He’d hoped to shift the subject easily but Frederick wasn’t so keen to let it go. He waved off Iver when the man started to speak on the status of the Irish rebels. “She is not just your personal prize, something to be hoarded and kept,” he insisted. “Although I respect your plans to use her to breed fine sons, now that we know who she is, surely the terms of her captivity have changed. She belongs to us all, Dev. She is a symbol of Kildare, the man responsible for all we hate and all we have lost.”
Devlin cocked a dark red eyebrow at him. “I told you that she will not be touched by anyone but me,” he repeated, feeling the tension rise. “I meant it.”
Frederick didn’t like the response. He slammed his cup down and ale splashed from it, spotting the old wooden table. “Did you know I lost my brother last night?” he said angrily, bracing his arms on the table as he nearly yelled at his liege. When Devlin looked rather startled, Frederick simply nodded his head. “Henry was killed by the English. I found him floating in the surf early this morning. That… that wench you have been taking to sport is responsible for it! Is there nothing else you plan to do to make her pay?”
Devlin could see he was going to have trouble with Frederick. He remained cool as his commander postured furiously. “I am sorry to hear about Henry,” he said softly. “He was a good warrior.”
“Sorrow does not bring him back!”
“Nay, it does not, but I am sorry nonetheless.”
Frederick wasn’t satisfied. He pointed to the ceiling above, to the floor that contained the English prisoner. “Tell me what more you intend to do to make her pay.”
“Pay for what? I asked you before what you wanted me to do and you gave me your answer.”
“That was before I knew she was Kildare!”
“It changes nothing.”
Frederick roared with anger, sweeping his arm at the cluttered table and sending food, ale, and cups flying. Iver moved out of the way so he would not be struck while Shain moved closer to Devlin in case Frederick physically attacked the man. That had been known to happen.
“My brother is dead!” Frederick bellowed. “Are you telling me that no one will pay for that?”
Devlin stood up; if Frederick charged, he didn’t want to be caught sitting down. Moreover, the man was known to veer out of control and now was the time to start showing some strength or the situation could turn bad. He fixed Frederick in the eye.
“Over a thousand English already paid last night with their lives,” he said. “There are thirty-three English prisoners in our custody. If you want to go and kill each of those prisoners, I will not stop you. Let them pay the final price. But you will not touch the lady. She belongs to me. If you touch her, I will view it as stealing my property and I will punish you accordingly. Is that clear?”
Frederick’s mouth worked furiously. He was prepared to come back with a sharp retort but he had better sense than to speak without thinking; Devlin de Bermingham commanded nearly five thousand men. He had the money and power of the House of de Bermingham behind him but more than that, he was a true patriot for Ireland and men followed him for that very reason. He had fought and bled for Ireland, and his charisma and power had garnered him more followers out of respect than out of fear.
Frederick both admired and feared Devlin; he’d seen what de Bermingham was capable of and had no desire to provoke him. Therefore, he struggled to calm himself. There was more anger than grief in him at the moment, but he wasn’t a fool. He wouldn’t test Devlin. He took a deep breath and pushed down the rise of his rage.
“De réir do ordú, sinsear feasta,” he said with forced calm. By your command, sire.
Devlin eyed the man, wondering if he meant it. With Frederick, one could never tell. “Téigh i síocháin,” he said quietly. “Beidh mé páirt a ghlacadh leat níos déanaí.”
Go in peace and I will join you later. Frederick nodded faintly and quit the room, fatigue in his movements. Devlin, Shain and Iver watched the man go before turning to one another.
“He hated his brother,” Iver said in a low voice. “He is only seeking revenge for revenge’s sake. It is not as if he is wallowing in sorrow. He is simply hungry for English blood and will seek any excuse to bleed it.”
Devlin nodded, sighing wearily as he reclaimed his seat. “He is an excellent warrior and a trusted advisor, but sometimes he worries me,” he muttered, moving to collect a piece of stale bread. “You two will watch him when I am not about. If he acts strangely or is not himself, you will tell me.”
