Read Online The Lord of Ireland (The Fifth Knight Series Book 3) by E.M. Powell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: E.M. Powell
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John.
Palmer nodded to himself. Also interesting.
He moved on to the final section of his mail. His armour was almost ready for any fight.
Truth be told, that fight could well include de Lacy. All well and good for Henry to tell him, Palmer, that he was to find proof of treachery. That might well have to come at the point of a sword. As for whose sword, Palmer would do everything in his power to make sure it was his. No matter who came at him.
A movement at the edge of the camp caught his eye. Mounted men. He straightened up, his heart fast. Normally he wouldn’t be acting like a maid. But Theodosia was in this camp.
He let out a breath.
De Lacy, returned from a ride, mounted on a huge destrier, a small group of mailed knights with him.
‘Put another man on this patch.’ De Lacy gave the order to a guard who had appeared to check on his arrival, spear in hand.
Appeared too late. Palmer’s shoulders tightened. Not good enough.
‘If I can, my lord,’ said the guard.
It was as if de Lacy had heard Palmer’s thoughts.
‘If you can?’ came the Lord of Meath’s sharp question to the guard. ‘Of course you can find an extra man. One is needed. Had I been an Irish warrior, I’d be in the middle of this camp by now.’ He gave a tight grin. ‘And you would be missing a head, my friend.’
The guard didn’t smile in return, only bowed and went to mov e off.
‘Wait.’ De Lacy raised his head to look over the rest of th e camp.
The man halted.
Palmer bent low over his work , yet still able to see de Lacy with his upward glance. De Lacy already knew him from Waterford . He didn’t want to draw the man’s notice again. Not until he decid ed on it.
‘How many men are guarding this camp today?’ asked de Lacy of the guard.
‘I don’t know, my lord.’
‘How many tonight?’
The guard shrugged. ‘I don’t know, my lord.’
‘You think those are satisfactory answers?’
‘No, my lord.’
‘Then what is?’
‘I’ll find out, my lord.’
‘And you will tell me,’ stated de Lacy.
‘Yes, my lord. At once, my lord.’
As de Lacy dismounted and handed his reins to a groom, Palmer frowned to himself again. What reason would the man have to be so curious about the number of guards at this camp?
He watched as the lord walked towards his large tent, which Palmer knew he shared with his wife, Eimear.
It would probably come to nothing, but he might be able to hear something useful. Though his priority had shifted to Theodosia’s protection, he still had orders from Henry to carry out.
Grabbing an abandoned shovel, Palmer went as close to the tent as he dared and began to dig. With so many others doing th e sam e all over the camp, he shouldn’t attract any notice.
He could hear murmured voices: one man, one woman. Without doubt de Lacy and his wife, but not clear enough to catch what they said .
Swearing silently to himself, he placed a shovelful of earth off to the side.
Then words. Clear as day.
‘But I want to see William, Hugh.’ Eimear’s voice. No tear-filled plea. Climbing. ‘I want to go back to our castle at Trim. To our son.’
‘When I say we can. And no sooner.’ No softness in de Lacy’s tone either. ‘I too need to return. I have pressing matters to which I have to attend.’
‘How is our son not a pressing matter?’
‘Eimear, the Lord John has set events in motion here that no one could have anticipated.’
‘Events in motion. Is that what you call it?’ Her disdain could burn a hole through the canvas of the tent wall. ‘Irish lords, about to be thrown from their lands to the bogs and the mountains. By that stripling?’
Stripling. The same insult used by the spurned Irish at Waterford for John. Palmer raised his eyebrows to himself as he carried on slicing the shovel into the earth again.
‘Stripling or not, John is here on the orders of our king.’
De Lacy used it too.
‘Henry Curtmantle is not my king.’ Her voice lowered in her deep scorn.
Palmer nodded to himself. Also interesting.
He moved on to the final section of his mail. His armour was almost ready for any fight.
Truth be told, that fight could well include de Lacy. All well and good for Henry to tell him, Palmer, that he was to find proof of treachery. That might well have to come at the point of a sword. As for whose sword, Palmer would do everything in his power to make sure it was his. No matter who came at him.
A movement at the edge of the camp caught his eye. Mounted men. He straightened up, his heart fast. Normally he wouldn’t be acting like a maid. But Theodosia was in this camp.
He let out a breath.
De Lacy, returned from a ride, mounted on a huge destrier, a small group of mailed knights with him.
‘Put another man on this patch.’ De Lacy gave the order to a guard who had appeared to check on his arrival, spear in hand.
Appeared too late. Palmer’s shoulders tightened. Not good enough.
‘If I can, my lord,’ said the guard.
It was as if de Lacy had heard Palmer’s thoughts.
‘If you can?’ came the Lord of Meath’s sharp question to the guard. ‘Of course you can find an extra man. One is needed. Had I been an Irish warrior, I’d be in the middle of this camp by now.’ He gave a tight grin. ‘And you would be missing a head, my friend.’
The guard didn’t smile in return, only bowed and went to mov e off.
‘Wait.’ De Lacy raised his head to look over the rest of th e camp.
The man halted.
Palmer bent low over his work , yet still able to see de Lacy with his upward glance. De Lacy already knew him from Waterford . He didn’t want to draw the man’s notice again. Not until he decid ed on it.
‘How many men are guarding this camp today?’ asked de Lacy of the guard.
‘I don’t know, my lord.’
‘How many tonight?’
The guard shrugged. ‘I don’t know, my lord.’
‘You think those are satisfactory answers?’
‘No, my lord.’
‘Then what is?’
‘I’ll find out, my lord.’
‘And you will tell me,’ stated de Lacy.
‘Yes, my lord. At once, my lord.’
As de Lacy dismounted and handed his reins to a groom, Palmer frowned to himself again. What reason would the man have to be so curious about the number of guards at this camp?
He watched as the lord walked towards his large tent, which Palmer knew he shared with his wife, Eimear.
It would probably come to nothing, but he might be able to hear something useful. Though his priority had shifted to Theodosia’s protection, he still had orders from Henry to carry out.
Grabbing an abandoned shovel, Palmer went as close to the tent as he dared and began to dig. With so many others doing th e sam e all over the camp, he shouldn’t attract any notice.
He could hear murmured voices: one man, one woman. Without doubt de Lacy and his wife, but not clear enough to catch what they said .
Swearing silently to himself, he placed a shovelful of earth off to the side.
Then words. Clear as day.
‘But I want to see William, Hugh.’ Eimear’s voice. No tear-filled plea. Climbing. ‘I want to go back to our castle at Trim. To our son.’
‘When I say we can. And no sooner.’ No softness in de Lacy’s tone either. ‘I too need to return. I have pressing matters to which I have to attend.’
‘How is our son not a pressing matter?’
‘Eimear, the Lord John has set events in motion here that no one could have anticipated.’
‘Events in motion. Is that what you call it?’ Her disdain could burn a hole through the canvas of the tent wall. ‘Irish lords, about to be thrown from their lands to the bogs and the mountains. By that stripling?’
Stripling. The same insult used by the spurned Irish at Waterford for John. Palmer raised his eyebrows to himself as he carried on slicing the shovel into the earth again.
‘Stripling or not, John is here on the orders of our king.’
De Lacy used it too.
‘Henry Curtmantle is not my king.’ Her voice lowered in her deep scorn.
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