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
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
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