The Lord of Ireland (The Fifth Knight Series Book 3) (20 page)

The men sent by the Irish kings were the source of much merriment for John and Gerald, with their descriptions becoming wilder and wilder as they egged each other on.

Theodosia kept her counsel, although she struggled to keep up with their demands to write this way, then that way. She had a plan. She was not sure if it would work. But she had to try. All she needed was for them to be distracted. If only for a few moments.

‘I must say,’ said John, ‘I never thought I’d be holding
McCarthy’s
severed hand in mine so soon after looking into his man’s ugly face. Write that, sister.’

‘Oh, keep the severed hand as a surprise, my lord,’ said Gerald.

John sighed. ‘Yes, it was rather delicious, wasn’t it? Very well: we shall leave that for now. We have discussed the man from Connacht, with his craggy face like an ancient dragon. O’Brien of Thomond’s messenger?’

‘The big, damp one? More stupid than the other two put together?’

Now came her chance. ‘Brother, if I may make a suggestion.’

One annoyed and one surprised face met her words, but she ploughed on with haste.

‘Brother, you told me the most amusing story about the court of the King of Thomond.’

‘Did I?’ said Gerald.

Oh, please do not be as much a teller of untruths as I think you are.
‘The woman he keeps at his court?’ she prompted.

‘Oh, yes!’ Gerald turned to John. ‘My lord, this is utterly, utterly choice.’

‘Go on.’ John’s pursed lips moistened. ‘Is it a story about hi
s lust?’

‘Even better, my lord. The King of Thomond keeps a woman covered in hair as a pet.’ Gerald slapped his thigh.

John’s jaw dropped as he stared at Gerald. ‘No.’

‘It is true, he does. She has a beard down to her waist, and a crest from her neck down her spine.’

Now or never. They were both rapt: Gerald in the telling, John in the listening. Theodosia put her hand over John’s letter seal and slid it back towards her.

‘But this unnatural creature must be a man.’ John’s gaze remained locked on Gerald.

She scooped the seal onto her lap.

‘Not at all, my lord. Not even a hermaphrodite. In all other respects she is sufficiently feminine.’

Next, some wax. Again: cover, slide, scoop.

John’s face distorted in revolted fascination. ‘You mean she has a cunny?’

Gerald shot Theodosia a look as she replaced her hands in full view, sweat breaking out over her whole body. The objects were still on her lap. If they were seen, her attempted theft would be discovered.

‘I apologise for this talk, sister,’ said the clerk.

‘Oh, shut up, Gerald.’ John took a drink. ‘The sister is always a disapproving mope. Tell me more about the hairy woman.’

‘Well, she follows the court.’ Gerald embarked on a more lengthy description.

Theodosia quickly hid her treasures in her belt pouch, waiting for her chance.

‘Do many men have sex with her?’ John again.

Theodosia gave an exclamation of disgust she barely stifled. She put a hand to her forehead as she drew fresh looks of disapproval. ‘
I am sor
ry, my lord. But my head aches so.’

John jerked a thumb at the door. ‘Out with you. Your constant interruptions are ruining this.’

‘You do look peaky,’ said Gerald. ‘I said so earlier.’

With a swift bow, Theodosia left, the men’s attention back on the hair-covered woman of the Irish court of O’Brien of Thomond. The court to which she was headed.

Theodosia approached the fenced area of the bailey that held the horses, her stride purposeful, though she could not allow herself to run. She knew she had little time. If John were to see her, see what she held in her right hand, she would be dead within the hour.

She was not even sure that she had guessed this right. But
Benedict’s
words had come back to her, clear as if he stood beside her:
Eimear can seek sanctuary with her own people.

He and Eimear would be making for the nearest court to do so. Of the three kings that had sent men to Waterford, McCarthy was dead. O’Connor’s lands were farther away. That left O’Brien of Thomond. And where Benedict and Eimear went, so de Lacy would follow. This she had surmised. She swallowed hard. She hoped.

She would go there too.

One of the grooms, a man whom she did not recognise, shovelled manure onto a cart. He must be one of de Lacy’s fighters. So many of them were here now. None of them knew her, as many of John’s men did from her ministrations to the wounded.

‘Good sir, I need the services of a messenger.’ She spoke with authority as she walked up to him. ‘At once.’

The groom took in her habit and bowed in respect. He whistled to a group of men who sat relaxing and dozing in the
breezy
sunshine
.

One rose, yawning and scratching his thick, fair hair as he walked over. ‘I’m needed?’

‘The sister here.’ The groom went back to his work.

The messenger also gave her his respect. ‘What can I do for you, sister?’ He
could not have been
much older than her own son.

She held up the object she
had in her grasp
. ‘This letter has to go to the court of the King of Thomond. Immediately and with all haste. It is from the Lord John.’

The messenger looked at the seal and
extended
his hand. ‘Of course, sister.’

Theodosia kept it in her grasp. ‘I have to deliver it personally.
I will ne
ed to ride with you.’

