Frederick recoiled, too, when he heard the breathy words. “Dev!” he said, backing away in the direction of the gatehouse. “You said you would not let the old witch curse me! She is doing it, do you hear?”
Devlin held a straight face even though he wanted to laugh; it was always hilarious to him to see big, powerful knights turn into frightened children at the first sign of a curse or witchcraft. Eefha had that effect on all of them with her odd speech and garbled appearance. It was humorous how one tiny little woman could put the fear of the devil into men three times her size. Devlin waved the man off.
“She is simply telling you not to be so greedy,” he said. “Go, now; to the gatehouse. I will be there shortly.”
Eefha threw up her hands and growled at Frederick and his men, sending them scampering away. Devlin did grin, then, as he turned back for the keep and grasped Emllyn by the elbow. They were moving across the muddy bailey when he heard her soft voice.
“You… you have an English knight in the gatehouse?” she asked timidly. “Is… is he a young knight?”
Devlin was seized with a fit of jealousy before he even looked at her. Once he saw the eager expression on her face, he was positively enraged with it.
“Nay,” he said, looking away and struggling with the alien emotions that were running unbridled through his veins. “He is an older knight, and I told you to forget about your lover. He no longer exists.”
Emllyn lowered her gaze, thinking on all of her brother’s knights, or at least the ones she knew of. She’d never been around them much but she did know a few. They were a strong and loyal group.
“Do you know his name?” she asked. “I may be able to tell you how high he was in the chain of command.”
It was a suggestion he hadn’t thought of and he was embarrassed by it. What was this wild sense of possessiveness towards her that seemed to get stronger with every pull? Was it truly jealousy? He tried not to sound too interested or grateful in his reply.
“St. John,” he said, eyeing her as casually as he could manage. “Do you know him?”
Emllyn immediately nodded. “His daughter is my friend,” she said, looking at him with that beseeching expression he seemed unable to resist. “He served my grandfather, too. Is he well? Oh, please do not hurt him. He is a good man. His wife is very kind and they have five daughters. As I said, his oldest daughter is my best friend in the entire world and her father… well, he means a great deal to her. I will gladly take whatever punishment you intend for him.”
His expression was serious as he gazed down upon her. “Don’t you think you have taken enough punishment on behalf of Kildare?” he asked softly.
Emllyn looked as if she had been struck. The comment was blunt but the tone nearly regretful. It made her feel sickened. She had no response for him as the great keep of Black Castle swallowed them up into its cool, dark innards.
Escorting her in silence to the chamber at the top of the keep, he left her there alone while he went about his business.
He had a knight to interrogate.
“’Tis as we feared,” Shain told Devlin in a low voice. “De Cleveley and his allies are planning something big.”
Devlin, Shain, Frederick, and Iver were huddled in the guard room of Black Castle’s big gatehouse. It was a very cramped room with a small hearth that gave off as much smoke as it did heat. Even now, the air was filled with a thin blue fog of smoke. The guards had taken Sir Victor back to the vault, leaving the knights in private conference. Three hours of interrogation had given them some answers but not all. There was still much more they should know.
“Aye,” Devlin agreed, running a hand through his short red hair. “He has told us that the missives between Kildare and de Cleveley had to do with quelling the rebellion and regaining Black Castle for the English, but no more than that. We still do not know how or when.”
“You should have let me have a go at him,” Frederick grumbled. The man was standing in the shadows, his big arms folded across his chest. “Mayhap he knows more than what he was willing to tell.”
Devlin glanced over his shoulder at him. “Do not let your desire to damage more English flesh be your excuse to interrogate the man for additional information,” he said. “St. John is a seasoned knight and, like the rest of us, no amount of interrogation in the world is going to loosen his tongue if he does not wish to speak. We had a civil conversation and I am convinced he told us what he knew. Beating the man into giving us false information simply to be done with the pain does not help is in any manner.”
Frederick wasn’t convinced but he didn’t argue. “So what do we do?” he asked.
Devlin cast a long glance at Shain before continuing. “It is my intention to use our lady captive to our advantage,” he said. “As I told you, the lady was following a lover who was part of the invasion force. She knows that we have several prisoners and she wishes to see if her lover is among them. I have told her that she may see the prisoners if she completes a task for me, and that is to go south to de Cleveley’s settlement and tell them that she has escaped from me. She will then make her way into their confidence to see if she can find out when, and how, they plan to attack us. When she completes her task to my satisfaction, I will let her see the prisoners so she may discover if her lover is among them. For that reason alone, the prisoners must be kept alive until she returns.”
