And Cort.
Strange how he should pop into her head as a concern. He was a Béarla, or a native Englishman, no matter how much he claimed to be an honorary member of the MacRohan family. The truth was that he wasn’t.
But she was concerned for him all the same.
He was proving to be a tremendous force against the knight who was trying to kill him. There was a good deal of grunting as they swung those big swords at one another, broadswords that could take a man’s head off in one stroke. They were heavy and sharp, and at some point, the men were going to become weary.
Dera simply couldn’t stand by while they struggled against the enemy.
It was in her nature to fight.
She dashed out of the hiding place where Cort had left her and ran onto the Street of the Butchers. The only shop she knew was the one where Cort had purchased the garbage, so she ran into it, unaware of the several employees and customers who had come to a halt, listening to the sounds of the distant sword fight.
Dera was on a mission.
The first thing she saw was a butcher’s knife, about a foot in length and extremely sharp. It was over on a table where two men had been butchering meat and she ran to it, grabbing it right off the table. She bolted outside before anyone could stop her.
She was fearless in her action, but she was also reckless. She wasn’t thinking of the long-term, or even of herself. She was simply thinking of the immediate situation and defending her brother and Cort.
There was that name again.
Why on earth should she want to defend him?
It wasn’t like he wasn’t capable. It wasn’t that he wasn’t strong and talented. In fact, she’d never seen finer. The man had a fluid ability about him, fighting as if each move were planned, anticipating his opponent in a way she’d never seen before. This was what her brother meant by Cort being an elite knight; a higher legion of knight that was above the rest. Even as she rounded the corner and ran head-long into the fray, she could see Cort battling against his opponent fluidly, knocking the man’s weapon aside to throw a fist into the man’s face. He stumbled and that was when Dera pounced.
She ran into the group of fighting men as if she belonged there, leaping onto the back of the man that Cort had knocked back and using the butcher knife to carve into the man’s jaw. He was wearing plate armor around his shoulders and neck, up to his jawline, but no helm and she was able to use that knife and carve straight into his jawline as far back as she could take it.
“Gheobhaidh tú bás, bastard fuilteach Béarla ort!” she cried.
Die, you bloody English bastard!
The knight fell to the ground, bleeding out from the deep wound Dera had inflicted. In fact, she’d nearly cut his head off with the butcher knife. The next thing she realized, Cort was grabbing her by the wrist, yanking the knife from her hand and tossing it into the stream that ran alongside that portion of the road. When he looked at her, his eyes were blazing.
“Get Arabella and get to the stable,” he commanded in a voice she’d never heard from him before. “Get out of here, Dera.”
Startled by his growling tone and the fact that he wasn’t appreciative of what she’d done, Dera didn’t resist him when he grabbed her by the arm and fought his way past the man that was battling Brend. He pulled her free of the fighting, shoving her into the stall where Arabella had disappeared and leaving her there to head back out to settle the fight down.
Dera stood just inside the doorway, embarrassed and upset. She’d only meant to defend her brother, and Cort, but Cort wasn’t grateful in the least.
He didn’t want her help.
“Dera?” Arabella was suddenly at her side, gripping her arm fearfully. “What happened? Are you hurt?”
Dera had no idea what she meant until she looked down at herself and saw the blood. Blood from the English knight she’d killed. Dazed, she shook her head.
“I am not injured,” she said, wondering if Arabella had seen how Cort had treated her. “We are to go to the stable and wait for them. They will come soon.”
Arabella’s eyes widened. “But… but you have blood on you!”
Dera looked down at herself, quickly. “It is not my blood,” she said. “Please, Bella – we must go to the stable.”
Arabella was torn. “They are in a fight out there,” she said, pointing out the door to the street beyond. “We cannot leave them!”
Dera grasped her and turned her for the rear exit of the stall. “They can defend themselves,” she said. “We had better do as we have been told. We must go to the stable.”
