By this time, Devlin was thoroughly agitated but failed to understand why. That only made him more frustrated. He straightened out his tunic and headed for the chamber door, confused and off-balance by the conversation. As his big hand held the iron latch, he turned to her one last time.
“We are three stories above the rocks and probably more than six stories above the sea,” he said. “A fall from this height will not kill you but it would greatly injure you. I would suggest you consider that before throwing yourself from the window. I have no physic so the best I could do would be to stand by while your broken bones healed in terrible positions, or your useless legs caused you unimaginable agony. Mayhap we would have to cut off a mangled arm or bind up your guts and cause you such anguish that you would pray for death. If you truly wish to live out your days dying a slow and agonizing death, then that is your choice, but I strongly suggest you reconsider. It would be better for you to remain whole and sound.”
Emllyn looked at him with horror, her gaze moving to the lancet window she had so recently tried to fling herself from. Well, mayhap she did not truly intend it, but in her haze of anguish she had made all indication that she was serious. Now that she was calm, the thought of broken legs or bleeding guts made her shudder with disgust. Slowly, and with freezing-cold fingers, she reached down to the floor to once again collect her damp, sandy surcoat.
“I will not try anything so foolish again,” she assured him with defeat in her tone. “But I would like something dry to wear if you can manage it.”
Devlin eyed her lowered head, thinking a great many things at that moment. Mostly, he was thinking that he had been inordinately cruel to her. But as his English captive, didn’t she deserve all that and more? He refused to entertain any thoughts otherwise.
He left the chamber without another word.
The feasting hall of the castle was silent for the most part. The men who had occupied it the night before, drinking and sleeping all about the chamber, were now up and going about their duties, which left the hall vacated.
The fire in the hearth was low, a great pile of peat and wood with ashes scattered about and dog paw prints through them. It smelled of sewage and smoke, of that radiating aura of human stench that mingled with rebellion and victory. For now, the victory belonged to the Irish and the three great commanders of Devlin’s army sat with him on the corner of the chipped and stained feasting table, each man contemplating the previous night’s events, each man contemplating the future. There was much on their mind.
No one was contemplating more than Devlin. He sat in his customary chair, the one that had been part of the spoils of war when they had raided, and stripped, one of the English settlements to the south of Wicklow last year. It had a crest carved on it, a great preying beast attributed to the House of de Cleveley, one of the many English houses who possessed lands in Ireland. Devlin had taken great delight in scratching out most of de Cleveley’s crest, slashing holes through the face of the enemy. He put his mark on it, and now the chair was his.
As he picked at the remains of his meal, a very large falcon sat on the back of the chair and every so often he would extend a piece of meat or a crust of bread to the bird, which gobbled it down. The bird was a pet, a friend, and a mascot; it was all things, the de Bermingham bird of prey that was treated better than most men. Named Neart, which meant ‘strength,’ the big black and gray bird hovered over his master.
“We’re taking the dead up to St. Mantan’s church,” a large man with kinky dark hair spoke. He was seated, his big leg propped upon the table. “The priests want the English brought to them but they haven’t enough room in the graveyard to bury them, and we don’t want them buried with good Irish folk anyway, so they’re making room outside of the churchyard for the English dead.”
Devlin turned to the man, a friend from childhood who had seen much life and death with him. Shain ṓg Michaleen was his closest, but most fiery, advisor. The man’s official title was Keeper of the Blade, as Devlin’s second-in-command. He would trust his blade to no other.
“I do not want my men digging graves for the English,” he said flatly. “How many English prisoners do we have?”
“Thirty-three,” said another man with long blond hair. Iver Blaineroe was a distant cousin, calm and wise in a land of passionate men. His official title was Master of Men because he was the man the troops were most apt to listen to. “We counted eleven hundred and seventy two dead this morning but there’s more that were drown and washed away by the sea. Mayhap we’ll never truly know how many Englishmen there were but for now, we have thirty-three living prisoners and piles of dead. If you want the prisoners to start burying their comrades, then we had better get started for it will take weeks to accomplish this. If we could use more manpower, however, we could finish the task in a day.”
