Devlin knew that; Shain was aware that he knew it, too. It was not a new conversation with them. Giving the man another grin, perhaps one to tell him that he worried too much, Devlin descended the slippery, muddy stone steps that led down into the vault.
There were thirteen steps before they hit rock bottom into a tiny, cramped room with two small cells. The cells were separated by bands of iron, forced together with great iron bolts to create what looked like cages, all set within the stone and rock of the sandy Irish soil. A big flaming torch burned against one wall, wedged into an iron sconce and giving off heavy black smoke from the fat-soaked wick. There were two guards on this level, seated on the ground playing some manner of dice game, and they stood up when they saw Devlin enter.
Devlin didn’t notice the guards; he was looking at the prisoners, literally crammed into the cages until they could barely move. Most of them were sitting but a few were standing because there was no more room to sit, and there was certainly no room to lie down. It was fairly appalling conditions. The entire room reeked of urine and feces, enough so that Devlin’s eyes started to water from the pure strength of the stench. But he studied the group of men who gazed back at him with various expressions of fear and curiosity. As Devlin continued to inspect, Shain pushed in front of him.
“My name is Devlin de Bermingham,” he said with authority. “My father is John de Bermingham, Earl of Louth, and I descend from the kings of Leinster. I am the one known as Black Sword and you are my prisoners. Who is the ranking soldier here?”
No one said anything for a moment; they simply gazed back at Shain in silence. A few lowered their gazes, unable and unwilling to speak. It was clear that the name Black Sword carried great weight with them; they all knew of the rebel leader. He was a man to be feared, the man their liege greatly hated. He was the man who had soundly defeated them. Shain grunted in mounting impatience.
“I am simply looking for one man to speak with,” he said. “I am not looking to make a martyr out of anyone. Speak up, now; who is your leader?”
A rather muscular man standing in the cell on the left moved forward; he was short but clearly strong, with a bald head and trimmed mustache and beard. He had a big gash on his cheek and his tunic around his neck was stained with blood. His hazel eyes fixed on Shain.
“I am Sir Victor St. John,” he said steadily. “You may speak with me.”
Shain fixed on the older knight. “Are you Fitzgerald’s commander?”
“One of them.”
“You know that this is all that is left of your invasion force. There is no one else.”
St. John drew in a long, slow breath. “I know.”
Devlin could see the man had a calm and rather resigned manner about him. He stepped forward and entered the conversation. “Who remains with you?” he asked.
St. John glanced around him, at the men suffering and cold and miserable. “Infantry mostly,” he said. “There are a few archers and two knights.”
“How many knights did you bring with you?”
St. John turned to look at him, showing utter defeat in his eyes for the first time. “Twenty-seven.”
“And there are only three left?”
“Aye.”
“How many men did you have?”
St. John saw no need to keep the facts to himself; it didn’t matter anymore, anyway. They had been conquered and, at the moment, there was nothing left to defend. Not even themselves. They were at the mercy of Black Sword.
“We had eleven vessels and twelve hundred and forty-three men,” he said. “That is not counting the sailors or rope boys or riggers. That is simply the number of fighting men.”
“I see,” Devlin said, eyeing the group of very dirty captives. They were so muddied and beaten that they all seemed to be the same color in skin, hair, and clothes. “Who are your knights?”
St. John pointed towards the back of the cells. “Sir William du Reims,” he said, “and Sir Trevor le Mon.”
Trevor! Devlin felt a jolt as he turned in the direction that the older knight was indicating; all the men seemed to blend into each other. “Who is le Mon?” he couldn’t help himself from asking.
“I am,” came the reply.
A young, tall knight with piercing dark eyes stepped forward; he had been standing back against the wall, allowing one of the injured men on the floor to lean on his legs. He was very tall, in fact; so tall that he couldn’t stand up straight in the cramped quarters of the cell. He was rather slender but well-built; Devlin found himself inspecting the man very closely but he didn’t want to look suspicious about it so he cleared his throat.
