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

Chapter Four

Windsor Castle
31 March 1185

It is a sin to hold hate in your soul for anyone.

Theodosia berated herself with every beat of her anxious heart. She stood in the splendour of Henry’s chapel at Windsor with Benedict, in a packed assembly of the noble and the holy.
With the bishop now reciting the final prayers of the lengthy, solemn Mass, the time for John’s knighting ceremony drew near.

Even graver to hate your own brother.

No,
she reminded herself yet again, pulling in a deep breath of the incense-scented air. She did not hate John. She did not. But she hated what he stood for: the reason Benedict was being taken fro
m her.

Unnoticed by her husband, her gaze moved over his face, his dark eyes, still so utterly beloved to her. She cared not for the finely woven black cloak he wore, edged with exquisite bright
yellow
embroidery. Nor for her own wide-sleeved silk gown, pale as a meadow flower, with its lining deep as a rose.

She had loved him just as much when they had shared a poor cottage in the early years of their marriage. When they had been blessed with Tom and Matilde, and all of them dressed in patched linen and the roughest of coarse wool. The lives as nobles they had later been granted by the King could have brought them great ease. Yet Benedict strove as hard as he ever had, bringing prosperity and justice to those who worked his lands.

A great ‘Amen’ rose
up at the bishop
’
s concluding prayer.

It was time.

‘My good people!’ Henry’s voice, ringing with expectation.

Though right at the other end, she could clearly make him out, as he sat high on the altar and a pillar gave a convenient break in the crowd. A heavy-set abbot moved to one side. Then she could see John too, kneeling in humility with his head bowed, his curling red hair a stark contrast to his white
silk clothing and
ermine robe in the glow of the hundreds of candles.

Henry went on. ‘Today, my heart is filled with joy. I
knight
my beloved son John Lord of Ireland. He has taken this responsibility as part of his humble service to me. I have been to that isle, and I know that there are great challenges to be faced. Yet my son has agreed to face them and to bring glory to my name.’

A rumble of approval met Henry’s words.

‘Before I bestow this honour upon him, I want to remind hi
m –
to remind us all – of the magnitude of what he is undertaking. My royal clerk, Gerald of Wales, learned in the ways of the Irish and of the land itself, will impart that knowledge to us all.’

An angular monk stepped up to the
altar
, his sparse lips compressed in readiness below a hooked nose. He bowed to Henry, then to John.

‘Gerald, let us hear of what awaits my son.’

And my husband.

‘Your Grace, my Lord John.’ Gerald’s voice sounded as clear as if he stood next to her and Benedict, ringing with authority. ‘The great Saint Columbanus, his wisdom echoing down the centuries to us, wrote of the Irish that they are the dwellers at the edge of the earth. Such a true description must have been guided by God. They cling to that rock, for beyond it there is no habitation of man or beast. One looks from the western horizon there, knowing that there is nothing beyond. Nothing except the flowing ocean in boundless space.’ He let the word resound to the lofty height of t
he arc
hed roof far above before continuing. ‘At such extremes, nature provides wonders, and there are some on that island. But’ –
his tone
hardened
– ‘nature also indulges herself in freaks there: distant and secret abominations that make my soul quail.’

A rustle of whispered concern passed through those present.

Theodosia’s mouth dried. Henry had not mentioned any of this. She shot Benedict a look, but his fixed gaze remained on Gerald.

‘Such abominations will have to be met with valour by the King’s son, of which I have no doubt.’ Gerald sighed and shook his head. ‘But there is a far greater threat: that of its native people.’

A greater threat.
Theodosia’s heart tripped faster in anxiety.

‘A people who are wild.’ Gerald’s thin lips turned down. ‘Inhospitable. They live on beasts only, for they live like beasts.’ He clenched his fist and beat time with the steady flow of his own words. ‘Filthy. Wallowing in vice. Adulterous.’

Shocked gasps began to break out.

Gerald’s voice rose over them. ‘Incestuous. Carnal with beasts.’ His eyes scanned the assembly as he let his scandalous words sink in.

Theodosia put a hand to her mouth. What was Benedict
goin
g to?

Gerald held a hand up and received instant silence. ‘But for all of their enormous
vices
, the Irish possess one that dwarfs all the others.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Treachery. Above all the peoples of th
e ea
rt
h, th
ey prefer wile to war. They always carry an axe in their hand, like a shepherd might carry his crook, ready for when the right occasion presents itself. And when it does . . .’ His voice dropped.

Those present craned to hear him, necks bent like a field of wheat in the wind. Theodosia too. She could not help herself.

‘They raise that axe to afflict a mortal blow!’ His words thundered forth to calls for God’s help for John.

Henry’s shout silenced them in a heartbeat. ‘
It is time
!’
John lifted his arms and looked up at his father.

The bishop stepped forward, holding a gleaming sword and a belt of finest ox-blood leather.

Henry took them from him and bent to fasten the weapon around his son’s waist. With a tender kiss to John’s cheek, he straightened up, taking his own sword from the bishop.

As Henry raised it,
Theodosia crossed herself, as did every other right hand of those around her and throughout the crowd, their number making a
rustle
that could
have been
the stirring of leaves.

The blade met John’s shoulder to a murmured prayer from Henry.

And it was done.

Take your acclaim
, my son
.’ The
King
’
s voice shook with his emotion
. ‘My most holy and noble servants, I present to you John,
Dominus Hiberniae
, Lord of Ireland!’