The two men nodded. Iver sat back down at the table but Shain remained on his feet. He scratched his dirty head.
“When do you plan to make the rounds, mo tiarna?” he asked. “We have the men breaking down the English cogs and going about their usual duties, but they will expect to see you.”
Devlin nodded as he chewed his bread. “I will come shortly,” he said. “Meanwhile, send Enda to me. I have a task for her.”
As Shain went to find the old serving woman who oversaw the keep, Devlin turned to Iver. His manner seemed to slow, his expression becoming pensive.
“I wonder how long it will take the English to hear of this victory and make plans to overwhelm us,” he muttered.
Iver toyed with an empty wooden cup. “Not long,” he said. “We destroyed a large fleet last night. Word will travel quickly. I am not as worried about Kildare as I am worried about the settlement to the south with the de Cleveley and Connaught clann. After our successful raids last year, you and I discussed plans to wipe them out entirely. Mayhap we should visit that plan again. Any English foothold on our soil can only mean danger for us; mayhap it is time to eliminate them once and for all, and send a clear message to Kildare – we do not want English on our lands. Ireland belongs to the Irish.”
Devlin thought on the rather large settlement they had severely damaged last year. It had been a costly fight, but ultimately a glorious one. He drew in a long, slow breath.
“Long have we discussed their destruction,” he agreed. “Mayhap you are correct; mayhap with Kildare’s defeat, it is time we rid Wicklow of the English once and for all. Gather my commanders this eve and after sup, we will discuss the possibilities. We must strike while fortune continues to be in our favor.”
Iver agreed. “Indeed,” he replied, eyeing Devlin. “Have you thought about asking your prisoner what she knows of the English plans? As Kildare’s sister, surely she was privy to her brother’s intentions.”
Devlin shook his head. “I have not thought to ask her,” he said. “It seems to me that she was truthful when she said she stowed away on the fleet to be near her lover.”
“It is possible that she was truthful, but it is also possible she knows more than what she is telling.”
Devlin thought on that. “I do not believe that to be the case, but I will of course interrogate her. I would be foolish not to.”
Iver nodded his head, rising to stand and clapping Devlin on the shoulder as he moved. It was a gesture of comfort, of confidence. As Devlin watched the man lumber out of the hall, he caught movement over to his left. Turning, he saw the slight figure of his chatelaine approach. When the old woman saw that he was looking at her, she bowed her head in a gesture of utter respect.
“Mo tiarna,” she said. “How many I be of service?”
Devlin’s thoughts immediately moved away from furious commanders and English settlements to the pale, lovely lady trapped in the chamber over his head. With a crooked finger, he motioned the old woman closer.
“I have a task for you, máthair,” he said. “It would seem we have a… guest.”
The old woman was frail, pale, and toothless, but she was much more robust than she looked. She was also fairly unafraid to speak to Devlin, having known him since he’d been a small lad. Old Enda, the chatelaine of Black Castle’s keep, had heard the tales of the English prisoner and she had further heard what Devlin had done to her. There wasn’t much she didn’t know about the place, and she’d heard terri
ble stories. She simply nodded her head to his statement.
“I have heard, mo tiarna,” she said evenly. “Shall I tend to her?”
Devlin nodded. “Clothing, food, and a bath,” he said, rising from his chair. “Tend her well and do not let her leave that room. I shall be with the men but will return before sun down.”
“Aye, mo tiarna.”
“She is a valuable prisoner. Treat her as such.”
“Aye, mo tiarna.”
“And you will not let anyone in that room other than me. Make sure you bolt the door from the inside.”
“Aye, mo tiarna,” she said obediently. “But… mightn’t the vault be a better place for the prisoner than your chamber? It is better guarded.”
Devlin’s gaze lingered on the old woman. “Not this prisoner,” he said after a moment. “She must be kept safe and the vault would not be a safe place for her.”