“And who is du Reims?” he asked.
The third knight identified himself, an average-sized knight with big hands and shoulders. Devlin eyed him, not particularly interested him, and his gaze drifted back to le Mon, who was gazing at him steadily. Then, he turned and walked away, heading back up the slippery stairs. Shain was right behind him. When they were about half way up, Devlin stopped and turned to him.
“Move St. John into the guard house,” he told him. “I will interrogate him there and see what he knows. Meanwhile, have someone bring hay down to those men so they at least have something dry to lie on. Bring them some blankets as well. Wet as they are, they’re going to catch the damp and they’ll all die from it. If I want to ransom any of them, I will not have the chance.”
Shain nodded and headed back down the stairs as Devlin headed back up. He still wasn’t quite over the fact that Emllyn’s lover was indeed among the prisoners. He couldn’t decide how he felt about it, but at least now he knew. She wouldn’t, however. He didn’t intend to tell her.
Shaking off thoughts of the tall, dark knight, he headed out to find Frederick and Iver to discuss his future plans with them. He also intended to impress upon Frederick that the man should behave himself in his absence. He knew Shain was right about him but Shain also tended to be an alarmist; Devlin had some trust in Frederick, otherwise he would not be one of his top commanders.
Still, Devlin didn’t trust any of them completely, not even Shain. Men with complete trust tended not to live long. Unlike the moon god Elathan, the good humored and somewhat naïve Celtic deity, Devlin would do all he could to prevent being betrayed by his own people. He would take the necessary steps. But before he could worry about that, he had a bigger issue to contend with – discovering what Fitzgerald’s commander knew of his liege’s future plans.
And then he would decide what to do about Trevor le Mon.
Chapter Five
Emllyn wasn’t quite sure what it was.
It was a person, that was for certain, but she wasn’t sure if it was man or woman. Whatever it was smelled to high heaven of rot and feces, dressed in layers of raggedy clothing, and had something sticking out of its mouth that smoked up on the end of it. The smoke smelled like shite. Whatever it was had knocked on her door and when she had opened the panel, it had wandered in and taken up position on the stool near the hearth. And there it continued to sit.
Clad in the heavy shift and green coat that kept her very warm, Emllyn sat upon the bed and watched the figure curiously. She wasn’t afraid of it, for it was very small and seemingly feeble. With its broad features and smoking pipe, she simply wasn’t sure what to make of it. It hadn’t even spoken to her. It just sat and puffed. Therefore, it was a very strange standoff.
It was the morning after the wild night of passion with Devlin. Emllyn had awoken alone on the big bed, confusion and bewilderment running wild in her mind. As much as she wanted to hate him, to curse him, she simply couldn’t bring herself to do it. He’d done something to her, marked her somehow, and she no longer viewed his actions as brutality. It was… something else. Something else that terrified and warmed her at the same time. As she lay upon the bed, staring up at the ceiling and feeling more disorientation than she ever had, the door had opened and Enda had entered. The old woman had brought the morning meal of cheese and bread, and behind her came
young Nessa with a bowl of warmed water and the lumpy bar of soap that smelled of grass.
After devouring the food, Emllyn had used the water and soap to clean herself, perhaps washing the smell of Devlin off of her but every time she caught a whiff of his musk, her body betrayed her by feeling warm and giddy. Furious, she had scrubbed her hands and face, and between her legs, washing all she could of the man off of her. By then, Enda and Nessa had left her, seeing that she was in no mood for their assistance. Emllyn needed to be left alone.
But then the old creature had come, wandering in and squatting by the fire. As the day neared the nooning hour, Emllyn continued to stare at the figure, wondering why it had come. It simply sat, stank, and smoked. Finally, Emllyn could stand no more. She got up off the bed and moved carefully in the creature’s direction. Summoning her courage, she spoke.
“Who are you?” she asked. “What is your name?”
