The Lord of Ireland (The Fifth Knight Series Book 3) (7 page)

Chapter Eight

‘Please slow down, brother.’ The damp vellum resisted Theodosia’s quill pen as she strove to complete her latest word. ‘I am not as skilled as you in scribing.’ She sat up straight from the small table, capturing a moment’s rest for her aching shoulders before she carried on. ‘And the ink remains wet for a long time.’

Across the gloomy tent from her, sat well back on a low chair, Gerald gave one of his impatient tsks.

‘That we had the comfort of the Church to go to as Abbess Dymphna did.’ He brushed a large drip of water from his forehead and glared up at the leaking canvas above him. ‘Do the heavens weep at the sinfulness of our endeavours in this land?’

‘I am sure we will be housed in dry walls soon. There is progress every day.’ Theodosia’s words drew another tsk, which she could understand, despite the sounds of shovels, saws and
hammers
from outside. After more than two weeks of placating him, her words sounded like a hollow promise even to her. Their accommodation at Tibberaghny still consisted of damp, mildewed tents, soaked through with the constant rain. Her only consolation was that Benedict had been posted within this camp. She had not been able to speak to him but had had sight of him. Far, far worse would
have
been for him to have been sent to one of John’s other two castle sites.

‘If you don’t work faster, I’ll have you whipped!’

Theodosia caught her breath at the angry yell.
John.

The canvas door moved as if someone wrestled with it, the movements causing yet more drips to descend from the ceiling.

‘Untie the thing, sister,’ said Gerald, ‘before he has us both soaked through with his attempts.’

‘Yes, brother.’ Theodosia hurried to the flap and opened it, only to be thrust to one side as John shoved his way in.

‘Gerald, my father has given me useless men.’ John did not even glance her way as he flung himself into an empty chair. ‘
Useless
. I need my castles complete, to show the Irish my unstoppable
progress
. How long does it take to raise a basic fortification?’

‘It would be faster if men weren’t disappearing by the day, my lord,’ came Gerald’s testy reply.

‘I have put out an order that any who deserts my service will be hanged,’ John snapped back. ‘That should be sufficient.’

Theodosia went to close the flap, wishing for a cloak of
invisibility
. She had managed to avoid John’s presence since the encounter at Waterford. Now he was closer than ever.

‘You. Sister.’

Her mouth dried at the unexpected order. ‘Yes, my lord?’ She kept her head lowered.

‘Leave that door open. I want to keep an eye on those workers. First one I see slacking gets my whip. And get me some wine.’ He sneezed. ‘My head is fuddled from this ague.’

Theodosia complied, tying the door back before hastening to get the wine.

Gerald withdrew from John as much as his injured arm would allow. ‘I fear an ague in my weakened state.’

‘Then fear you must.’ John wiped his nose with the heel of one hand. ‘Most have their humours unbalanced in this place.’ He sneezed again. ‘How could they not when, at every dawn, the skies throw down rain, which doesn’t stop until dusk, then starts again at night?’ He took the goblet from Theodosia and gulped down a mouthful with an unsteady hand. ‘Nights where no one can sleep, with the sounds of the Irish devils in the woods. Only my wine allows me rest.’

‘We are in the midst of their lands, my lord,’ said Gerald. ‘And they are not,’ he cleared his throat, ‘well disposed towards you, shall we say.’

As Theodosia placed the wine jug on the table, she slid a blank piece of parchment over her most recent words, words which despaired of John’s actions towards the Irish at Waterford. Her
careful
script might have been dictated by Gerald, but it came from her hand.

Selecting a clean goblet, she began to pour.

A terrible, high scream came from outside.

Theodosia’s hand jerked in shock, splashing wine over the tabletop as an unearthly chorus followed the scream: drums, whistles, harsh shouts in a strange tongue.

John leapt to his feet with an oath, even as the hammers and saws stopped dead. ‘They’re attacking. The Irish are attacking.’

