror that
had
almost stopped her heart. She had not been able to ask about Benedict, lest she draw attention to herself. All she could do was race to where her brother had entered, craning past those who had gathered, trying with increasing desperation to see if
Benedict
had returned. She’d wanted to weep in relief when she saw his broad-shouldered frame standing next to a ranting John, but would not allow herself as tears should be for those who had lost their lives.

‘That man Palmer lived too, did he not?’ another knight asked John. ‘The only other to survive with you?’

John snorted. ‘Survived because of me, more like. I had to save him from an Irish axeman. Palmer’s like a broken-winded old
war
-horse. Well past his prime.’

The unkind mirth that greeted John’s response made her grit her teeth at its
injustice
. She had not had the opportunity to speak to Benedict yet, though she could hardly eat or sleep until she did so. But she knew in her heart, knew as well as she knew her Go
d w
as in heaven, that Benedict would not have needed to be saved b
y John.

‘The Irish wield terrible destruction with those axes.’ John shook his head. ‘Barbarous.’

‘Their barbarity is in every inch of their bodies, my lord.’
Gerald
,
sat beside her, raised his voice to get the table’s attention. ‘And in every one of their customs. Even in the ceremonies to appoint their kings: in so doing, they have carnal knowledge of beasts.’

A mix of disbelieving disgust and a few sniggers greeted his words as Theodosia’s stomach rebelled.

‘You have knowledge of this?’ John looked appalled, yet the spark of unsavoury interest showed in his eyes.

‘Indeed I do,’ said Gerald. ‘A people in the far north of this isle. The ceremony is not a dubbing or any civilised matter. A white mare is brought before the assemblage, and he who is to have
kingship
conferred on him has intercourse with this animal.’

Theodosia could not bear to be a witness to this revolting discussion. She went to rise. ‘Permit me to leave, my lord.’

‘Sister.’ John’s expression hardened. ‘You are the one who said you would try to know Eimear O’Connor’s heart and soul. This is yet one more example of the darkness that exists within the Irish.’ He jerked a thumb at the door. ‘Go and hide from the ugliness of the truth if you wish. Like so many in the Church do.’

Gerald waved her away also, absorbed in the attention of his audience as he continued. ‘The mare is then killed immediately and cut up into pieces to be boiled in water. A hideous broth in which the new king then bathes naked, drinking this repulsive brew with open mouth.’

Theodosia made for the door as quickly as she could, willing her ears not to hear this ghastly tale.

‘I saw some of those actions myself, Gerald,’ said John. ‘An
axeman
landed such a blow to my horse’s leg. He knew where to strike and how hard.’

Theodosia opened the door to see a man clattering up the
stairwell
, still soiled from the road and dressed as a messenger.

He pushed past the guards. ‘I must see the Lord John.’

Theodosia halted him with a raised hand. ‘He is
with his men. He is not to be disturbed
.’

‘I have come from Lismore.’

She caught her breath. Lismore Castle. John’s third fortress, a number of miles away. And she knew some of Gerald’s kin had gone there to fight. ‘What news?’

The man shook his head. ‘So many dead.’

Many.
Her stomach knotted. ‘The nephew of the King’s clerk?’

He shook his head again.

‘Then come with me.’

Theodosia re-entered the room, cutting John off in mid-flow. ‘My lord.’

‘What on earth do you want now?’

‘There is terrible news from Lismore.’ She ushered the man in.

At first, Palmer thought the howling heralded a fresh attack by t
he Irish.

Then he recognised the voice: the royal clerk, Gerald.

He hurried to the door of the tent, where he had been discussing with a few of the best remaining men how to deepen the trench that surrounded Tibberaghny.

Theodosia helped the clerk down the steps of the motte, the man’s words a stream of blame and anger and grief. Nostrils flaring, John led the way, clutching a rolled letter, his closest group following after.

‘What’s wrong with Gerald?’ asked Simonson.

Palmer spotted a man he didn’t recognise in John’s group, still wearing the splattered clothes of a rider who has ridden long and fast. ‘Bad news would be my guess.’

