He would soon find out.
And that was what he was afraid of.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The seven ships weighed anchor as close as they could to the shore near Dundalk and the mouth of the Castletown River, but the tide had gone out, leaving miles of silty mess along the shoreline. But it was passable, meaning they took the boats as close as they could before lowering the ramps into water that was about hip-high.
Men and horses began disembarking, wading through the cold sea water until they found their footing on the sandy silt. Cort had ridden Vulcan off the ship and the horse was quite fond of the water, so he found himself wrestling with an animal that wanted to splash around, nearly trampling the men he came close to. They found themselves covered with sandy seawater as the enormous blond warhorse splashed and jumped his way onto the sandy shore.
In spite of the rough ride, Cort found the whole thing humorous, even more so when Vulcan wanted to run back into the surf. But he managed to direct the excited animal onto land, to a point where the men were gathering. Between him and Trenton, they were able to get the de Russe army onto the shore, while Boden and Gage and William directed the Wellesbourne and Shrewsbury armies. Bringing up the rear was Damon and his two knights, and all of the armies finally converged to gather on the shoreline and established a beachhead.
Black Cove was a mere three miles to the south, the small but heavily-fortified tower house that the rebels had captured months before. But Denys didn’t want any manpower wasted on Black Cove, at least not yet. He wanted all military efforts focused on Mount Wrath first, so their destination was about seven miles to the west. He wanted his flagship castle returned to him before he would consider reclaiming the smaller outpost.
It was sunset, with the western sky turning shades of bright pink and red, partially covered by a heavy bank of clouds that was rolling in from the sea. The beach was organized chaos as almost three thousand men settled in for the evening, pitching tents and doling out provisions as the quartermasters began to feed them. With the de Russe men settled for the most part, Cort and Trenton left Boden in command and headed out to find Dillon and Brend.
The armies were blending into each other as the beachhead was set up and Cort had to keep Vulcan away from the water, wrestling with the horse as they made their way to the far western end of the armies where de Winter had set up camp.
The first thing Cort noticed was that Dera was missing. He didn’t see her red head anywhere among the sea of men, which both confused and concerned him. He finally came across Brend as the man was directing several de Winter soldiers to set up a large tent.
“Brend!” he called out. “Where is Dillon?”
Brend turned towards him, smiling wearily. Any trouble between them from the days back in Narborough had been brief and was long gone. They were back to being great friends again.
“Trying to convince my sister to come off the ship,” he said. “She has been ill the past few days and swears she cannot leave her bed. How did you fare?”
Cort’s head was turned in the direction of the Stella Maris, very close to shore. “Nothing of note,” he said, preoccupied with the thought that Dera was ill. “Although Boden was complaining he will feel woozy for the next two days. I will go and see if I can help Dillon.”
Leaving Trenton with Brend, Cort gave Vulcan his head and the horse bolted out into the saltwater, running gleefully in knee-deep water. The closer he drew to the Stella Maris, the more he could see that there were still a few men on her. Some were using the rope ladder over the side to disembark, while a few others were using the ramp from amidships. As Cort approached, he could see Dillon coming down the ramp leading his warhorse.
“Brend said you cannot convince Dera to disembark,” he called out as he came near. “Where is she?”
Dillon threw a thumb over his shoulder. “She is curled up in the bow,” he said, clearly annoyed. “I was going to find Brend and tell him to remove his sister. I am finished trying to convince her.”
Cort laughed softly. “I will do it,” he said. “Go find Brend and my brother. The last I saw them, they were with the de Winter men.”
Dillon swung himself onto the back of his big brown stud. “I will,” he said. “Get Dera off the ship and take her into the village. There is a small tavern near the shore called the Maid of the Mist. Dera has been sick for three days and I do not think she has eaten much, so a good bed that is not moving and a decent meal might help her.”