Cheers met his words as John stood up to turn and face the assembly, his stature surprising Theodosia. He was only a few inches taller than her; Benedict would stand head and shoulders above him.

Henry beamed in adoration at his son. It was clear he saw
himself
in John. His young self: powerful, able to subdue a country with his very arrival.

Disquiet knocked at Theodosia. John was Henry’s son, no doubt. But though his face matched Henry’s own, with his heavy brows and small mouth, his expression did not. His visage held no compassion, and his lips pursed in a superior arrogance.

Yet the King’s indulgent smile remained as he gestured to his court to strengthen their support, and the ovation swelled. Finally, he signalled for silence. ‘Speak. Your first words as Lord.’

‘Your Grace. Father.’ John bowed briefly to Henry before he faced the court again. ‘Good people.’ A brief cheer met his greeting and the tight smile that left his eyes cold. ‘I have been chosen for this endeavour, and I approach it with solemnity and singularity of purpose.’ His confident gaze swept the room. ‘It is clear from Gerald’s account that there is much to be done.’ He lifted his chin. ‘So much. It is God’s work, which I welcome. It is clear to me that Ireland has a black heart of sin. Of adultery.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘Of debauchery. Which must be duly punished, and—’

A lone female voice rose in wordless cries.

John frowned as he sought the source of the interruption.

A clamour of conjecture broke out as the woman’s cries increased, loudened.

His clamped lips showed that John had located her. ‘Take that woman out!’ His cry came shrill, insistent. ‘Now!’

Theodosia grabbed for Benedict’s arm. ‘What’s happening?’

Benedict strained to his full height. ‘It’s the wife of one of the barons,’ he said in surprise. ‘Her husband is trying to control her.’

‘Has she lost her reason, God help her?’ said Theodosia.

Benedict shrugged. ‘No idea.’

Henry’s face remained impassive as John’s voice echoed out again. ‘I have faced adversity in my life too. But I have prevailed!’ He nodded vigorously. ‘As I
will
prevail! My lordship will be an example to the world. The world!’

He raised both arms, and cheers and claps broke out, Henry applauding with greater energy than anyone.

Conscious that Benedict clapped too, Theodosia joined in as a great chant rose up: ‘
Dominus Hiberniae! Dominus Hiberniae
!
’

But the cheers did nothing to lessen her apprehension.

Theodosia looked to Benedict. ‘You heard the clerk’s words?’ she whispered. ‘How dangerous this is?’

‘Men of the Church scare easily.’ Benedict gave the suspicion of a smile. ‘I don’t.’

‘Neither do I. But you would be foolish not to heed the clerk’s warnings.’

He caught the edge in her voice. ‘I’m sure the man exaggerates.’ He took a quick glance around to make sure no one had observed their exchange. ‘Theodosia, Abbess Dymphna told us she’s travelling with John’s court to Ireland. The King would never allow it if he thought she wouldn’t be safe.’

‘Perhaps you are right.’ The Abbess had indeed spoken of the pilgrimage she was making: to the abbey of her own brother, an abbot of great reputation.

Yet Benedict’s reminder brought scant comfort to Theodosia.

For in Ireland, a land fraught with sin, with danger, Dymphna would be secure in the arms of the Church.

There would be no such protection for Benedict.

Theodosia knelt in the deserted church at Sonning, finishing her pleas in prayer once more for Benedict’s safety.

He was gone. Benedict was gone. And she could not foll
ow him.

The shafts of sunlight from the narrow windows had moved across the floor, marking yet another day’s passing as reliably as the monastery bells.

‘Keep my husband from bodily harm, I beseech you, O Lord. Let him have the strength to protect his soul from peril on this journey he makes. Amen.’

She should be journeying also. Sonning should have been but one stop on her long road back home, protected by some of the bishop’s armed men.

Home, to the security and comfort of their manor at
Cloughbrook
, where her children awaited.

Tom, not as tall as Benedict, but with a fierce strength and a restlessness of spirit to match Henry’s own. Matilde, unfazed by her brother’s noise and muscle and completely devoted to him, her young mind already sharp as a blade and always seeking to kno
w more.

They were not merely at home, they
were
Theodosia’s home, as they were Benedict’s. She should be making her way to them, like any mother would.

But she could not take the next steps that would put her farther and farther from Benedict.

So she had pleaded an illness to the riders who accompanied her, suggesting it a delicate matter, which had ensured
that
no
further
query came. She had remained here for twelve days.

Her disobedient act would anger Benedict as well as her father. She cared not. Neither of them was here or knew what she
had done.

Her legs cramped from kneeling for so many hours, and she shifted to ease them.

Twelve days. She’d witnessed the passage of John’s court from the roadside, hidden amongst the crowds that cheered as it went by. Three hundred knights, according to rumour. So many. An
impossibility
to pick out Benedict. Yet she’d seen him, though he’d not seen her. One glimpse, through the clouds of dust kicked up by the huge procession on the dry road, swirling around him as he sat
astride
a fine horse, talking to an unknown knight who rode
alongside
him.

Benedict!

He’d not heard her call, though she’d hurt her lungs with the effort she made to be heard above the cacophony of
cartwheels
, horses, hooves, shouts.

Then the crowd shifted, and he had disappeared from her sight in the throng.

Gone. And that might be the last sight she ever had of hi
m, tur
ned away from her, not knowing she was there. Gone to Ireland, the land of which Henry’s clerk, Gerald, had given such a terrifying account. A destination to be deeply feared. No wonder that poor baron’s wife had become so distressed: Theodosia could have cried out too.