The Lord of Ireland (The Fifth Knight Series Book 3) (9 page)

Chapter Ten

‘My lord, wake up. You must wake up.’

‘No, I must not.’ John clung to sleep, his head buried beneath the soothing darkness of the thick bedcovers. ‘I’ll wake when I’m good and ready.’

‘Now, my lord.’ The owner of the male voice became more insistent, even daring to shake John by the shoulder. ‘You must wake now!’

‘Unhand me, you son of a pestilent whore.’ John stuck his head out from the covers, cursing as the daylight pounded into his sight and straight into his wine-tortured head.

‘My lord.’ The voice dripped with disapproval.

John squinted hard and made out the clerk Gerald standing over him. ‘What are you doing, man? Leave me alone.’

Gerald’s mouth became a thin line. ‘There are men approaching the bailey’s gate. Many of them.’

‘God’s teeth, we’re under attack!’ John flung the covers back. ‘My clothes. Quick! I can’t escape naked.’

Gerald averted his eyes. ‘My lord. Calm yourself. It is no attack.’

‘No?’ John stilled.

‘The guards have identified Theobald Walter and his men, returned from Munster.’

‘Returned? Finally?’ They’d been gone for twelve nights with no word. ‘And?’ Gerald’s lips parted in a triumphant smile. ‘It looks to be victory.’

Trembling hard, John stood on the wide lowest step of the motte and watched as the gate dropped over the water-filled ditch surrounding this privy called Tibberaghny Castle.

He’d ordered up his best ermine robe, shouted at his servants to dress him fast, faster. He’d only had to pause once, to vomit last night’s wine long and hard onto the rush floor, an act which had completely restored him.

And there, emerging from the trees, riding into view, proud on the proudest destrier: Theobald Walter, his long-time friend. More brother than John’s own judgemental, aloof male siblings, he gladdened John’s heart with his loyalty. Walter headed up a gro
up o
f battle-stained men, on foot and on steeds, who bore the glow o
f triumph
and who, more importantly, carried ma
ny spoils.

Walter’s gaze met John’s as his horse thudded across the bridge, and his fist thrust in the air, confirming all of John’s hopes.

‘All hail the victors!’ John bellowed his order in joyous relief.

Magically, wonderfully, the whole camp responded: cheering, clapping, shouting praise, raising thanks to God for the Lord John.

As if the heavens heard, the sun slipped out from behind the breeze-filled clouds.

Tears
pricked
at the insides of John’s lids. This was it. This was what he was born to do. This was the reward of power.

Walter dismounted and made his way through the hollering assembly to John, falling on bended knee before him.

‘Quiet!’ John cut the noise with a sweep of his hand. ‘Walter.
I re
joice at your return. Tell us your news.’

‘My lord, we have defeated the Irish in Munster,’ said Walter. ‘And better, my lord—’

Huzzahs rose up.

John allowed them for a moment or two, then stopped them again with a raised hand. He could be God Himself, guiding the sun through the heavens, such was his complete control.

‘Better, my lord,’ said Walter, ‘we have killed McCarthy, King of Desmond!’ Walter reached beneath his surcoat and threw a bloodied hand at John’s feet.

No one waited for John’s signal. Wild cheers echoed out, feet stamped.

‘You killed their king?’ John’s fists clenched, hot, searing delight tearing through him.

Walter looked up at him, the dirt of his face splitting with the gleam of his white-toothed smile. ‘Yes, my lord. That is his right hand. I took it as proof of the Irish loss.’

‘My valiant, worthy servant.’ John hauled him to his feet and embraced him hard to more waves of loud praise. He loosed his hold, turned Walter to face forward to present him to the crowds, raising his voice to make himself heard. ‘This is what a conqueror looks like. A man who fights without mercy in loyalty for h
is ruler.’

As the sea of faces below shouted their approval, John scanned them, looking for the one that mattered, the hideous visage like melted wax. Now he could show de Lacy that anyone could put these Irish dogs down, with no need for alliances or marriages. The sword did its work better than any agreement: such pacts only got in the way.

But he couldn’t see the Lord of Meath anywhere.

‘Where’s de Lacy?’ said John to Walter, who shrugged.

John pointed at a tall, broad-shouldered man who stood near Gerald’s nearby tent, leaning on a water butt. ‘You there, idler! Find de Lacy and fetch him here. Now, if you know what’s good for you.’

The dark-haired man reacted with a stiff bow and disappeared into the crowd.

John whipped up more cheers, more proclamations of his glory, ensuring Walter received his share too. All here would marvel that he, John, could be so humble, so generous in sharing acclaim.

The dark-haired man reappeared, making his way through the crowds.

John’s stomach tightened. This was it. This was the moment when de Lacy would realise that this island was not his to cla
im, th
e moment when his plans would turn to dust. The moment when th
e Lo
rd of Meath would have to salute John’s victory over the Irish. John waved for silence again. Everyone here should witness this momentous event.

The man bowed before John. ‘My lord.’ He moved to one side.

But he hadn’t brought the swarthy, hideous de Lacy.

Striding towards him, her head held high, her gaze directly meeting his, came de Lacy’s wife, Eimear. She wore no modest cloak, only a brazen tunic that kicked up as she walked, showing the smooth skin on her calves. She stopped before him, with her hands bunched in fists by her sides.

John looked at the man he’d dispatched on his errand. ‘Are you a fool? This woman is not who I ordered you to bring to me.’

