Brides of Ireland: A Medieval Historical Romance Bundle

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Merradoc nodded vigorously as he poured himself a large cup of wine and went to sit next to Emllyn.

  “I do, indeed,” he said, eyeing her and slapping her lightly on the thigh. “Let me see your leg, you little goat.” When Emllyn began to lift her leg to show him the nearly-healed wound, he slapped her leg again and pushed it down. “Never you mind. I don’t care in the least.”

  He was quick-witted and hilarious. With a shrug, Emllyn lowered her leg, returning to her food as Merradoc drank deeply of his wine.

  “I have heard something very interesting,” he said, smacking his lips. “It would seem that someone in this room is receiving letters from an admirer.”

  As Elyse tittered, Emllyn stopped eating and looked at Merradoc with outrage. “God’s Blood!” she exclaimed. “How would you know that? This entire castle is maelstrom of rumors and lies!”

  Merradoc put his hand affectionately on her arm. “Everyone is concerned for everyone, little chick,” he said. “Of course we talk about one another. We have nothing better to do.”

  Emllyn made a face at him. “Everyone is in everyone else’s lives and business,” she countered. “Never have I seen such nosy gossips!”

  Merradoc was grinning at her. “Nosy or not, tell me of your notes and spare me nothing,” he said. “Have you decided who is sending them?”

  Emllyn gave him a look of utter exasperation before motioning to Elyse, who was still holding on to the parchment. Elyse handed it to Merradoc, who studied the handwriting carefully. After a moment, he crowed.

  “Of course I know who this is!” he announced.

  Both Emllyn and Elyse perked up. “Who?” Elyse demanded.

  Merradoc began laughing. He read the carefully scribed note twice before holding it up in the air and howling with laughter. “Remarkable, I say!” he cried.

  Emllyn and Elyse were nearly crazed with the need to know. “Tell me who it is!” Emllyn demanded. “Stop cackling and tell me, do you hear?”

  Merradoc jumped up from his chair. “You will guess,” he told them. “I will give you clues and you will guess.”

  Emllyn and Elyse were eager for the game. They put the food and drink aside, hanging on Merradoc’s every movement. At first, he stood up very tall and put his hand at his hip as if holding onto the hilt of a sword. Then, he beat at his chest and pretended to lower the visor of a helm. Emllyn leapt to her feet.

  “A knight!” she exclaimed.

  Merradoc nodded vigorously and moved over to Elyse, whom he began to pat on the head. Then, he put his hand to his heart as if to signify that he loved her. He did this several times until Emllyn spoke again.

  “A love?” she said, thinking aloud. “Someone who loves Elyse? Is it Connaught?”

  Merradoc shook his head, scowling at her incorrect answer. Then, he took an apple from the table and held it next to his groin. He pointed at the apple, and then his groin, repeatedly in that order. Then he pointed at Elyse. Emllyn and Elyse looked at each other in total, utter confusion.

  “An apple and… and a man’s member?” Elyse ventured.

  Emllyn wasn’t much clearer but she began to think aloud. “An apple and… wait… no, is it fruit?” she said, watching Merradoc nod firmly. “Then it is fruit and… and a groin? Fruit and… and… no, not groin. Is it loins? Fruit and loins? Fruit of loins and…?”

  She gasped, looking directly at Elyse as realization dawned. “Fruit of his loins?” she said, pointing at Elyse. “He means your father! You are the fruit of his loins!”

  Elyse’s eyes widened with shock. “My father has been sending you notes?” she gasped. “Sweet Jesus, Joseph, and Mary!”

  With his job finished, Merradoc sat back down at the table and collected his cup of wine as he tossed the note back onto the table top. He was quite smug about it all.

  “That is de Noble’s writing,” he said, taking a big gulp of wine. “It would seem that he has affections for our lovely Lady Emllyn.”

  Emllyn didn’t know what to say; she looked at Elyse in shock, unsure how her friend was going to handle the news. She couldn’t tell from the woman’s expression.

  “Are you still going to meet him by the well?” she finally asked. “You cannot do that now that you know it ’tis him.”