Something in the way Dillon said it caught his attention. Once most of the armies had been assembled and they departed Narborough, it had taken them a little over two weeks to journey to Blackpool and, in that time, Cort had ridden with Dera every day. He became her shadow. There hadn’t been any meaningful glances, or any indications that there might be something between them, and the journey itself had been uneventful.
But Cort knew that Dillon wasn’t stupid. He knew the man must have at least suspected there was something brewing between Dera and Cort, but he never said a word. Still, suggestions that he take her to a tavern – just the two of them – led him to believe that Dillon was on to their little charade.
In fact, as he looked at the man now, he could see the awareness in Dillon’s face. There was a twinkle of mirth about it, as if he knew their secret. But Cort wasn’t prepared to say anything, and certainly not before speaking to Brend about it, so he simply nodded his head.
“Very well,” he said. “But you should know that I have decided something.”
“What is that?”
“When we return from Ireland, I am going to personally convince your mother that the fishmonger’s daughter would make an excellent wife for you,” he said. “You deserve to be happy when this is over with, Dil. We all do.”
The moment turned strangely emotional. Dillon looked at him in surprise before breaking down into soft laughter.
“If anyone can convince my mother of such a thing, it is you,” he said. “She never could resist you.”
“No woman can.”
Dillon glanced back at the ship before digging his heels into the side of his horse.
“So I see.”
The implication was obvious. Off he charged towards the beach, leaving Cort with a smile on his face. Dillon had been sympathetic to his sister and Brend’s romance, and he himself was facing opposition with his love for the fishmonger’s daughter. He understood what it was to experience a forbidden love. But given how Cort had behaved towards Dera since leaving Narborough, perhaps it was no great secret that he was fond of her, after all.
Leaving Vulcan in water up to his chest, tethered to the rope ladder that was pitched over the side of the Stella Maris, Cort entered on the ramp, making his way to the deck below where men and animals had been stored.
It was also where they’d slept, and it smelled of urine and smoke from the cooking fire in the center of the ship. He had to bend over as he made his way to the bow, where there were barrels of fresh water and other supplies, being moved around by the sailors. There was a canvas curtain at the very tip of the deck and he pulled it back, immediately spying Dera as she lay on her side on a pallet.
She looked terrible. Pale, her red hair stringy and dirty, she looked as if it had been a very rough crossing for her. But to him, she’d never looked more beautiful.
“Dera?” he said softly. “Sweetheart, look at me.”
Dera’s eyes flew open and she looked up in shock. “Cort,” she gasped. “What are you doing here?”
He smiled. “I’ve come to take you away,” he said. “Dillon said you would not come, but I am here to change your mind. I will carry you and tend you until you feel better. Please come with me.”
She didn’t even hesitate. She nodded, lifting her head up, trying to sit up but clearly ill and weakened. Cort swooped down, picking her up even as she struggled. She clung to him, letting his warmth and strength feed her weary spirit.
“I am so glad to see you,” she murmured, her fa
ce in the side of his neck. “Are you well after the crossing?”
He held her tightly. “I am well.”
“You did not suffer?”
“I did not. But I missed you terribly.”
The words were like food for her soul; he felt her sigh contentedly. “And I missed you,” she whispered. Then, she lifted her head, looking over towards her pallet. “Please don’t forget my satchel.”
He could see it next to her, a rather large bag that she and Arabella had stuffed full of clothing and other things. He bent over to grasp it, shifting her weight so he could sling the handles of the satchel over his arm. Hunched over, and carrying precious cargo, he made his way out of the ship’s hold.
A brisk breeze was blowing off the sea as he took her down the ramp to where Vulcan was still tethered, still stomping in the water. He lifted her up onto the horse and handed her the satchel before leaping on behind her. With Vulcan still splashing madly, he directed the horse back the way he’d come.
Dera held on to his arms tightly as they made their way up onto the shore. Cort kissed her on the side of her head.
“I will find you a solid bed and a good meal,” he murmured in her ear. “I am sorry you have been so miserable.”
