"They won't come looking in this place. To make a run now would be too dangerous—we're safer going to ground." He dropped to his knees behind the wattle fencing, his legs suddenly feeling as if the marrow had run out of them. He could no more have run and fought now than a newborn child. The girl flopped beside him, teeth chattering with shock. After a moment, Hywel pulled her into his arms and she clung to him, her fingers digging so hard into his flesh that he would have a memento of purple bruises for weeks to come, but they would be as nothing compared to the horror engulfing his mind. The world was on fire, his brother was dead, and nothing would be ever be the same again.
*** Isabelle laid her hand on Hywel's shoulder as he knelt at her feet. He had staggered into Kilkenny with a straggle of refugees from the sacked town. All of the storage barns had gone up in flames; so had most of the houses. Meilyr FitzHenry's men had descended like wolves, looting, raping, and slaughtering. Twenty of William's soldiers and serjeants were dead and as many townspeople, including the parents of the girl on her knees at Hywel's side.
"They struck out of nowhere, my lady," Hywel said. "One minute I was drinking with Dai in the tavern, the next we were in the midst of a raid and Dai was…Dai was…" He gulped, unable to go on.
"He will be buried with all ceremony and masses said for his soul," Isabelle said gently, and then her voice hardened. "Those who undertook this vile slaughter will be brought to justice, I promise you that. I will not let this pass."
"My lady." He gave a surreptitious sniff and wiped his cuff under his nose.
Rage filled Isabelle like a burning stone. Had she been able to lay hold of the perpetrators at this instant, she would have torn them limb from limb with her bare hands.
She watched Hywel solicitously escort the young woman down the hall to where her stewards and almoner were supplying food, blankets, and clothing to those in need, then she turned to Jean D'Earley and Jordan de Saqueville, who had been in the hall all morning, talking to survivors.
"Go to Newtown, or what remains of it," she said to Jean. "I want you to take messages of support and tell the people that they will be protected. Nothing like this will happen again. Say that the Countess, their lady, swears it on her soul and may she be damned if Meilyr FitzHenry's men harm so much as a single hair on the smallest child's head ever again. Arm yourselves. Get your patrols out and bring those responsible to me." Her eyes blazed. "Do what your lord would have done."
"You do not need to urge me to my duty, my lady," Jean said grimly. "We will bring those who did this to justice."
Isabelle gave a curt nod. "As my lord wished, we did not start hostilities, but you have my leave to finish them."
"My lady." He bowed over her hand and strode from her presence with a vigour that spoke of distress and determination. Isabelle went among the wounded and the homeless who had fled here to Kilkenny rather than continuing to take their chance at Newtown. Listening to their tales fuelled her anger. She was accustomed to the vagaries of warfare and
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, was married to a man who had carved his living and his rise to power out of the tourney and battlefield, but this was different because it was personal. The war was on her lands, harming her people and her reputation. She had been challenged and found wanting and it left her feeling sick, vulnerable, and so angry that she was afire. She vowed that Meilyr FitzHenry would pay, and that the cost would beggar him.
*** "I have let her down," Jean said bitterly as he rode out of Kilkenny at the head of a patrol. "And my lord. What will he say when I tell him that twenty of his men are dead?" He tugged at the nasal bar of his helm in agitation.
Jordan de Saqueville grunted. He was five years older than Jean and although not more experienced, his easier nature sometimes allowed him to see more clearly. "My lord was expecting something of the kind to happen. He won't blame us or think less of us—unless we fail now. We must think about the task in hand, not whip ourselves bloody over what has passed." He glanced across. "If we can catch the bastards and bring them before the Countess, it will make up for much."
The words served to steady Jean and bolster his courage. It wasn't that he was unable to lead, more that he was accustomed to having a higher authority in the background— someone who would grasp his hand should he slip. Now he was treading the edge of a precipice without that prop and the fear of failure was acute, especially as in his own eyes he had already been found wanting.
Shortly before midday the Irish trackers and lightly armed scouts returned to the main party with the information that they had discovered the raiders' camp set up in a wood to the north-east of the road with tents pitched and booty deposited from the sack of Newtown.