Enda nodded obediently and Devlin lowered his gaze, fearful that she might read something more into his statement. It bordered on concern rather than cold indifference. He quit the room without another word but Old Enda understood, or at least she thought she did; a damaged prisoner was of no use to anyone and the way the men about Black Castle felt for the English, it wouldn’t be a difficult stretch for any one of them to slip in to the room and kill the wench. Sir Devlin wanted her undamaged by others so he could damage her personally. He would use her as his own personal victory over the English.
Moreover, it wasn’t any of Enda’s business what he did to the woman. He wanted her safe and safe she would be. She watched the massive Irish knight quit the hall before scurrying about her duties; she had a prisoner to attend to.
CHAPTER THREE
After Devlin had left her that morning after his second act of domination and punishment upon her, Emllyn spent the rest of the day huddled in the corner of the chamber, as miserable as she could possibly be. The day that had dawned somewhat clear had turned cloudy by the nooning hour and by sunset, the rain and wind had begun.
Water lashed in through the lancet window as lightning lit up the darkening sky. Other than the bread and cup of stale ale that had been brought to her that morning, she’d had nothing else to eat. There wasn’t even a fire in the dark and sooty hearth. Cold and hungry, Emllyn sat in the dark corner clad in the tatters of her sandy and damp surcoat, the remains of her shredded shift strewn about her arms and shoulders to try to give her some measure of feeble warmth.
She had dozed on and off during the day with dreams of Trevor, her tall and dark love, but then she had awoken to the reality of her situation. Worse yet, her nether regions were chaffed and irritated because of Devlin’s forced sexual attentions and she spent a good deal of time shifting around on the floor because of the discomfort. She very much needed to use the chamber pot but there was none so, without any choice, she had pissed in the corner over near the window where there was a drain built into the floor. She thought it might be the garderobe but she could not be certain; everything about the room was so old and run down and dirty. She felt like an animal.
Emllyn was dozing once again when the door to her chamber shook. Instantly awake and instantly fearful, she remained huddled in the darkness as the door opened. In the dim light, she could see a pair of women, entering with their arms laden with items, and behind the women came a couple of men bearing a big, dented copper pot between them.
Eye contact was made between Emllyn and the intruders. She remained coiled against the wall as the women, an older one with missing teeth and a younger one that was very pale and plain, timidly approached the bed. The men with the pot moved to the hearth and set it down, quickly vacating the room only to return with peat and kindling. The men were old, dressed in rags, and evidently servants or slaves. They deftly piled the peat and lit it before they vacated the room again and returned a third time bearing great buckets of sloshing water. The water was dumped into the pot and the pot scooted against the peat as the flame began to gain in strength.
Meanwhile, the women had been busy near the bed with its stiff and smelly straw mattress. Now, Emllyn was more curious than fearful as she watched them cover the mattress with the hides they had carried with them. Great sheep hides covered up the old mattress now as they turned to another bundle they’d brought with them and began to pull out some manner of textiles.
Several types of garments were strewn neatly across the hides. Emllyn was very curious about them but didn’t move from her position against the wall; she was still too afraid to. The younger woman had a hide sack with her from which she pulled out a lumpy white bar of soap and a few other things including a comb. As Emllyn focused on the soap and combs that were being brought forth, the older woman finally spoke.
“I’m Enda, m’lady,” she said politely but with a very heavy Irish accent. “This is me daughter, Nessa. Sir Devlin has asked us to help ye dress.”
Emllyn eyed them a moment before very slowly, and very stiffly, rising to her feet. “I am hungry,” she said. “Did you bring me something to eat?”
Enda nudged Nessa and the young girl fled. “Me daughter will bring ye something,” she said, trying not to stare at the torn and ripped clothing on Emllyn’s body, evidence of Devlin’s punishment. She indicated the now-steaming water in the pot against the fire. “Can I help ye bathe?”
Emllyn wasn’t about to deny her. She was so miserable that, at the moment, she would have let the Devil himself help her if it meant warmth and cleanliness. With a short nod, she moved for the pot as Enda grabbed one of the long stretches of fabric on the bed and spread it down on the ground in front of the pot. She also brought forth a small, three-legged stool that she had brought with her and she set the stool upon the fabric on the floor. She indicated for Emllyn to sit, and sit she did.