The man bowed again, with a set look that John didn’t like. The fellow had a definite air of the usurper about him. ‘My apologies, my lord. When I went to the Lord of Meath’s tent, I found only his wife. She said—’

‘Who are you both to discuss me as if I were a woman of low birth?’ Eimear’s clear, loud tone cut the man off while her cold stare still remained locked on John’s. ‘To summon me here as if I were a servant to do your bidding?’

A surprised murmur met her words.

John’s shoulders tightened. This woman was spoiling his
triumph
with her rudeness. ‘I did not summon you here at all. I
or
dered your husband’s presence. Or is he such a lesser man that a woman can serve in his stead?’

Walter and his friends laughed at his clever response, and two spots of colour appeared in Eimear’s pale cheeks. John permitted himself a smirk.

‘I came here to answer for my husband; that much is true.’ Her arrogance didn’t wane, curse her. She still stared him down.

‘Then is he hiding beneath your skirts, enjoying the view?’ His quick retort drew a louder laugh.

Her colour deepened, yet still she held her head high. ‘My
husband
has gone to fight.’

The laughter faded away along with John’s own good humour.

‘To fight? I gave him no orders.’

‘He does not need orders from you.’ Her voice rang with audacious authority.

‘Yes, he does! If he does not heed my orders, then he is a traitor!’ It came out too high, too shrill. Damn this woman. She made him a boy in britches.

‘Hugh de Lacy is loyal to King Henry. As am I.’ Her brows arched. ‘My lord.’

Fury swelled within him. She mocked his title, this bitch of the Irish dogs. Her face, her bearing, her words: all spoke of her superiority in this land. And not his, despite his glorious victory. Every single person who stood here, from the noblest knight to the
lowliest
privy cleaner, could tell it. She needed humbling. And quickly. Inspiration struck him.

He held his hand out. ‘Then prove it. Come and kiss my hand.’

She stepped forward, gaze still locked on his.

As she did so, he bent and scooped up the hand of the dea
d king.

‘My hand.’ He held the thing before him.

Gasps and muted disgust from those watching met his bold action.

Pulse racing, he waited.

While the colour in her face drained away, she didn’t flinch. Slowly, very deliberately, she bent to place a fervent kiss on the corpse hand, the red of her warm, living lips a hideous contrast to the mottling flesh of the King of Munster. Then she straightened up to face down John once more to a chorus of long breaths and conjecture.

Her actions had made her allegiances clearer than a thousand words. He only had one response.

‘So you were devoted to him as a fellow Irish noble?’ He gave a sage nod. ‘What a shame he can no longer return that.’ He flicked the hand hard at her breast.

She jerked away in shock, stumbling onto the wet, muddy ground with a suppressed cry.

It worked. Laughter broke out.

He’d broken her spell. The laughs mixed with scoffs as she climbed to her feet, her hands and skirt stained with mud.

‘You would shy away from the touch of one of your own?’ He flicked it at her again and this time she ducked her head.

Jeers and hoots followed her as she turned and stalked away through the crowd.

Blood rushed fast and hard to his groin at his exquisite
humiliation
of this woman. He’d made a mistake, allowing her to behave in such a disrespectful way and taking the joy out of his victory. His swift thinking had regained the power, had regained t
he . . .
Oh, this was too, too good.

He waved the hand of the slain King of Munster above his
head. ‘I have the upper hand!’

A new, hard wave of delicious mirth and cheers broke over him.

‘The upper hand! Now, to feast, my men! We have much to celebrate.’

So very, very much.

‘Are you ill, sister?’

Theodosia shook her head at Gerald’s question. ‘I am fasting today, brother.’ Ashamed of her own untruth, she gestured to her small piece of bread and goblet of water. She wanted no part of John’s raucous feast in the small hall within the keep, where he celebrated with his closest young friends. His proximity to her, as he sat at the head of the long table while she mercifully was at the far end by Gerald’s side, gave her deep disquiet.

Gerald sniffed. ‘Good. So long as you are not sickening for something. There will be much for me to record. You must be paying attention to it all in case I miss a detail.’

Sickening.
A fitting word for this dreadful assemblage. The loud, swaggering knights, swapping battle stories of the rout of th
e Iri
sh as they crammed their mouths with mounds of the roasted flesh of animals and jug after jug of wine, yet still called for more. She knew of the need for fighting, for war. But to hear the detail of each sword blow, of how wounds were inflicted, of how each man met his end, was terrible to her. She herself had seen such horrors, had even ended lives with her own hands, and knew she could never celebrate it. Yet this was what they did, rejoicing in the carnage they had inflicted. And she would have to relive it all again when Gerald retold it so she could write it
down.

‘Of course, brother.’ She took a mouthful of bread, willing
herself
to swallow it.

Gerald made an ineffective stab at the haunch of beef before him on his trencher and sighed sharply. ‘How I hunger for the riches this meal offers.’ He sighed again. ‘The burden of my limited capabilities tires me out.’ He pushed his trencher in front of her, resting his bandaged arm on the table. ‘Chop my food, sister.’

Theodosia took his knife without complaint. The clerk had set her to many tasks other than writing, citing his injury in his plaintive tone every time. Mixing ink. Rolling papers. Arranging h
is cushions
. Washing his gnarled feet. Combing his thin hair. Though sure he could manage many of them, she took the easier course of not arguing. She could do nothing to draw attention to herself, nothing to suggest that she was other than what she seemed. She chopped the meat with care into bite-sized chunks. She
certainly
had not told Benedict in the times she snatched to be with him. Gerald would probably be nursing another useless limb if she di
d. Th
eir history with powerful men of the Church was not a g
ood one.