"I'd say, my lord, that they're going to attempt some more mischief before they ride home, or they would be long gone by now," said one of the scouts. His name was Hakon and he was of Dublin Viking ancestry with fierce blond whiskers and iceblue eyes. A vicious-looking axe was stuffed through his belt and his tunic was almost indecently short, threatening to expose his buttocks. "They've got guards posted all round and scouts of their own out, but they didn't see us—too busy sorting their gains and making sure of their own portions."
"They are still in camp now?" Jordan asked.
"Aye, but preparing the horses. There's mischief afoot."
Jean forced himself to think beyond his anxiety. What were they after? What was left? "The grange upriver," he said aloud. "And the cattle pens. They'll go for them."
"You think they'd dare those?" Jordan asked.
For a moment Jean was assailed by doubt, but he forced it down. He had to be decisive. "What else can it be? Yesterday's raid will have emboldened them. They've been told that we're easy meat and after their success at Newtown they believe it. Yes, I'm certain. They'll try for the granges."
*** They came not shyly or in stealth, but boldly in full daylight with torches kindled ready to burn all to the ground, and weapons drawn to deal with any guards they encountered. Axe-wielding Irish warriors, bare-legged and long-bearded, the wealthier ones marked out by their shirts of saffron yellow. Some rode ponies bare-backed and bridled with rope in the native fashion. Their paymasters and overlords wore Norman mail and rode with stirrups and curb bits on their stallions, and their footsoldiers carried spears and shields.
Jean watched them come, his heart hammering at his chest wall, his stomach a sick hollow. His men were ranged behind him, blocking the road to the barn, and he had archers covering him as he waited for Meilyr's men, his destrier held in tight and his sword bare in his fist.
Their leader signalled a halt and then paced his stallion forward until he faced Jean. His glance flickered over the red shield with its blazon of silver scallop shells. "Marshal's lap dog," he sneered. "Come to get his tail singed."
Jean drew himself up. "You will yield yourself and your men to me and you will make reparation for the burning and looting of the property of the Countess of Leinster," he said icily. "Otherwise, suffer the consequences."
The knight let out a belly laugh. "You even whimper like a cur too. You English couldn't fight your way out of a rotten flour sack. How many did your dead number yesterday?"
"Too many to let you go further down this road," Jean replied. "Yesterday will not happen again."
"There speaks a fool," scoffed the knight. "You won't stop me, nor will any man who serves a Marshal. Stand aside, turn tail, and flee, or die like your comrades did. It's all the same to me. I've killed better men than you."
"Then it's time you joined them," Jean retorted and signalled the attack.
The fighting was swift and brutal, but as Jean wielded his sword and controlled his destrier, he lost all fear and apprehension. He was accustomed to the fray; he had been trained by a master of this art; and his equipment was of the best. His men too had been trained to the rigorous standards set by the Earl of Pembroke and they were fired up and eager to avenge their comrades. FitzHenry's men could not deal with such concentrated skill and aggression. The chance-come mercenaries scattered like feathers from a torn bolster; the lightly armed Irish skirmishers fell beneath the onslaught of mailed men and destriers; the Norman-clad core could not hold. Some on the outskirts succeeded in escaping, but many more were brought down or cried surrender.
Breathing hard, the edge of his sword slick with blood, Jean lowered his aching arm until the edge of the blade nudged the windpipe of the knight at his feet. Corpses of men and beasts littered the road. Weapons strewed the dust. A few of the downed men were twitching and groaning. "I should finish you here and now," he said between heaves for breath.
"Do that and there'll be no ransom." The knight's wrist was twisted at an odd angle, plainly broken. Blood was dribbling from a leg wound.
"You think your piddling ransom money matters more to me than the lives of my comrades?" Jean was sorely tempted to lean on the blade. He could see the beginnings of terror in the man's eyes beneath the bravado. It would be good to hear him scream for mercy as he choked and bled. Too good. Jean drew a deeper breath and shuddered. His lord would never countenance such a deed. "Think yourself fortunate for the moment that the Countess wants prisoners, not corpses," he said, withdrawing his sword. "And unfortunate that she is going to be the one to deal with you."