Men with axes, with swords. Theodosia had faced them before, but never on this terrifying scale. Her heart tripped fast, faster as Gerald struggled to stand up. ‘Sister, help me.’ His usual plea, though a broken arm should not be making him so helpless.

Shouts came from those within the camp, orders to defend, to take up positions.

‘Lean on me, brother,’ she said. ‘We should hide. With all haste.’

‘You can’t hide. You have to defend this place.’ John flung open one of Gerald’s chests, rummaging through it and sending clothing all over the canvas floor. ‘God’s eyes, have you no weapons?’

Gerald’s arm tensed under Theodosia’s hold. ‘I am a man of God, as is the sister who serves Him too. We cannot fight; we rely on others for our protection.’

‘Don’t you understand?’ said John. ‘
I
am the one who needs protection. I am the highest prize for the enemy. I have to get to those who are armed.’ He gestured to Theodosia and Gerald. ‘You will help me do that. I can shelter behind you as we make our wa
y there.’

Theodosia stared at him in shock. John, the lord who’d announced a brutal campaign from the steps at Waterford, would use a cleric and a nun as his shield? But she could say nothing; she had to be true to the habit she wore.

Gerald drew breath, and she guessed his view would be th
e same.

‘Let us make haste as much as we can, brother.’ Theodosia knew she spoke over him, but any utterance he made right now would only make things worse.

The noise echoing from the woods increased, drowning out the calls of the defenders.

John’s eyes widened. ‘Hurry up. Before they break through.’

‘Take care.’ Theodosia took Gerald’s weight as his foot caught on the clothing scattered by John and he stumbled.

‘I said,
hurry
.’ John had to raise his voice over the noise outside. ‘Gerald, stay here. You’ll only slow us up.’

‘None of us should go,’ said Gerald. ‘It’s too dangerous.’

‘Please, brother.’ Theodosia lowered him to the seated safety of a closed chest, every inch of her aching to do the same. ‘You risk further injury.’

‘No more arguing, Gerald.’ John pulled up his cloak to cover his face. ‘Go on, sister.’ He fell in behind her and prodded her hard in the back. ‘And stand as straight as you can; your stature is woefully short.’

With her mouth clamped shut to try to steady her breathing, Theodosia walked on shaking legs to the door of the tent, John’s hand fixed hard on her clothing.

The sounds of enemies, of defenders, echoed even louder in the open air in a buffeting, petrifying din. Men ran past with swords, bows, yelled to each other in a string of panicked oaths. Her hands went unbidden and
foolishly
to her face, as if she could stop a
missile
or a blow with her own flesh. She looked in vain for
Benedict
amongst
the shouting mass of men, in a desperate hope that she would se
e him.

‘Stop,’ came John’s muffled voice. ‘Let me see what’s happenin
g first.’

Theodosia obeyed, her breath faster as she scanned the thick woods beyond the half-built wooden wall. Yet she could see nothing of the unseen enemy, with only their nightmarish
clamour
reverberating through her head.

‘We will go. When I say.’ John again.

‘Yes, my lord.’

Then it stopped. Silence from the woods, as if it had never been.

Only the shouts of the defenders floated on the air, suddenly sounding ridiculous in their alarm.

A sharp whistle halted them too.

Theodosia looked to its source.

The scarred lord, Hugh de Lacy, stood there, sword blade resting on one shoulder. ‘There’s no attack, men. At least not this time. What we need—’

John shouldered his way past Theodosia. ‘Are you all hens in a coop?’ His shrill shout drew every look. ‘Panicking, and, in doing so, panicking each other to worse confusion? Back to work! Now!’

Men acted on his command, many still with weapons in their hands.

De Lacy walked over, sheathing his sword. ‘My Lord John.’ His one-eyed gaze took in Theodosia too as she stood next to John. ‘
I did
n’t realize you were there.’

John hitched his cloak straight. ‘I was trying to get the sister to safety. Who knows what could have befallen her should the brutes have attacked.’

De Lacy nodded solemnly as if he believed the obvious lie. ‘Try not to fear, sister.’