Dera dragged Arabella out of the stall and into the marketplace, which was full of frightened people who were quickly moving away from the sounds of battle. Dera and Arabella dodged around people and wagons, making their way to the livery where the de Winter escort was still waiting.
Arabella made sure to tell the escort that the knights were in trouble over on the Street of the Bakers and most of the escort rushed to help, leaving several behind to protect the ladies. It was all quite chaotic and Dera took Arabella inside the livery, pulling her into one of the empty stalls and sitting down on the dry straw to wait for the knights.
As they sat there and held hands, it took Arabella a moment to realize that Dera was trembling.
“Are you well, Dera?” she asked, genuinely concerned. “Are you sure you are uninjured?”
Dera was trying not to let Arabella see how embarrassed and confused she was. “I told you that I am well,” she said. “You needn’t worry. We’re safe now. I am sure that Brend and the others will join us shortly.”
Arabella was looking at her closely, trying to determine why Dera seemed so shaken, other than the obvious. Unable to make a specific determination, she exhaled slowly and sat back against the wall of the stall.
“Well,” she said. “That was an excitement I could have done without. It has been such a lovely day up until now.”
Dera sat back next to her. “Indeed.”
That was all she would say. The woman was unusually silent and Arabella eyed her.
“Where did you and Cort go?” she asked. “We were going to look for you when the fight broke out.”
Dera thought back to their little journey through the Street of the Bakers to the Street of the Butchers. It took her a moment to realize she was smiling, which she quickly suppressed, mostly because she had no idea why she should smile when thinking of the time spent with Cort. True, she was determined to seduce the man to find out what he knew about the king’s plans for Ireland, but she didn’t have to like it. Or him.
… did she?
She was more confused than ever.
“We went to the Street of the Bakers,” she said, trying very hard not to show her confusion. “But then he took me to a butcher shop and bought a soup called garbage. Have you heard of it?”
Arabella looked at her in surprise. “Nay,” she said. “It sounds terrible. Why should he want to buy something called garbage?”
Dera glanced at her. “Because he asked what food he could purchase for me and I told him I would trust him, whatever he chose,” she said. “He said he might choose a coffin of brains and I said if he ate it, I would eat it. He took it as a challenge and purchased a bowl of garbage.”
Arabella’s mouth was hanging open. “You did not eat it, did you?”
Dera bit her lip to keep from grinning. She couldn’t help it. “I made him eat it first,” she said. Then, she started to giggle, unable to help herself. “He ate a cock’s foot.”
Arabella squealed in disgust. “He didn’t!”
“He did!”
“Did you eat it, too?”
Dera nodded. “I had to,” she said. “I could not let the man think I was not as brave as he was. So… so I cracked open a chicken head and sucked out the brains.”
Arabella threw her hands over her mouth, gasping with horror and cackling with laughter at the same time. “Dera, you didn’t!”
“I most certainly did.”
>
“And it didn’t come back up?”
Dera was laughing because Arabella was. “It tried,” she said, putting her hand gingerly on her belly. “It still might. But it was worth it.”
“But why?”
“Because Cort respects me now. He knows I’m not a weak lass.”
Arabella rolled her eyes. “Surely there has to be a better way to prove it,” she said. “Oh… Dera, that sounds just awful!”
She was off giggling again, shaking her head at the thought of eating chicken brains. They were just starting to relax after the fright of the battle when three figures abruptly entered the livery. Before the ladies could draw another breath, Brend went straight for his sister.
“How could you do that?” he boomed at her. “How could you enter a battle of men with nothing more than a knife and put yourself in danger like that?”
He was furious. The smiles vanished from Dera and Arabella as Dera found herself facing off against a very angry brother.
“I was never in any danger, Brend,” she insisted as she stood up. “Those men were trying to kill you. I had to help.”
“You could have gotten yourself killed,” Brend raged. “That was stupid, Dera. As stupid as I’ve ever seen a woman behave.”