She groaned softly, sinking back against him. “I don’t know why,” she said. “I have made this crossing before and I was fine. Three days ago, I began feeling terrible and it has not gone away.”
“It will now that we’ve reached land,” he assured her. “Half of the men on my ship were also ill. Sometimes it just happens.”
She groaned miserably, holding tight as he took the horse into the small village that was to the west of the gathering armies. He could see the cooking fires starting up in the camp, the smoke beginning to linger in the dusk. Cort kept an eye out for the tavern Dillon had indicated and found it right at the edge of the village, a rather large, one-storied building that was made from stone. It had a sod roof, heavily-shuttered windows, and behind it was a small stable yard.
Directing Vulcan into the yard, he found a small boy there who was more than willing to take the horse and bed him down. Cort dismounted, pulling Dera off behind him, and once the boy took the reins, Vulcan tried to take the boy for a ride of his own. He dragged the child all over the stable yard until Cort whistled loudly and the horse came to a halt.
It was really rather dastardly of the beast, who was jerking the child all over the place like a plaything. Cort shook his head in disapproval at the animal, taking the reins himself and leading him into the stable where the boy indicated a clean stall. Giving the lad a few coins, he left the naughty horse tied up and took Dera by the arm, leading her into the rear of the tavern.
The kitchen was in the yard behind the tavern and as they passed through, they could see that it was a mass of activity. There were at least two big bread ovens, shaped like a beehive, plus half of a pig roasting over an open pit. There were two more cooking fires, each with great iron pots hanging over them, bubbling furiously.
As Cort pulled Dera through the yard, he couldn’t help but notice she couldn’t walk a straight line. She was walking like she was drunk. He took a firm hold of her as they entered the establishment, a low-ceilinged common room that saw Cort nearly hitting his head at least twice. There were wenches moving about, serving patrons, and the room was about half-full. Cort stopped one of the women as she passed by him.
“We require a room for the night,” he said in a perfect Irish accent. “I’ll pay well for it.”
Dera looked at him in amazement with his change of accent as the wench directed him to a man who was pouring ale at one of the tables. With Dera still in-hand, Cort approached the man and repeated his needs. When he produced several silver coins, the man was more than eager to direct them to a room.
In fact, the tavern had four rooms, all of them opening up into the common room, so it was simply a matter of walking to one of the doors and opening it. Beyond was a cold, dark chamber with a bed that could fit one person comfortably, two uncomfortably. Cort demanded a fire, a hot bath, and food in that perfect Irish accent again. He pulled Dera into the chamber as the man dashed away.
Once inside the room, he shut the door quietly and bolted it. He then set her satchel on the ground near the door and faced her.
“You are still weaving around like you are on the ocean,” he told her. “Sit down on that bed before you fall down.”
Dera did, sighing wearily as she did so. But she was also looking at him curiously.
“Why did you speak with an Irish accent?” she asked.
“Because I did not wish to sound like a Béarla,” he said, watching her grin as he used her term for the English. “I am under no illusions that I do not look like one, but at least if I sound Irish, it might confuse anyone listening. It is difficult to know if there are friends or foes in that common room and I do not wish to tempt fate with you around.”
Dera laughed softly. “Your secret is safe with me.”
“Thank you,” he said. He began to fumble with his breastplate “Do you mind helping me with this? If I try to take it off myself, it will take all night.”
Dera stood up, weaving her way over to him and unbuckling the straps he was pointing to. He was without the armor on his legs and only clad from the waist up, but it was enough to make him appear absolutely enormous. Dera had seen him in full regalia since departing Narborough those weeks ago, and what she saw now had him virtually half-dressed.
Knights in this day and age were fearsome creatures that were covered with plate armor from head to toe. She’d seen her brother suited up, and now Cort, but the detail of what the men wore was truly something to behold. One piece was dependent upon another as they were all fitted together like a big puzzle, so to see him only half-clad was odd. She went around behind him to unbuckle the straps that held the plate on his arms in place. Everything was either buckled or tied with leather strips.
