The Lord of Ireland (The Fifth Knight Series Book 3) by E.M. Powell Page A

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.
    ‘Is that sister your personal slave now, Gerald?’
    Theodosia looked up at John’s shout, hand tight on her knife as the knights quietened, their attention drawn too.
    With his chair pushed back and his feet crossed on the table, John wore a grin on a face that shone with copious amounts of meat and wine.
    Gerald gave a tight smile in return. ‘God does not see fit to heal my grievous injury yet. I try to get by as best I can.’
    John’s grin broadened. ‘I have what you need.’ He dropped his feet to the floor to lean forward and search amongst the platters and bowls. ‘This.’ He threw something to the clerk, where it landed with a soft thump in front of Theodosia’s and Gerald’s trenchers.
    A great roar of laughter burst from the watching knights as her sight swam. The hand of the dead king rested before her.
    ‘Remove that foul object from my sight,’ Gerald ordered one of the servers, who scooped it up in a linen cloth.
    Theodosia’s sight cleared, though the sweat of nausea coated every inch of her body.
    ‘Bring it back here.’ John clicked his fingers. ‘I will preserve it as a trophy for my father. As proof of my success.’
    Gerald shot him a malevolent look as he stabbed at a piece of his beef. ‘The King prefers wealth to trophies, my lord.’
    John waved his remark aside. ‘I know. It’s only for fun.’ He took a deep drink. ‘Have fun, Gerald. We’ve so much to celebrate, thanks to my dispatching of Theobald Walter to deal with the Irish.’ He raised his goblet to his friend. ‘To Theo.’
    The knights joined the toast, the most recent of many.
    Theodosia drank some water to steady her resolve. She could tolerate this obscene banquet of John’s no more. As soon as his attention shifted elsewhere, she’d tell Gerald she felt unwell and take her leave.
    ‘Theo, the hero.’ John slapped the tabletop. ‘Hark: I’m a battle poet now.’ He rejoiced in his new jest with his fellows. ‘You shall have great rewards.’ He pointed at his friend with his goblet. ‘Great. In fact, I am awarding you lands. You can have five cantreds from Munster. Five. I shall retain crosses and donations of abbeys and bishoprics. But you can have the rest.’ He picked up a jug to refill his glass.
    Theodosia let out a breath. He’d forgotten all about her. She went to rise.
    ‘My lord.’ Gerald’s response drew John’s attention back.
    She froze, fiddling with her bread as if unconcerned.
    ‘Those rights belong to the Crown.’ Gerald wore his most sou r look.
    John reddened. ‘God’s eyes, Gerald. The rights of the Crown might as well be mine.’
    ‘You may say, “Might as well,” but that is not the same as possession,’ said Gerald. ‘The land is not yours to give. There are many who already have rights to the land, and many more who might stake a claim. Men like Hugh de Lacy—’
    ‘That festering traitor!’ John hurled the jug at Gerald, its contents splashing over all it passed. The clerk ducked, and it smashed on the wall behind him.
    The table fell silent, the trickling of wine making its way to the floor in small rivulets the only sound.
    Theodosia did not dare to make a move now.
    John’s good temper had shifted with the speed and strength of the very drunk. ‘He knew my plans –