As if it heard him, the cool stiff breeze gave another strong gust from
the
low clouds.

‘More?’ Simonson shivered. ‘God’s eyes. How long has it been since we have received any good?’

Gerald’s shouts continued to draw men from all corners of th
e camp.

‘What man here wants a reward?’ John held the letter aloft as he reached the bottom of the steps. ‘A reward of many gold crowns.’ He marched into the centre of the bailey, waving the letter.

Excited calls broke out as word spread. ‘That’s right. Go summon your fellows; go and tell every man here what I am offering.’

‘I’d quite like a go at that, Palmer,’ said Simonson.

‘Wait.’ Palmer stepped forward with an arm across the chest of the younger man. ‘None of us has been paid for weeks. Why doe
s th
e Lord John have sudden wealth to throw around? I need you here, like I need everyone we have.’ He frowned as John carried on shouting his dubious offer of crowns. Tibberaghny’s defences were already weak. They shouldn’t be losing any more men.

Theodosia had her arm around a quieter Gerald, murmuring words of comfort to him. She gave Palmer a quick glance, which didn’t help his doubt.

John now stood in a deep circle of eager faces. ‘Yes, you have heard right. I offer great riches. I offer them because we have suffered another grievous loss, this time at Lismore.’

Unease rippled through the crowd.

Palmer shared it. Another defeat for the Lord John.

‘Amongst others who have died is the kinsman of the King’s own clerk, Gerald of Wales.’

Moans broke from Gerald, Theodosia gently patting his good arm.

‘Saints guard us.’ Simonson shot Palmer a shocked look, a response shared by many present.

John nodded. ‘I see your disbelief. I too could hardly comprehend it.’ His voice climbed. ‘That these people, these wild dwellers on the edge of the world, could so easily overcome the best of my men. These people who are uncivilised, immoral savages.
Defeating
my men.’ He smacked the letter on his other, open palm. ‘But I know how they are doing it. There is only way to explain how these backward brutes are succeeding.’

‘It will be the devil guiding their hand.’ Gerald put a palm to his face.

‘My royal clerk speaks the truth,’ said John, to a wave of panicked whispers.

Palmer wondered if he’d heard right.

‘A devil that you have all seen.’ John pointed to some of the faces that his words held rapt. ‘You. And you. And you.’

The whispers loudened to cries.

John nodded. ‘A devil who has a name. And that name is Hugh de Lacy, Lord of Meath.’

The cries became angry shouts.

Palmer took a long breath in. Despite John’s hysterical description, the King’s son was partly right.

‘De Lacy has not been seen by any here for over five weeks. It is my solemn belief that he is out there, helping the Irish, guiding them
with his wicked talents
, using the skills he learned in Henry’s armies against his own people. He is the greatest traitor, and I need volunteers to track him down. Our greatest, greatest enemy!’ John thrust the letter up in the air to yells of hatred. ‘Who will fight for me?’

Palmer caught Theodosia’s horrified look. He had to. Not for the money, but to try to stop this tide of defeat. And he could fight with a small band, leave as many as possible to keep Tibberaghny safe. He went to raise his hand.

A grip on his arm halted him.

‘Sir Benedict.’ One of the guards from the gatehouse had a stricken look. ‘You must see this. At once.’

Palmer followed him with rapid steps as the wind whipped across the camp again.

The shouts broke off into exclamations and questions.

‘By the love of the Virgin.’ John dropped his hand. ‘What on earth is that smell?’

Uncaring of his injured hand, Palmer climbed to the top of the ladder so fast his feet barely met each step.

Surely the guard had been wrong. He got to the platform at the top, the terrible stench still filling his nose and throat. A couple of strides got him to the wall. He looked over. And yes, the guard had spoken the truth.

Hugh de Lacy sat astride a huge destrier at the head of a line of mounted men in mail and iron helmets. And behind de Lacy, the source of the smell.

A large cart, filled with severed, decaying heads. The heads of men that had long, flowing hair and beards. The heads of Irishmen.

‘Ah, Palmer. I’m glad they found you.’ Half of de Lacy’s ruined face lifted in his crooked smile. ‘May I come in?’