The Lord of Ireland (The Fifth Knight Series Book 3) (12 page)

Gerald’s calls continued to ring from outside in a dreadful
chorus
in her head.
Treachery.

Chapter Thirteen

‘The rain’s stopped too.’ Simonson puffed worse than an old carthorse as he laboured. ‘It’s a good omen, isn’t it, Palmer?’

‘It’s making for hot work. That’s all.’ Palmer dug his spade into the soft soil yet again as the midday sun pounded down, the air sticky in the heat.

‘I think it’s God. He’s smiling on us for our win.’ Despite his injury, Simonson still revelled in the victory like he’d done it alone.

‘I hope He is.’ Palmer brushed sweat and plaguing flies from his forehead with his throbbing hands. ‘It’s making this job much worse.’ He hated the aftermath of battle and the stench most of all. Bodies, blood, men who’d voided at their moment of death: all clogged his nose and mouth. Only burying it all in the earth would remove it.

Around him, others did the same, the men silent as they covered over the faces of those they had journeyed here with. Men who would never return home.

‘It is hard in this heat, no mistake,’ said Simonson. ‘But I don’t see why we have to bury the Irish too.’

‘We bury all the dead.’ Palmer rammed the shovel into the ground again and flung another shovelful onto the grave’s mound.

‘Well, I think we should leave them to rot,’ said Simonson. ‘They attacked us, and—’

‘Shut up.’ Palmer pointed his spade at Simonson. ‘What did you think would happen when you joined the Lord John? That the Irish would simply hand over their land to you with a smile and a bow? This is what conquest means.’ He finished the grave with a last load of his spade. ‘You should be begging God that you don’t end up in one of these pits next.’

Palmer walked off without waiting for a reply. Simonson
blabbered
like a dolt, and he wanted to hear no more of it. The number of dead wrenched at his innards. He could have, should have done more to secure this camp. The victory had been a lucky one,
nothing m
ore. He too could have been lying in one of those mounds. As could Theodosia. And if she was, he might as well be. Exhausted though he’d been from the long hours of the battle, he’d not been able to rest for a second until he’d had reliable word that she was safe. By then, sleep had left him, and he’d turned instead to burying the dead
, a back breaking task that had taken almost two days
.

He passed back over the water-filled ditch and in through the gate under the watchful eye of guards armed with crossbows.

Subdued men slowly restored order to the bailey, repairing the burned wall and mending the damaged tents. Those with bad injuries lay in the shade of one. A small group of Irish prisoners sat murmuring amongst themselves in a space of open ground, their hands and legs in chains.

‘Sir knight.’ Theodosia stepped from a tent to his left.

Palmer’s stomach lurched anew.
The sheen of blood
stained the skirt of her habit. ‘You are hurt, sister?’

She glanced down, then met his look with a shake of her head. ‘Praise God, no. I have been helping to attend to those who are and praying with them.’ Her gaze went to his hands, wrapped in soiled bandages, and she frowned. ‘As I should attend to you. Sit there.
I will not be a
moment.’

Her order allowed no argument. Besides, he ached to talk to her, to be with her. The time for that could so easily have passed. Forever. He took a place on the ground in the welcome shade of the tent, making sure he kept his distance from any prying ears or eyes.

Theodosia arrived next to him, carrying a bowl of water and some clean linen. ‘Let me see.’ She laid his hands on her lap, undoing their wraps with care. His heart soared at her living touch against his once more.

She gave a soft gasp. ‘Oh, Benedict.’

The wounds across his knuckles where he’d been hit by the dart pulsed with pain. Large blisters had risen on his palms from the scalding water, and digging for hours had broken them open. ‘These will heal. I was lucky.’

‘This does not look like good luck to me.’ She
wetted
some of the linen and picked up one of his hands, dabbing at his ruined skin with gentle care.

‘It is.’ He met her gaze with his most serious look. ‘Bad luck would have
had
me dead and buried. And you.’

Reaching into her belt pouch, she drew out a jar of herbed goose fat. ‘I know.’ She shuddered and glanced over at the group of prisoners. ‘I know I had God’s protection.’ She spread a thin layer of her ointment over his skin.

Palmer frowned. ‘The Irish got as far as the keep?’

Theodosia wouldn’t meet his eye as she wound fresh linen onto his right hand. ‘It matters not.’

‘Theodosia, what has happened to you?’

‘Pay no heed now. Please.’ She moved on to his left. ‘Please also believe me when I say that I am completely unharmed.’ Her glance flicked past his shoulder and her face changed. ‘What is happening?’

Palmer looked around. To his astonishment, men scurried to and fro, setting up tables and laying them with fine cloth and trenchers and goblets.

‘What is happening, indeed?’ He got to his feet.

‘Benedict, I am not finished.’ She stood too.

‘You’ve fixed me better than a barber-surgeon, sister.’ He gave her a small bow, which drew a quick smile from her.

Palmer tied off the last of the bandage himself as he went over to one of the men, Theodosia matching his quick pace.

‘What are you doing, fellow?’

‘By order of the Lord John,’ said the man. ‘He has commanded a feast.’

‘A feast?’ came Palmer’s surprised echo, along with the same from Theodosia. ‘Has he lost his wits?’

‘You’d have to ask the Lord John, sir knight.’ The man carried on with his setting.

Theodosia squeezed Palmer’s arm. ‘This man does not lie.’

A number of servants processed from the far side of the camp, bearing piled platters of roasted meat. Others wrested in a couple of large barrels.