“But –!”
He cut her off. “At the very least, you could have gotten any one of us killed by distracting us from our own fight,” he said. “While we should be focusing on defending ourselves, we could have been focused on saving you. Did you ever think of that?”
Dera was starting to turn red in the face. “I told you that I only wanted to help,” she said. “Those English knights were trying to kill you.”
“I am an English knight,” he bellowed at her. “Don’t you understand? I’m not an Irish rebel. I’m not one of your Irish fools that spouts off hymns for Ireland as he’s charging English lines. I wasn’t fighting for Ireland out there, you know. I was fighting men I am trained to fight, men who think and act like me. But you aren’t!”
By the time he was finished, Dera’s lips were pressed into a flat, angry line. “You’re not English,” she hissed. “You’re a pretender. If those knights out there knew they were fighting Irish blood, they’d hack you to pieces and gladly so.”
Brend’s jaw flexed dangerously and he took a step back, putting distance between him and his sister before he said or did something he would regret. A sister who was, essentially, a stranger. They hadn’t grown up together. They were only related by blood and nothing more. He’d seen her come flying into the flight, leaping onto the back of a heavily-armed knight and slicing a blade into the man’s neck. It had looked so… natural. As if she’d done that kind of thing before, more than once. She’d been absolutely fearless.
And that scared him to death.
“I don’t need your help,” he finally growled. “I don’t want it. Don’t do me any favors ever again. Look at you; covered with blood, looking like one of those wild Irish louts who fight the English and call it glory. Get on your horse and behave yourself. Denys is going to hear about this and you’ll be lucky if he doesn’t lock you in a chamber and throw away the key.”
He turned away, heading back to his warhorse on the other side of the livery. Dillon and Cort still stood there, looking at Dera. Dillon seemed particularly pensive, looking her over as if seeing her in a whole new light. Then he, too, turned for his horse as Arabella ran after him, weakly defending Dera’s actions. They could all hear her, telling him that Dera was only trying to help them. Dillon simply brushed his sister off.
Dera was left standing there with Cort a few feet away. She was deeply embarrassed and deeply hurt from her brother’s tongue lashing. She couldn’t even look at Cort, knowing that he surely felt the same way. Without a word, she headed over to her palfrey, mounting the horse by herself and keeping her head down.
Perhaps she’d proven her courage a little too much that afternoon.
The ride back to Narborough was a silent one.
Arabella seemed to be the only one who did any talking and even she shut up when she realized no one wanted to converse with her, making for an uncomfortably heavy ride home. Even Vulcan was behaving somewhat and Cort didn’t have to wrestle with the horse nearly as hard, probably because the beast was exhausted from the ride to Lynn not an hour earlier. It was afternoon by the time they saw Narborough’s big walls and everyone was happy to disband and go their separate ways.
Once they reached the stables of Narborough, he watched Arabella take Dera back into the house like a scolded child, knowing her punishment would soon be upon her. Brend and Dillon hadn’t said much to each other during the journey but were now standing in a quiet huddle as stable servants led their horses away.
Cort joined them.
“Let me speak to Denys about what happened,” Cort said, interrupting their conversation. “He has to know about the dead knight in case de Corlet demands satisfaction.”
Brend looked at him, a seemingly exhausted man by the turn of events. “It wasn’t even one of us who killed him,” he said. “It was my sister.”
Cort nodded. “It might be better coming from me,” he said quietly. “You don’t want to appear as if you are condemning your own sister. I realize you are angry, but she deserves some measure of your support simply because she is your sister.”
Brend frowned. “I will be objective.”
Cort held up a hand to ease the man. “No matter,” he said. “I was the one she interfered with, so this should come from me.”
Dillon spoke up. “I will go with you,” he said, giving Cort a gentle shove on the arm. “Let us go find my father. Brend… I would suggest you go to your sister and see if you can at least make peace with her. That was quite a tongue lashing you gave her.”