*** Seated in the lord's chair on the dais, Isabelle stared frigidly at the battered and bloodied men who had been flung on their knees before her: murderers, mercenaries, rebels, traitors; all at her mercy to do with as she chose. She knew what she wanted to do: build a scaffold outside the hall and string them up to dance in full view of all. Perhaps for good measure emasculate them all too as they kicked and died. However, she curbed the bloody demands of her rage. While it would give her great pleasure to deal with them thus, it would create complications from which there would be no way back. Done was always done. She had others to think about and she did not want to jeopardise William or her sons at John's court because of any impetuous act on her part.
Their leader was kin to Meilyr FitzHenry—the son of his sister and a prize captive. Currently his neck was pinned under the sole of Jean D'Earley's boot. Aware that all eyes in the hall were upon her, that she was the lady of Leinster, dealing judgement in her own hall, Isabelle motioned Jean to step back and rose to her feet.
Jean lifted his foot off the knight's neck and, drawing his sword, positioned the blade to strike at a moment's provocation.
"Look at me," Isabelle commanded. She pitched her voice low, the way Queen Eleanor had been wont to do when dealing with men.
White-faced with pain, blood-streaked, and grimy, FitzHenry's nephew raised his head. Isabelle met the hatred, misery, and fear in his eyes without flinching. "Tell me why I should not hang you and your men forthwith for what you have done to me and mine," she said.
He lifted his chin and said with a spark of defiance, "I am nephew to Lord Meilyr and worth your while to keep alive."
"You are nothing and worth less than nothing," Isabelle retorted, eyes flashing. "Does a vassal's oath mean naught to you or your lord? Your ransom will not pay for the sack of Newtown and the death of my loyal men…but a blood price might go some way towards assuaging the damage."
He bared his teeth. "You will need us to exchange for your own life when King John comes to lay siege to your walls, and come he will, my lady: make no mistake about that. You and your lord will fall."
The words struck Isabelle like a blow to her soft and vulnerable core, but she managed to look indifferent. Jean's foot came down again, hard, and Meilyr's nephew choked against the floor. "Why bother with the expense of a scaffold?" Jean demanded. "I could finish him here, my lady."
Isabelle dug her nails into the palms of her clenched fists. Against the wall of her womb she felt the child kick. "No," she said. "It would be my dearest wish to see you do that, but I will not yield to the heat of anger. While these men are captive they can do us no more harm. Let them stand hostage for my lord Meilyr's behaviour when he returns from court. None are to be ransomed until I deem fit. As to King John?"—she gave the knight a derogatory look—"I have met him. I know him as you do not, so do not presume to tell me, the Countess of Leinster, what he will and will not do." She gestured to Jean and the prisoners were yanked out of her presence with a certain amount of gratuitous brutality. The cells beneath the hall were dank and cold. Perhaps some would die of their wounds tonight. Let them. On the morrow, those who survived would be given minimum provisions to keep body and soul alive until William's return. And if William and her sons did not return, then the prisoners would never see the light of day again.
Isabelle summoned her women and rapidly left the hall. Reaching her chamber, she staggered over to the privy and was wretchedly sick down the waste shaft, her body riven by tremors of revulsion. Her concerned ladies wanted to send for her physician, but she refused and made them summon her chaplain instead.
"I have letters to dictate to my husband. He has to know what has happened." As she spoke, her voice steadied. She took the cup of sweetened wine that an anxious Sybilla D'Earley handed to her and waved away further protests. "With the Earl gone, I must play both lord and lady," she said with grim determination. "I have no choice but to be strong; I have to do what is necessary." She moved to the great bed which was made up with the day covers and the hangings tied back. "Nevertheless, there is nothing to say that I cannot dictate to my husband from our marriage bed…indeed, perhaps that is the best place."
As she had known they would, her words caused her women to relax. She felt tired and shaken and it was good to slip off her shoes and rest against the bolsters and cushions, but her resolve remained iron hard and when Father Walter entered the chamber with his quills and inks, she bade him be seated at the bedside and without hesitation told him what she desired him to write.