Devlin could sense a mild rebuke in the statement and he didn’t like it. He didn’t want his own men burying the English and would not be chided for it. Before he could speak, however, the third commander at the table spoke.
“What of the woman we captured?” Frederick ṓg Branach made it sound like a simple question, but it was not simple in the least. Frederick was a bloodthirsty bastard, known as the trodaí fola, or Blood Warrior, who had a particular hatred for the English. He had been the one who had captured Emllyn the night before and brought her to Devlin, and he had taken the greatest delight in her fear and humiliation. “What do you intend to do with her?”
Devlin was steady as he faced the man. Last night when Emllyn had been brought to him as a prize, his attitude towards her was as it should have been – she was the spoils of war and nothing more. However, after his experience with her this morning, that opinion was in danger of changing. As much as he pretended that it wasn’t the truth, he knew deep down that the situation was increasingly unstable. He hoped the confusion didn’t reflect in his eyes.
“What would you have me do with her?” he asked.
Frederick cocked a dark eyebrow, his broad features stained with hatred. “You’ve already done plenty to her, so I’ve heard,” he said, a lascivious gleam in his eye. “I approve.”
“I do not care if you approve or not,” Devlin wouldn’t warm to the man’s bloodlust. “Answer my question; what would you have me do with her?”
Frederick shrugged his big shoulders and reached for a cup of stale ale with dirty, blood-stained hands. “I suppose you could give her to the rest of us when you’ve had your fill of her,” he said, taking a long swallow of the bitter brew. “Or you could ransom her. Did you find out who she is?”
Devlin nodded, slowly reaching for his own cup of ale. “I did,” he said, putting the cup to his lips. “You will never believe it.”
That peaked their interest. “Who?” Shain demanded.
Devlin deliberately made them wait as he downed the contents of the cup. He set it down against the rough-hewn table.
“The Earl of Kildare’s sister,” he announced. “Evidently, she stowed away on one of the vessels to follow a lover. Her brother does not know we have her, as he does not know she stowed away. At least, that is what she told me. She is a foolish lass, that one. Foolish and young.”
His commanders were holding various expressions of delight and surprise at the news. Iver even laughed softly.
“Kildare’s sister,” he repeated, incredulous. “Are you sure of this? She could be lying.”
Devlin shrugged casually. “She is as fine and untouched as any woman I have ever seen,” he said. “Or, at least she was untouched until I gave her a taste of true Irish strength. Now she belongs to me and I am not entirely sure I want to give her up or ransom her. Mayhap I shall breed a host of bastard Irish sons from her, lads who will grow up and rebel against their English brethren. Mayhap I will simply keep her as a concubine and nothing more and use the woman as a personal victory against Kildare. ’Twould be humiliating for the man if his sister was the personal whore of his most hated enemy.”
Even Fr
ederick was pleased at Devlin’s statement. “Grand,” he agreed. “Then our victory last night will have implications long into the future. Think on the bastards you could breed with the wench; fine stock, to be sure.”
Devlin agreed and went to pour himself a second cup of alcohol; it was a brew that was produced locally of barley and rye, very strong and heavy in flavor. It was easy to get drunk off of it as he had many a time. He sipped the drink as he fed the falcon another piece of old mutton.
“Indeed,” he said, eyeing the men who were like brothers to him. They had all seen much life and death together, bonded by the plague of war that enveloped their land. “But I will make this clear and say no more; Kildare’s sister is my prisoner and my prize. She will be untouched and unmolested by anyone, is that clear? If I hear that someone has moved against her, my retribution shall be swift and deadly. Do you comprehend?” Two out of the three men nodded seriously and Devlin continued, hoping to move past the subject quickly. “Now you will tell me of my own wounded. How many and what is the current state of my army?”
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 c
lapping 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 terrible 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.”
Lords of Ireland II Page 4