Emllyn had no sooner sat down than the woman began to pull the tattered remnants of the surcoat from her body. Emllyn felt somewhat exposed, and embarrassed, but the woman was firm yet gentle in the removal. When Emllyn was completely nude the woman began throwing bowls of steaming water on her, which splashed down onto the fabric spread on the floor. It was a mat of sorts, absorbing the water off of the stone floor. The very warm water felt wonderful and as the woman put a bowl on the floor in front of Emllyn and told her to put her feet in it, she simultaneously grabbed the lumpy white bar of soap and began to scrub Emllyn from the feet upwards.
The sand, the dirt, and the chill came off of Emllyn quickly as the skinny old woman washed her vigorously. True, she was sitting naked on a stool in the middle of the room, but the fire in the hearth was burning strongly now so she felt no chill. Enda, like any good mother, Irish or English or otherwise, used a rag and the soap to wash every nook and cranny on her body, including between her buttocks, which actually had Emllyn giggling at one point.
But the old woman took her job seriously and she cleaned the sand and dirt away, and perhaps she was even intent to clean the man-smell off of the young captive considering what the lord had done to her. Perhaps it was the mother in her that made her sympathetic to the frightened young woman, English or no. At the moment there were no countries or enemies, simply one woman to help another.
The bar of soap smelled like grass and herbs. It was a very clean smell and one Emllyn liked very much. The old woman had lathered her up in it, rinsing as she went along, and she used the soap to lather up her hair. There was a good deal of sand in her scalp and it took several rinses to get it all out, but it eventually ran clean. When Emllyn was finally scrubbed clean, the old woman used another one of the lengths of fabric strewn across the bed and vigorously dried her off.
In the heat of the room, it didn’t take long to dry her skin. Enda handed her yet another pile of fabric from the bed which turned out to be a shift made of linen that was surprisingly soft but far too large. Over that, she donned a heavy garment of green wool that was more like a giant tunic than a surcoat. It had long sleeves, a tie about the waist, and dragged along the floor when she walked, but it was ver
y warm and that was all Emllyn truly cared about. As she sat on the stool while Enda ran a bone comb through her hair to dry it, the door to the chamber opened.
Enda’s daughter appeared with a tray in hand. Upon the tray was a bowl with something steaming in it, a big hunk of bread, a wedge of white cheese, and a warped wooden cup. There were also a pair of well-used leather slippers, which Enda promptly slipped on Emllyn’s feet. They were a bit too small but still comfortable. As Emllyn slurped down a barley and bean stew, she felt better than she had in days.
As she ate her meal, Enda got down on her hands and knees and mopped the floor up with the wet mat. She swept the water in the direction of the corner drain, sweeping it out until there were no longer puddles on the floor. Nessa, meanwhile, had taken over her mother’s hair-combing duty and when Emllyn’s hair was nearly dry, she braided it tightly and wound the braid into a bun at the nape of Emllyn’s neck. Pinning it with several big iron pins, Emllyn made quite a presentable picture.
Bathed, dressed, and combed, Emllyn swallowed down the last of her meal. She was so full she could hardly move, but still, she licked the bowl. Food had never tasted as good to her as it did at that moment. As she handed the bowl back to Nessa, hovering next to her, the rainstorm outside worsened.
It had beat steadily most of the evening but now grew stronger. Sitting near the fire on the three-legged stool, Emllyn watched the rain beat against the windowsill and splash inside onto the floor. It was near the drain in the floor and she began to see why there was a drain there; water coming in through the window flooded to the drain and was sent back outside again. As she pondered the clever Irish engineering, Enda cleared her throat and spoke.
“Will there be anything else, my lady?” she asked.
Emllyn looked over at the old woman and her daughter. After a moment, she shook her head. “Nay,” she said. “You have been very kind to me. Thank you.”
Brides of Ireland: A Medieval Historical Romance Bundle Page 40