  Elyse appeared concerned but not distressed. “Mayhap… mayhap you should just continue to ignore the notes,” she said. “Although I do not want to see my father disappointed, mayhap it would be best if you did not respond.”

  Emllyn agreed. “I will not,” she said, eyeing Elyse. “I am sorry if this makes you uncomfortable.”

  Elyse shook her head. “It does not,” she said. “I simply cannot believe my father is showing interest in a woman. It is shocking.”

  Merradoc entered the conversation, sitting forward to look Elyse in the eye. “By God’s Holy Rood, Elyse,” he exclaimed softly. “Your father is not dead. He saw an attractive woman and reacted naturally. There is nothing mysterious or shameful about that.”

  Elyse thought on that a moment before nodding her head. “I suppose not,” she said, regaining some of her humor. “It is a bit strange, though.”

  Emllyn agreed, sipping her wine but refraining from saying anything more. She was already uncomfortable enough as it was.

  The three of them continued to drink and tell stories for the rest of the afternoon until the storm outside passed and shades of a lovely sunset were visible to the east. At that point, the ladies excused themselves to prepare for the evening meal while Merradoc, with de Noble’s note still in his hand, wandered out to the well at sunset just to see what he could see. The note had said the well, after all.

  De Noble was indeed waiting. Merradoc was initially going to have some fun with him but when he saw how disappointed the man became when Emllyn didn’t appear, he decided against it. After some general chatter and nonsensical conversation, none of which had anything to do with the subject of Emllyn, Merradoc escorted the man into the feasting hall of Glenteige and sat with him while he became drunk and depressed.

  It would seem that prim and proper men had deep and fragile hearts.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Black Castle

  The wind was whipping and the rain lashing as a violent storm battered the coast. Black Castle, caught in the storm’s path, took the brunt of it. The wind howled and the seas swelled as inside the keep, the smaller feasting hall was stuffed with men, smelling of vomit and unwashed bodies.

  It was much like the night when Kildare’s fleet ran aground; men were high on glory and bellowing stories of victory, but these were not of victories over the English. They were victories over the Irish. Devlin sat in the chair he had stolen from de Cleveley with Neart perched over his left shoulder, watching Shain and Iver and Frederick tell grand stories of battle. Even though Devlin’s mind should have rightly been on the stories being told, all he could see to think about was the fact he had met Emllyn on a night not dissimilar to this one.

  Everything leads me to thee.

  God, she was all he could think of. It had been two weeks since he had left Emllyn at Glenteige and traveled back to Black Castle; initially, he thought to stay away only a week, enough time to pretend he’d been doing what he’d agreed to do, but on the eve of the sixth day, they’d had an unexpected rush from the north.

  The Clann O’Byrne, the hated enemies of de Bermingham, had made an unexpected push against Black Castle because of all of the booty they had collected from Kildare’s fleet. Rumors, of course, had spread about Devlin’s victory against the armada and his men had been pulling apart the ships for weeks, storing the treasures.

  The O’Byrnes, a greedy and barbaric clann, had decided that they wanted some of the English treasures and had laid an unorganized but somewhat intense siege to Black Castle, an event that lasted for four days and nights until Devlin and his men launched a counter-attack that had seen brutal combat for nearly two days. It was combat that had seen Devlin lose more than two dozen men, but the O’Byrne l
osses had been even greater.

  The O’Byrnes had retreated and Devlin’s men had set about congratulating each other on their victory. Even now, they had been feasting for two solid days, celebrating victory and planning their next battle. De Cleveley’s settlement had come up several times as a target. Devlin knew his men were charged up on the smell of blood so he simply let them vent. But all he could think about was how the O’Byrne’s unexpected siege had delayed his return to Glenteige, and to Emllyn.

