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

frown. ‘He should be coming in with the most high-ranking nobles of his court. The Irish are coming to declare fealty to him. Why does he bring his young friends?’
    ‘I am afraid I do not know, brother.’
    ‘I don’t expect you to know anything,’ said Gerald. ‘Neither should you. Move to one side. You have no right to share this great event. You are my scribing hand only, remember?’
    Theodosia bowed and moved as ordered. If only Gerald knew what right she did have to stand beside John. She swallowed hard. If John knew. If de Lacy knew.
    She joined her hands in respect as her half-brother stepped towards her, with huzzah after huzzah still echoing out. A bro ad smile spread across his face at the crowds that had assem ble d for him.
    Finally he reached the steps of the cathedral and mounted them slowly.
    Theodosia took a step back against the wall of the cathedral as if the grey stone were her living protector. She need not have feared. John’s glance passed over her, the better to face out into the crowd.
    His guards took up their places in two lines, near to him, but not hiding him from anyone’s view.
    John’s friends climbed the steps too, young men all, not many years older than Tom, to join the mature nobles already gathered.
    She could tell by the rigid expressions of the latter that John had snubbed them in not allowing for the correct order. Their disapproval was palpable, except for de Lacy. His ravaged face merely showed interest.
    The senior members of the court whom Henry had so carefully assembled for John finally filed in. The guards of the port moved them all back, so a wide space opened out in the big clearing between cathedral and tower. One look at their stony expressions told of their displeasure at being so poorly treated.
    John gestured for silence, and the cheers lessened, then died away. ‘My good people. I stand before God’s house to give thanks for our safe arrival.’
    Another loud chorus of rejoicing.
    Theodosia offered up a brief prayer of her own for her delivery from his presence.
    Then loud blasts of horns and the thud of drums filled the air.
    John’s face sharpened into annoyance, and Gerald moved to his side. ‘Smile again, my lord – smile. The Irish come to give you their oath of fealty.’ He matched his own words with a show of long teeth. ‘Precisely as they did for your father.’
    The King’s son produced a beatific beam of his own.
    Three figures walked in through the gate, and Theodosia’s spirit quailed. Gerald’s terrifying description at Windsor had been correct. Each man carried a large axe propped across his body. Unlike the men of Henry’s court, they had long, long beards and hair, and their clothes consisted of thick robes wound round thei r bodies.
    Another similar grouping, a dozen or so, followed them closely, but she assumed their position must mean they were of lesser importance. Last, two lines of musicians also marched, their drumming like the beat of an angry heart, with the blare of their horns and the wild skirl of their pipes matching their uncouth look.
    The musicians followed the men as they gave tread after deliberate tread towards the steps that led up to the cathedral.
    ‘Gerald’ – John spoke through his continued smile – ‘what are they doing?’
    Though his words were barely audible to Theodosia over the echoing music, she desperately desired to know the same thing. She fought down the urge to run for the sanctuary of the cathedral , scanning the crowd for Benedict. But no, she could not see him.
    The three leaders reached the foot of the steps; then each lifted his axe.
    ‘Gerald?’ came John’s fierce, insistent whisper .
    ‘They are coming to offer you their allegiance , my lord,’ murmured Gerald in return. ‘They told me it would be allegiance . Fear not: you have your guards with you.’
    The music cut in an instant to total silence.
    The man on the left, round faced, his beard full and square, took one final