‘Thank you, my lord.’ Theodosia lowered her hands, weak with relief that made her shake even harder.

‘The danger has passed.’ John gave an unconvincing cough. ‘
I ne
ed to get out of this rain before I catch my death.’

‘Of course, my lord,’ said de Lacy. ‘And this rain will stop soon. You can see the mountain now.’

Theodosia followed his point. The dark curves of the distant mount were indeed emerging through the thick clouds.

‘The mountain of the women, the Irish call it,’ he said.

‘They have their women assembling there?’ John’s face creased in uncertain fear once more. ‘Why?’

‘Fear not, my lord, they don’t.’ De Lacy caught back a laugh. ‘It’s one of the ancient legends of the Irish.
One of their heroes
, a
great warrior
named Fionn, wanted to choose a new wife, so he commanded a large group of women to race to the top. He gave the woman he really wanted a secret path, so she would be the winner. That mountain is where the Irish say it happened.’ He gave a quick bow. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have much to attend to.’

‘Yes, yes. Go.’ John watched de Lacy leave, a frown deepening. ‘Bring me that wine, sister.’ He ducked back inside the tent, and Theodosia followed. ‘I need it more than ever.’

An ashen-faced Gerald remained seated on the chest. ‘What’s happening?’

‘All is calm once more, praise God,’ she said as she prepared John’s drink. ‘Our prayers have been answered.’ She took a long breath, still alert to the threat that was her own brother.

John took the goblet from her without thanks, still wearing his frown.

‘You do not look all that relieved, my lord,’ said Gerald. ‘Sister, I will have wine too to steady my heart.’

‘Yes, brother.’ Theodosia complied as John drank deep.

‘That Hugh de Lacy,’ said John. ‘My father suspects him of treachery, and I share that view. He knows this land so well, he could be one of them. And how did he know that there would be no attack? He seemed very certain, yet he stands on this side of o
ur wall.’

Heart knocking afresh, Theodosia bent to folding and tidying the cleric’s clothing that had been thrown about by John, alert at the mention of de Lacy. She might be able to glean information that she could pass on to Benedict.

‘The man even knows their wild tales and mocks me with them.’ John related the legend of the mountain in the distance as he refilled his goblet.

Gerald crossed himself. ‘The Irish are simple as well as savage.
I k
now of it from my previous journeys.’

‘No wonder they need taming. I believe de Lacy does too.’ John looked at the bottom of his empty goblet. ‘Or maybe he only likes tales of women who would run up a mountain for a man.’ He gave an unkind laugh. ‘With a face like his, he must only see them run away. That fine-breasted young wife of his, that Eimear, must keep her eyes shut, all night, every night.’ His frown returned. ‘The same wife he has brought here as part of his group. She’s of Irish stock.’ He slapped the goblet on the table. ‘I need to regroup with my men, examine what has happened today.’ He went to the tent door. ‘Keep a close eye on de Lacy, Gerald. His wife too. Anything suspicious, I need to know.’

‘My lord.’ Gerald inclined his head, and Theodosia bowed too, aware that John did not even acknowledge her presence. While his casual use of her for his own protection irked her sorely, she was also relieved. She had no wish to attract his closer
attention
.

‘Close the door, sister,’ said Gerald. ‘We need to get on with our work. We are behind, thanks to the commotion.’

Returning to her table, Theodosia gasped softly in frustration.

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Gerald.

‘It is all ruined.’ She held up the vellum that had contained the account of John meeting the Irish. ‘I spilled so much wine in my fright. Forgive me, brother.’

‘Fret not, sister.’ Gerald crossed himself. ‘The inks have mixed together, as the Irish have done in the face of John’s insults at
Waterford
, surrounding us here and waiting to pounce. We shall start afresh, no matter how many hours it takes us.’ Gerald’s mouth turned down. ‘But it is an ill omen, sister: an ill omen.’

‘Back to work, all of you! Stop standing around like staring sheep!’ John delivered his yell as he stalked back to his own quarters, steps clumsy in the sticky mud.