  Frederick was the worst of the revelers. He was absolutely electrified with the scent of battle, feeding off of the excitement of the men, and he had been telling great and bloody tales of victory against O’Byrne. As this evening dragged on and the storm outside intensified, Frederick became more and more drunk. He soon ran out of tales about O’Byrne and moved back to the destruction of Kildare’s fleet, which got the men riled up again. Not only did Devlin have to worry about the English planning an attack against him, but now he had a resurgence of violence from the O’Byrnes, and Frederick was more than happy to work the troops up into a frenzy about it. It was coming at Devlin from all sides but he was able to keep a cool and calculated head about it. He would have to or all would be lost.

  “I say we take the English prisoners in our vault and make an example out of them,” Frederick was saying; he was drunk, which always gave him an overflowing mouth. “Why are we keeping them locked up if we do not intend to do anything about them?”

  The men roared in agreement, banging their tankards against the heavy feasting table. They were banging so hard that chips of wood were spitting all over the floor, sending the dogs scurrying with fright. All attention inevitably turned to Devlin, who was sitting quite calmly with one big leg thrown up over the arm of the chair. He was watching everything with calculating eyes and when he saw that he had the attention of his men, he knew he had to speak or Frederick might cause him some serious problems.

  “Those men are mine to do with as I please,” he said loudly, turning a baleful eye to Frederick. “I will decide what’s to be done with them.”

  “But what will you do?” Frederick demanded. “We have a right to know what’s to be done! We should have the right to say what’s to be done!”

  Devlin could feel his patience waning. “You have no rights. I will tell you what your rights are.”

  Frederick’s dark eyes bulged and he jabbed a finger in the direction of the gatehouse and subsequently the vault. “Those English belong to all of us, not just you!”

  Devlin was finished humoring the man. If he didn’t make a show of strength now, in front of everyone, it was possible that the situation might turn even more volatile. Men were on edge, fed by blood. Quick as a flash, Devlin launched himself out of his chair and, in the same motion, clobbered Frederick in the jaw with a crushing blow.

  Frederick was a big man but he wasn’t nearly as big or as powerful as Devlin, which made withstanding a blow such as the one Devlin delivered an impossible feat. Frederick tumbled backwards, falling over the feasting table and several men in the process. Devlin went after him, kicking men aside as he reached down and grabbed Frederick by the neck, throwing another punch into his face that knocked the man out completely. Picking Frederick up, he turned to the room full of stunned and confused men.

  “Is this who you listen to?” he bellowed. “A fool of a man who uses drink to bolster his courage? Freddy is a good warrior and he is my kin, but I swear by God I will kill him and every man who listens to him if he goes against my directive. There can only be one leader and that is me!”

  With that, he tossed Frederick into a group of men seated several feet away, and the entire collection crashed to the floor with Frederick on top of them. Devlin leapt onto the feasting table and beat at his chest.

  “I am Devlin Mac Niall de Bermingham,” he roared. “I am Black Sword and any man under my command will follow with complete and utter obedience, or I will destroy him. Is this in any way unclear?”

  The men roared in return, approval and support shouted back to Devlin, who was showing distinct signs of fury at this point. “I fight for Ireland and for you and your families,” he shouted. “I fight for freedom for our people. Do you fight with me?”

  “Yes!” they cried.

  “Do you fight with me?”

  “Yes!

  Devlin had managed to work the men up more than Frederick ever could; he was a great leader, a man of tremendous charisma, and his men loved him for it. Frederick had the ability to interest men but it was Devlin who had the ability to capture their minds and hearts. As Devlin jumped off the table, he moved back to his chair and collected his falcon. Then he turned to Iver and Shain, standing nearby.

  “Put a few men on watching this group to see that they don’t get out of hand,” he said. “Freddy has them so worked up that I am concerned they will form a mob and kill the English prisoners when my back is turned.”

  Iver nodded, snapping his fingers at a couple of men standing a few feet away and motioning them over. Meanwhile, Shain moved closer to Devlin.

  “What about Freddy?” he asked, his tone low. “What do we do with him?”

  Devlin looked at him. “Do you really want to know?”

  “Indeed I do.”

  Devlin lowered his voice; his dark blue eyes were deadly. “I have had enough of him,” he muttered. “I grow weary of him questioning my command and I fear we are on a path for Freddy’s personal rebellion. He is increasingly vocal against me and that makes the men uncertain. This I can no longer tolerate. Put him on the back of your horse and take him someplace far and dump him.”