Brend stiffened. “She deserved every word of it.”
“Aye, she did,” Dillon agreed. “But she’s still a woman, not a warrior. You were not kind in your dressing-down. At least go to her and tell her that you don’t hate her. Women need to hear that.”
Brend thought it was all nonsense. He shook his head and quit the stable, heading away from the keep, the opposite direction of his sister. Cort and Dillon watched him go.
“He’s stubborn,” Cort said.
Dillon nodded. “Aye, he is, but he knows what we know.”
“Which is?”
“That we have a problem on our hands with Dera.”
They began to head out of the stable as they let that statement settle. It was true, for the day had been eye-opening.
“That is a fair statement,” Cort finally said. “I cannot get past the sheer ferocity of what she did. There was no hesitation, no fear. I’ve never seen a woman do that before.”
“Did you hear what she said?”
Cort shook his head. “It was Irish,” he said. “I don’t speak the language.”
“I do,” Dillon said. “She said ‘die, you English bastard’. She said it like she meant it, like she’s said it before.”
“I suspect she has.”
The two of them looked at each other, Dillon realizing that it was no gentle lady they’d brought back from Ireland.
“Something is coming to make sense to me now,” he said. “When we went to retrieve Dera from Mount Wrath, it was as if her father couldn’t get rid of her fast enough. He wanted her out of Ireland and insisted we take her quickly. I thought it was to protect her, but now…”
He trailed off and Cort nodded his head. “Brend said the same thing,” he said. “As if Ardie MacRohan desperately wanted his daughter out of Ireland. Is it possible we just saw the reason?”
Dillon didn’t know what to think. “She is a warrior, Cort,” he said. “We just saw her unleashed with our own eyes. She’s a killer of men.”
Cort simply nodded. They were heading into the keep in search of Denys and he was coming to think that Dera MacRohan had revealed her true self at the battle in Lynn. He learned what he wanted to know firsthand; she was a fighter. Sh
e was brave.
And she was terrifying.
Denys was in his solar next to the entry to the keep, minding his own business as Dillon and Cort entered the chamber. Denys was dictating missives to his majordomo, but Dillon chased the man out and Cort closed the doors behind him. He threw the bolt so they would not be interrupted. Denys looked at the pair curiously, having just been interrupted in the middle of business.
“What’s this?” he said. “Locking me in? Am I going to find myself on the defensive?”
Dillon smiled thinly, going for the fine wine his father always kept in the solar. In answer to his father’s question, he simply threw a thumb back at Cort, indicating the man with the answers. Cort came to Denys’ table and pulled up a chair.
He sat heavily.
“My lord, I must speak to you,” Cort said. “I am allowing Dillon to be present but what I say must not leave this room or your lips. It is the king’s business.”
Denys looked at him with interest. “Of course, Cort,” he said. “You have my word. But if you’d come to Narborough on the king’s business, shouldn’t you have told me that when you arrived?”
“I wasn’t going to tell you at all, but now I find that I must.”
“I see,” Denys said. He looked between Cort and his son, both of whom seemed unusual serious. “Didn’t you two go to Lynn this morning? You’re back so soon?”
“Not by choice,” Cort said. “There was an… incident.”
Denys’s features tightened. “What incident?” he asked. “Where is Arabella? Is my daughter well?”
Cort nodded quickly. “She is well,” he said. “So is Dera and Dillon and Brend and myself. We’re all fine. But we ran into a group of de Corlet knights from Northbeck Castle and they did not take kindly to being told to leave Lynn.”
Denys’ expression shifted to displeasure. “That group,” he muttered. “Not them again. They cut across my lands on occasion, testing me. Dillon knows this.”
Dillon came to the table, one cup of wine for Cort and one for himself. He handed Cort the pewter cup. “Indeed, I do,” he said. “But they aren’t usually so bold.”
“What happened?” Denys asked.
Dark Warrior (de Russe Legacy Book 9) Page 9