“How is it you are not fully armored?” she asked. “You are only wearing half of what you normally wear.”
He held his arms out as she untied the leather ties that held the forearm plate to his arm. There was a special tunic underneath with ties sewn into it, a special garment that all knights wore to keep their armor in place.
“I only put on half of it this morning, so my upper body was protected in case we docked in Dundalk and the arrows started to fly for some reason,” he said. “When Brend sent me to find you, I simply hadn’t the chance to put everything else on. If you notice, I do not even have my possessions with me.”
“Where are they?”
“With my brothers,” he said. “I will collect everything tomorrow when we rendezvous with the army.”
That made sense to her. Dera pulled pieces of the elaborate armor off, setting it carefully to the ground and nearly falling over when she did so. Her balance was still off.
“Sit down,” Cort told her quietly, grinning when she obeyed and held on to the bed. “Lay down if you wish. Let your head settle.”
Dera lay back on the bed which, strangely enough, stopped the rocking. She felt much better that way.
“I hope this goes away soon,” she said. “I do not wish to be a burden.”
He finished pulling the rest of his armor off, setting it down with the rest of it. He also pulled off the special tunic, revealing a lightweight doublet beneath. It was padded, meant to offset some of the chaffing that the armor could bring, but it only covered his torso. His big, bulging arms were quite evident.
“You are not a burden,” he said. “In fact, as odd as it may sound, I am glad you came with us.”
“Why is that odd?”
He shrugged. “Because we are facing certain battle,” he said. “I do not advocate women attending battle and certainly not you, but I have a feeling you will handle yourself admirably. More than that, I simply couldn’t stomach being separated from you.”
Dera looked up at him. Big, tall, strong, and wildly handsome Cort, a man who held
her heart as surely as the sky held the sun and the moon. Her heart simply didn’t belong to her any longer. It wasn’t hers to give or take back. Always and forever, it would belong to Cort, and that was not a distressing thought in the least.
“It just occurred to me that this is the first time we have been alone since leaving Narborough,” she said. “On the journey through England to Blackpool, Brend mostly attended to me. You were always busy with your duties, or with Dillon or your brothers. I only saw you when we would travel during the day but, even then, you would not speak to me. We did not speak at all. It was a lonely way to travel.”
Cort nodded his head regretfully. “I know, but it was necessary,” he said. “You understand that I was not ignoring you, don’t you?”
She nodded. “Of course,” she said. “I’m sorry – I did not mean to make it sound like I was complaining. I wasn’t, truly. I simply meant that it was lonely not to be able to talk to you.”
Cort opened his mouth to reply but there was a knock on the door. Opening it, he stood back as servants entered the chamber, carrying a big copper pot, buckets of hot water, food, and other things.
While one man started a fire in the hearth, another set the copper pot down and put a three-legged stool in the middle of it. Buckets of hot water were poured into the pot and more buckets were summoned. The pot was filled about half-full just about the time the fire in the hearth finally began blazing. Food was set out on the small table in the chamber, but Cort told them it was not enough, so someone scurried away to bring more.
There was quite a bit of activity in the chamber until the fire was blazing, the pot was filled, and more food was brought. When Cort was satisfied that he had everything he wanted, he ordered the servants from the chamber and shut the door behind them, throwing the bolt.
By this time, Dera was sitting up, eyeing the bath more than she was eyeing the food. A lovely, luscious, wonderful hot bath. As Cort went to the table to inspect everything that had been brought, Dera began stripping off her clothing. Ties were loosened and she kicked her shoes off. Just about the time she went to lift the heavy woolen dress over her head, she realized that she probably shouldn’t do so freely with Cort in the chamber. She looked sheepishly at the man.
Dark Warrior (de Russe Legacy Book 9) Page 21