  Shain liked that idea a great deal. “Finally, Devlin,” he hissed. “You give the command I have been waiting for. But if you do not kill him, he will come back for you. You cannot leave him alive.”

  Devlin knew that. Although he was reluctant to order the man’s death, he knew that Shain had a point. Frederick was a good enough warrior that he could very well come back to try and kill him. If it was a choice between ordering the man’s death or looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life, he knew what he had to do.

  “Then make it quick and dump his body in the sea,” he whispered. “Do it now while he is still unconscious and cannot fight back.”

  Shain was gone, commandeering a few men to carry Frederick’s still-unconscious form out of the hall. Devlin watched them go, not feeling the least bit remorseful for the brutal command. This was survival, in his opinion, and he would do all he could in order to survive.

  As Shain quit the hall with Frederick’s limp body, Iver came to stand next to Devlin. “Where are they going?” he asked.

  Devlin glanced at Iver before motioning the man to follow. “Come with me.”

  He did. The pair of them headed up to Devlin’s chamber above the feasting hall, the chamber that Emllyn had stayed in during her days at Black Castle. It still looked as if a woman lived there with hides on the bed, the table and chairs in the corner, and other items that had been brought in to make her more comfortable.

  Once they entered the room, Devlin shut the door behind them and perched the falcon on the back of one of the chairs. With a heavy sigh, he pulled off the black glove he always wore to battle, the one that Neart perched on, and tossed it onto the table. Outside, the thunder rolled and the waves crashed. It was a night of evil tidings.

  “Where did Shain take Freddy?” Iver asked again, watching Devlin pour a measure of wine from an old earthenware container.

  Devlin handed him the wine. “I can no longer tolerate the man’s attitude,” he said, watching Iver drink deeply from the cup. “Freddy borders on rebellion more and more every day. I am afraid that one of these days, he will turn my own men against me with his lies. He has the ability to manipulate and most of these men are fairly simple minded. They love me, that is true, but if Freddy works them into madness, they will follow the crowd. They will not think for themselves. I have therefore ordered Shain to kill him.”

 
Iver sighed faintly and drained the rest of his cup. “We have been telling you that for quite some time, Dev,” he said. “Freddy is no longer content to follow. He wants to lead.”

  “I know,” Devlin sighed, pouring himself some wine as well. “He has good ideas and he is ambitious, but I am finally forced to agree that his ambition is to replace me. He is a cousin on my father’s side, after all, and I did not want to believe a relative could be out to destroy me. But….”

  He was interrupted by a loud thump. Turning around, he saw Iver on the ground. Rushing to the man’s side, he watched in shock as a white foam spilled out of Iver’s lips. The man twitched and twitched some more, and then he fell still. Devlin searched frantically for a pulse but there was none. Iver was dead.

  Seized with shock, with disbelief, Devlin shook Iver as if to bring the man back from the dead. He began to look for a puncture wound or some other kind of injury that would kill him but as he did so, his gaze came to rest on the empty cup of wine the man had just finished. It was still sitting on the table where Iver had put it. Devlin’s astonished gaze returned to Iver and the white froth coming out of his mouth and nose. And then, it began to occur to him.

  Poison.

  Filled with grief, Devlin stood up unsteadily, his gaze still on Iver. Someone had meant that poison for Devlin, someone who was clever and bold. It had to be someone the servants trusted because he knew for a fact Enda or Nessa would not have done it. They had served Devlin for years and Enda had helped raise him. Nay, it wasn’t them; but in order to put poison in his room, it had to be someone the servants trusted. No one else would have been able to gain access.

  His commanders.

  Nausea joined his sense of grief now as he realized that Iver, Shain, and Frederick would have been allowed access to the chamber. The servants wouldn’t have questioned them. It wouldn’t have been Iver, for the man wouldn’t have knowingly drank wine that he had poisoned. And Shain was as loyal as a dog; nay, it could not have been him. That left Frederick.