The old figure puffed on its pipe, filling the room with the heavy smoke of human excrement. “Each was a game, each was a jest, until Devlin spoke for naught; this thing will hang over him forever,” it rasped. “Yesterday he was larger than a mountain; today there is nothing of him but a shadow.”
Emllyn blinked, confused. It made no sense. “Who is shadow?” she asked. “Devlin?”
The old creature sat and puffed, puffed, puffed. Emllyn was uncertain what to do. After several long moment, she simply shrugged and turned away; the old person wasn’t doing any harm, she supposed, so there was no reason to provoke it or throw it from the room. In truth, she didn’t know what to do, so she wandered over to the lancet window that overlooked the sea.
The brisk breeze caressed her face and as Emllyn gazed out over the expanse of blue, she could see the gulls screaming along the shoreline. Something about the sights and smells of the ocean made her feel better, fresher and newer, and lifted her spirits. She very much wanted to walk outside, to feel the sun on her face and inhale deeply of the fresh air, but instead she was stuck in a chamber with a creature that inhaled the smoke of burning shite. It was a very strange circumstance.
From the angle of the window, she could see part of the shoreline to the north and as she strained to see what she could see, she caught glimpses of wrecked and dismantled ships. The sea was very angry, churning wildly around the doomed vessels and she could see many men swarming over the ruins. They were carrying things away; lumber or smaller objects in their quest to demolish Kildare’s invasion fleet. There was a good deal of flotsam and debris still in the water and washed up on shore, and it took her some time to realize that most of the debris were human remains.
Emllyn sighed with sorrow at the sight; there were literally hundreds of bodies, going ignored by the Irish as they focused on the vessels that were of some value. She inevitably thought of Trevor and wondered if he was among the dead half-buried in the sand, washed upon by waves as if they were nothing of matter. It was sad, truly. The more she watched, the more saddened she became.
Devlin wouldn’t let her see the prisoners. She accepted that for the moment because she knew at some point, she might be able to convince him otherwise. Be compliant! Aye, she would be compliant but just because she was compliant didn’t mean she was a weak little fool. The man intended to keep her bottled up in the keep forever but she could not allow it. He wasn’t here now and she seriously doubted that he had a guard posted outside the chamber. Emllyn began to feel an almost desperate measure to see if Trevor was among the dead that littered the rocky shore. At least if she found him, then she would know the truth. But if he wasn’t there, then perhaps he was indeed among the captives.
Glancing over her shoulder at the tiny figure that was filling her chamber with the smell of feces, she made her way over to the bed and lifted one of the garments that were still strewn across the bottom of the mattress. She was still wearing the green coat and shift, and the heavy robe that draped over her shoulders, but she wanted more. Perhaps more would shield her from the Irish as she made her way back to the point where she had first come ashore.
A cloak of brown wool was in her grip, plain but serviceable, and she slung it over her shoulders and tied it about the neck. Quietly, she made her way to the door but as she put her hand on the latch, the tiny figure spoke.
“He showed displeasure in Finn,” it said, looking at Emllyn for the first time since entering the room. The eyes were sunken and dark. “He was but distant and soon Finn would suffer.”
Emllyn looked at the person, having no idea what it was saying. Obviously, it was quite mad so she ignored it and opened the latch. The door creaked open slowly, letting forth a rush of cold air from the floor below that smelled like damp stone, but as Emllyn had surmised there was no one guarding the door. In fact, it was as dark and cold as a tomb as she slipped out onto the dim landing.
The steps leading down were narrow and well-used. Emllyn clung to the wall as she descended the spiral steps, very nervous and alert. This had all seemed like a sound and reasonable idea until she had left the chamber. Now, her heart was in her throat and her mouth was dry. Back came the memories of the night she had arrived and the terror she had felt while being manhandled up these very stairs. No matter what had happened with Devlin since then and no matter what odd emotions she had experienced, the fact remained that she was an enemy in enemy lands. There were those who would kill her as easily as look at her. She had to be vigilant.
