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

Palmer replaced his sword against the nearby tree, ready to grab it again at a second’s notice. The King’s son should be giving orders about how best to counter an attack. The answer to the Irish had been chaos of the worst kind. This camp needed orders. Direction. A plan. But no. Nothing. Men deserted by the day, with the rumour that the Irish chieftains were paying them the money John was not. And no men came to replace them. Many of those who remained seemed to favour the bottom of a beer barrel. Palmer himself spent all his time on the building work now.
    Even with all these problems, all John did was scuttle away like a rat back to its hole.
    Palmer picked up the axe he’d been using to strip the bark from a felled tree. He looked towards the tent where he knew Theodosia lodged with Gerald, reliving the horror he’d felt when he’d seen her step outside. It still gripped him, along with the fear he’d felt in defending the half-built encampment. Not for himself. Fighting brought out sharpened senses, faster limbs, a surge of strength. His fear was for Theodosia.
    He lifted the axe and brought it down on the tree trunk. He and she had fought together, and he loved her courage, her quick mind. But battle was different. Men ready for brutal slaughter , an d so many of them. The wet wood took the force of the blow an d s plit, but did not cut. A woman, nun or not, would be nothing except a special prize. More and worse attacks would follow, he knew that. He had to speak to her, to make her understand the danger she faced. And soon. Pushing the picture from his mind of how Theodosia could be assaulted, he wiped his dripping hair from his face and cursed long and hard.
    ‘You can say that again.’
    Palmer looked up to see the heavy-set younger man from the ship at Waterford, no longer looking pleased at the thought of whores and wearing instead the sweat of fear. ‘Why? You’ve forgotten how?’
    ‘No, no.’ The man gave a nervous grin at Palmer’s terse reply. ‘Just thought that we were for it then.’ Still holding a blunt- looking , short blade, he held out his free hand. ‘The name’s Simonson, si r kn ight.’
    Palmer shook it. ‘Sir Benedict Palmer.’
    Simonson’s grin fell as he nodded to Palmer’s sword. ‘Can use that, can you, Sir Benedict?’
    ‘You can call me Palmer.’ He wrenched a strip of tight bark from the green wood. ‘And yes, I can use a sword.’ Would use it to take the head of anyone who laid a hand on his wife.
    ‘Thank the Almighty.’ Simonson blew out his cheeks. ‘Sounded to me like the Irish were about to attack. They made the fiercest noise I’ve heard yet. Even when they make it at night. And the nights are terrible.’
    Saints alive, the man looked more fearful than a beaten dog. Palmer raised his axe again. ‘They choose the nights on purpose . A ti red camp is an unready one. Makes mistakes.’ Like Theodosia was making. The wet wood squeaked under his strike. ‘How’s your use of that blade?’
    Simonson looked at the poor weapon he held. ‘Middling.’
    Palmer grunted as he hauled his axe free. ‘Like your readiness to work?’
    ‘Sorry, sir.’ The man flushed and tucked his blade into his belt. He picked up the small axe he’d flung away at the first sounds of danger. ‘Always ready – I got distracted, that’s all.’ His strike at the wood came at an angle and bounced off, narrowly missing his ow n fa ce.
    ‘Middling, you say?’ Palmer landed a sure blow on the tough wood.
    Simonson’s colour deepened. ‘Maybe better to say that fighting’s new to me.’
    ‘Then what drew you to it?’
    ‘Land, sir.’ Simonson took another cut, better this time. ‘The word went out that the Lord John would pay men to fight for him. It wasn’t only me that came from my village. There’s at least half a doze n that I can see from where I stand.’
    ‘I see.’ Palmer’s doubts hardened tight as his neck muscles as he struck the wood yet again.
    ‘We’d