‘Sister, I don’t wish to be disrespectful, but you will not be able to ride as fast as I. Also, it’s a very risky journey.’ The man shook his head. ‘I’ll go to the Lord John and ask him to rethink his decision.’ He went to take the letter from her.

Pulling it back from his grasp, she gave him her fiercest look. ‘Good sir: I have been tasked with this message because it is o
f t
he utmost importance and concerns urgent matters that relate
to the bu
siness of the Church.’ She stepped aside. ‘If you wa
nt to
question the decision of the King’s son, then please feel free to do so. While you do, I will seek out another messenger. One who responds to orders. I am sure the Lord John will have a view on your loyalty.’

The young man glanced up at the motte, then back at
Theodosia
.

Her heart pounded. The blank parchment she held came from a store Gerald kept in his tent. Applying the seal to satisfactory neatness had taken her four attempts, such was the trembling of her hands.

Another look back at the motte.

She clicked loudly with her tongue in displeasure. ‘Very well.’ She started for the group of men.

‘Wait, sister. Wait.’

She halted. ‘What is it?’

‘May I please check the seal?’ The man held out his hand again.

With an elaborate sigh, she handed the letter over. Now she glanced repeatedly at the motte as the man made a close examination of the imprinted wax. John, Gerald: either could arrive out of the keep at any moment.

The man nodded. ‘It’s as it should be.’

‘Well, of course it is as it should be. The—’

He held up a placating hand. ‘I have to check seals are intact before I set off. We can go.’

‘Then I thank you.’

The man bowed. ‘The name is Nagle, sister.’

‘Sister Theodosia. We must make all haste.’

Nagle hurried off, calling to the groom to prepare two horses.

Theodosia slid the fake letter into her belt pouch, her eyes still drawn to the motte. A few minutes, a few more minutes. That was all she needed.

‘Stop,’ said Palmer to Eimear. ‘One moment.’

She halted in the quiet of the dense woods as he pounded his cramping leg muscles with his fists yet again.

‘Remind me to run away with a young man in future,’ she said.

‘I might not be young but I got you out, didn’t I?’

His testy reply got a grin. ‘You’re so easy to rile, Palmer.’

He grunted in reply as he pushed his way through thorny bushes to the next clearing.

And came face to face with the mounted Simonson.

The big young man was at the far side of the clearing, relieving himself from the back of his horse. But he saw Palmer. ‘Hey!’

Palmer thrust Eimear back into the bushes. ‘Stay in there.’

He drew his sword. And charged.

The horse reared in fright.

Simonson clung to the pommel with one hand, uncaring of his disordered clothing as he fumbled for his sword with the other. ‘Get away, you Irish devil!’

Palmer lunged for the reins, but Simonson’s shouting startled the beast even more.

‘Away, I said!’ He swished his sword at Palmer’s head.

‘Stop!’ Palmer ducked. ‘It’s me, Simonson. Have you no eyes?’

‘Palmer?’ Simonson’s voice squeaked up in shock. ‘But you look like one of them. And you’ve taken one of them.’

Palmer grabbed at the reins again and missed, cursing as the horse stood on his foot. ‘No time to explain.’ He held up his sword. ‘Give me your horse.’

‘No, Palmer. No way.’

Palmer’s hand got the reins this time, pulling the horse’s head down. But the leather slipped through his muddy fingers as the animal jerked back at Simonson’s shriek. ‘Forcurse it, Simonson. The horse.’

‘No! De Lacy will kill me!’ The sword again, this time nicking the horse’s ear.

The animal wheeled in shock and pain, and Palmer dodged a swift, hard kick.

He weighed up his sword. ‘And I’ll kill you if you don’t give me that animal.’

‘No, no.’ Simonson hauled the horse’s head down and kicked hard at its sides, forcing it forward and on.

About to be trampled, Palmer jumped back.

Simon’s yell and fall happened at the same second.

He crashed to the ground next to Palmer, blood pouring from his lip, eyes and mouth gaping as the wind drove from his big body.

‘The horse!’

Palmer looked to the source of the female call.

Eimear ran from the bushes, gesturing at him to catch the
animal
. ‘It’s all right. Your man Simonson’s not dead.’ She trailed her long, braided belt on the ground, the makeshift sling with which she’d delivered such a fast, accurate shot.

Palmer corralled the horse in a corner, judging when best to grab the reins again, as Eimear stood over Simonson, refastening her belt on her tunic. ‘I didn’t use a big stone.’

Pleas for help from the Virgin gasped from the fallen
Simonson
, his breath returned.

‘See?’ She gave Palmer a quick grin. ‘Now let’s get on that
animal
.
We’ll make Thomond in no time.’ Her face changed. ‘Down!’

Palmer dropped to the ground.

The bushes next to him broke open in a shower of snapping twigs and torn leaves as de Lacy’s huge destrier charged out, the lord swinging his broadsword in a deadly arc where Palmer’s head had been the moment before.

‘Damn you, Palmer!’ De Lacy roared his frustration and went for a lower strike.

Palmer parried with his own sword as Eimear, hidden now from his sight on the other side of de Lacy, screamed at him to stop.