The steps led down to the hall where she had cowered under the table the night of chaos. The table was there and she recognized it, cluttered and chipped from the Irishmen who had drunkenly supped upon the surface. Even though the hall was empty, she could still hear the cheers of the rebels and the barks of the dogs as the men hailed their mighty victory against the English. Emllyn began to feel that familiar terror again, swallowing down the bile in her throat and struggling not to panic. Men that her brother and father and grandfather had fought against had gathered in this room to declare supremacy over the English. She could feel their hatred.
But the fact remained that the room was empty except for the dogs sleeping near the hearth. As she tread carefully into the chamber, doggy heads came up and looked at her but they made no sound. There was also a very big bird near the hearth, resting on a big iron stand. The bird had a hood over its head and seemed to be sleeping. Emllyn scooted past the dogs, and the bird, and towards the great entry with light from the other side sending streams of illumination into the room. The door was big and heavy as she carefully cracked it open and peered outside.
A wide-open world rolled out before her complete with a big drawbridge that linked the keep with a massive bailey on the other side. She could hear waves crashing but she couldn’t see them; it seemed that they were on an outcropping of some sort and surrounded by the sea.
In the ward beyond, she could see people moving about, strange people in strange clothing. They wore tartans, wrapping their body in dirty cloth rather than wearing the hose or breeches that the English wore. But some of the men indeed wore hose, at least that she could see, and some of them wore pieces of armor. Most of them carried a weapon of some kind. Her spirits began to sink when she realized that, given what she could see, an escape to the beach below might not be such an easy thing.
“He showed displeasure in Finn,” came a voice behind her. “Finn would soon suffer.”
Emllyn startled so violently that she ended up hitting her head on the door. Rubbing her bruised forehead, she turned around and saw that the mysterious little person had followed her down into the hall. It was still puffing madly on the shite-pipe, but the dark and sunken eyes were focused intently on her. Emllyn’s fright turned to irritation.
“Go!” she hissed, shooing her hands at it. “Go away!”
The little person actually seemed to smile; it was hard to tell because the face was so wrinkled that one more fold didn’t make a big impact. It stood there smoking and smiling before finally reaching out a hand and taking Emllyn by the wrist.
“
It would soon endeavor to learn,” it said as it shoved the door open wide and pulled Emllyn from the keep. “For Devlin was mountainous and gifted, but Elohr kept safe.”
Emllyn wasn’t sure if she should pull away from the odd little creature but the little thing seemed so very sure of itself. It pulled Emllyn out of the keep and, with determination, across the drawbridge that was more of a rope bridge that swung crazily as they crossed it. Emllyn had to hold on to the rope railing to keep her footing, looking down with some fear at the swirling sea thirty or more feet below. But the little person didn’t notice the swaying of the bridge or the sea; it continued to pull Emllyn along.
As Emllyn entered the bailey, she flipped up the hood to cover her golden-red hair, trying to conceal herself from all of the Irish around her. No one seemed to be paying particular attention to her, thankfully, so she kept her head down and let the tiny figure drag her across the bailey.
The rains had cleared out from the past couple of days, leaving the air crisp and salty as a strong wind blew in off the Irish Sea. Gulls screamed above her and more than once, Emllyn looked up to see that the birds were close overhead, looking for some scrap of food. When she wasn’t looking at the birds, she was looking at her surroundings and noting the enormous bailey with the wall enclosing it, a wall that was built all the way to the sea cliff. It was like a half-circle, enclosing in the ward, and a big gatehouse was built into it, facing west. The wilds of Eire were on the other side of the massive gate, a place full of rebellion and mythical creatures, or so Emllyn had been told. England wasn’t nearly as frightening or mysterious as Ireland was.
Emllyn and the small figure were nearing the gatehouse and a series of outbuildings near the wall when someone grabbed her from behind. Emllyn let out a frightened yelp, terrified, until she realized she was looking into Devlin’s frowning face. He had a tight grip on her arms as he clutched her against his mighty chest.
Lords of Ireland II Page 8