‘Now we celebrate!’ John descended the steps of the motte, his red hair reflecting in the sunshine, his fine white robe gleaming in the sun. Behind him walked the few of his inner circle that had not left to fight at Ardfinnan, cheering his name and his victory, a silent Gerald bringing up the rear.

‘The clerk seems to be managing better now.’ Palmer glanced down to see the flash of disapproval in Theodosia’s eyes.

‘He does.’

Palmer itched to find out why she looked so annoyed, but too many stood too close, drawn by John’s shouts.

‘There’s ale for all my brave fighters.’ John raised his hand to a ragged cheer, then clicked his fingers to a man who opened up the first barrel with a swift blow of a small axe. The cheers became louder. ‘And, for my brave companions, a place at my table.’ John sat, waving those who’d hidden in the keep with him to their seats. ‘Even the injured royal clerk felled an Irishman. That’s how good they are at fighting!’

A burst of laughter met his words.

Palmer looked at Theodosia, who stared ahead. ‘What’s been going on?’ he said through clenched teeth.

‘Not now,’ she whispered.

John joined the laugh, then scanned the faces at his table. He raised his voice again. ‘Where is Sir Benedict Palmer?’

The noise lessened as those at the table swapped curious looks. All other eyes went to Palmer.

‘He’s there, my lord!’ Palmer recognised one of the archers’ shout.

He went to duck into the nearby tent.

A huge huzzah went up, on and on, with men chanting his name, whistling, clapping.

Palmer wished he still had his spade, that he could shovel earth over himself and hide from view. He didn’t deserve this. Too much had gone wrong. Too many had died.

The chorus only died away when John sliced the air with his hand.

‘Well, well, Palmer.’ The King’s son’s face had tightened, though he showed his teeth in a smile. ‘It seems you are quite the hero. Come and sit. There.’ He pointed to the seat farthest from him and in the lowliest spot.

Palmer hesitated.

‘You must.’ Theodosia breathed her command, not heard by anyone else.

Palmer walked forward to take his seat. His seat at the cowards’ table.

Such a reward could only come from John.

John drank deep from his wine. So annoying that Palmer had turned out to be the big man he hadn’t liked the look of, the one who’d brought back that treacherous strumpet Eimear when he’d sent for de Lacy that day.

‘You are the most gracious victor, John.’ His friend Fitzmiles gave him a broad wink and a snigger.

John hid his smile in his goblet. ‘I know what you mean.’

The man, Palmer, stood out at this noble-clad table like a pustule on a diseased whore, with his rank, filthy clothing and his
bandaged
hands. Still, it worked in his, John’s, favour. Other wretches would look on in awe and believe that one day they too could sit alongside those of royal birth.

John picked up a haunch of roasted pork and took a bite of tasty crisped skin. They could wish all they liked. He was doing this once and once only. He had heard
that
the man called Palmer had fought well. Some even said that Palmer had saved
Tibberaghny
Castle. John had almost swallowed his tongue in rage when he’d heard th
at. Then
he’d had his brilliant idea: all the men would fight harder if they thought they’d win the prize of feasting with the King’s son. He chewed hard and shot a glance at Palmer, rising
irritation
spoiling
his enjoyment of the tasty mouthful. If only Palmer would look a bit happier. The oaf hunched over his food, chewing like a horse i
n a barn.

‘Want some?’ Fitzmiles raised his voice and waved a bone at the small herd of Irish prisoners nearby.

John frowned. What was his friend playing at?

‘Stick that in your beard!’ Fitzmiles threw the bone, hitting one of the chained men with it.

John’s laugh broke from him, half-choking him in the process as the rest of the table joined him. Except for Palmer. Good God, the man was irritating. Even the miserable clerk Gerald, sitting next to the obnoxious knight, had raised a smile. Perhaps the clerk had gained a taste for fighting instead of the Bible.

‘Glad you’ve taken battle blood too, Gerald?’ called John.

‘My lord, I have to insist that I had no other choice of . . .’

John stopped listening. Gerald bored him senseless at the best of times. He’d already heard the man’s flowery version of something very simple: Eimear somehow had command over the Irish. Gerald had dispatched an Irish savage. But Palmer had brought his frowning gaze to Gerald as if the clerk spoke of the most important thing in the world. How peculiar.

Fitzmiles interrupted him. ‘Still, John, two battles and two
victories
, eh?’

‘And Ardfinnan will make it three!’ shouted another man.

John waved a hand, as if it were nothing. Inside, he flushed hot and hard. Everything was proceeding exactly as he’d planned.

Palmer’s hands still throbbed. But not as bad as his head. His chest.

The clerk Gerald’s terrifying account of what had happened with Theodosia battered inside him. He scanned the people
milling
about for her, but she appeared to be busying herself with the wounded. He needed to get the truth from her. He didn’t believe for a heartbeat that Theodosia had fallen at the Irish man’s feet, screaming and renting her clothes in the loss of her sense in terror. That was not his Theodosia. He believed even less that a laughing Eimear had urged the man on. Yet all seemed to accept that Gerald had stabbed the man to death. What Palmer didn’t know was what Theodosia had been doing in Gerald’s tent in the bailey. She should have been in the keep with Eimear.

Palmer drained his goblet, aware of eyes on him.

‘Drink up, Palmer. Plenty more where that came from.’

The stripling spoke to him like he was a dull-witted child. Sore though his palms were, Palmer would love to throttle the speech from the cowardly little toad. ‘Thank you, my lord.’ He forced the words out.

John still stared.

Then a voice floated from the watchtower. ‘Ardfinnan!’

Palmer looked up to see the guard gesturing hard.