He was looking at Frederick as he spoke the last sentence. Frederick was looking rather serious about it, as was Iver. “You intend to send her in to the English settlement?” Frederick said, rather surprised. “Once she’s in their bosom, she’ll surely remain. They will not let her leave!”
Devlin held up a quelling hand. “They will indeed,” he insisted, “because I intend to go with her. I would not send her in there alone. I will pose as a fellow prisoner who escaped Black Sword’s dungeons along with the lady. I will pretend to be mute so that nothing about my speech will give me away. Shain has expressed concern that I will be recognized but to that I say this: I have fought de Cleveley many times but I have usually worn a helm. But to alleviate the possibility of recognizing this shock of red hair, I will shave my head. I will pose as a beaten and tortured companion to the lady, a protector of sorts, and surely draw their sympathy. But make no mistake; I will be there to protect the lady and when our task is through, I will find a way to flee the settlement and return here.”
Shain had already heard all of this so he wasn’t overly emotional about it, but Frederick and Iver had different reactions; Iver appeared uneasy but Frederick was positively livid. His dark eyebrows shot up as the scheme settled into his psyche.
“Are you mad?” he demanded. “Going into de Cleveley’s settlement is… is suicide! They will kill you!”
Devlin shook his head calmly. “Not if they do not know who I am. The lady will verify that I am a prisoner, too.”
That didn’t ease Frederick at all; he threw up his hands. “And what if she betrays you?” he wanted to know. “She could easily turn you over to them.”
“Then she will never know if her lover is among our captives,” Devlin said coolly. “I suppose it will come down to who, and what, is more important to her – her lover, or turning me over to the English.”
Frederick didn’t know what else to say; he was flabbergasted. True, it seemed like a sound plan but it was still extremely risky. He looked at Iver, hoping the man would support his outrage.
“Have you nothing to say about this?” he asked him. “Tell him how foolish it is!”
Iver was characteristically calm. He glanced at Frederick although his focus was mostly on Devlin. He didn’t seem to be particular adverse to the scheme but he wasn’t obviously open to it, either.
“And the lady is agreeable to all of this?” he asked.
Devlin nodded. “She is.”
“Do you know if her lover is among our captives?”
Again, Devlin nodded. “He is.”
Iver showed a measure of surprise. “Yo
u know this for certain?”
“I do indeed.”
“Will you tell her?”
“Not until our task is complete. That is the bargain.”
The commanders looked at each other, silent words of concern and approval passing between them with a myriad of glances. No one was quite sure what more to say considering Devlin seemed very determined and, ostensibly, had a solid plan. They had all known Devlin de Bermingham long enough to know that once his mind was set, there was no changing it. He was as willful and stubborn as they come. Therefore, there wasn’t much more they could do than support him. There was no other choice.
“Very well,” Iver said with a heavy sigh. “If you feel you must do this, then I will not protest. But I fear what Freddy fears; what if she betrays you?”
“I have mentioned that to him also,” Shain said before Devlin could reply. He looked seriously at his leader. “Dev, if she betrays you, we will not be able to help you.”
Devlin knew that. He wasn’t entire sure that Emllyn would not betray him but he was fairly certain given the fact that she very much wanted to know if her lover was among the English captives. Still, there had to be more assurance. He would not wager on the scheme with the intention of losing.
“Then I will make certain that the lady understands that if I do not return with her to Black Castle, you will be under orders to kill all of the English captives,” he said, adding with emphasis: “Right in front of her.”
Frederick liked that suggestion very much. He nodded firmly, smacking a balled fist into his palm enthusiastically. As he was mentally gearing up for the delight of killing thirty-three English prisoners, Iver was more serious.
“What about her?” he asked. “If she returns here without you, what do we do with her?”
Devlin looked pointedly at him. “You will assume that she has betrayed me,” he said. “Traitors are put to the blade and their flesh fed to the dogs.”
Frederick seemed to be the only one excited about that directive, too. Iver and Shain passed disquieted glances.
“And you?” Shain asked softly. “Who will assume your command?”
Devlin glanced at the man who had been his best friend since childhood. “You will,” he said, making sure Iver and Frederick heard him. “If I do not return, my command goes to you. I will depend on you to carry on my cause. But know this; there will be no reason to announce that Black Sword has been killed. You will maintain the illusion that I am still alive as long as you can. It will be important for morale. As you once said, I am the heart of the rebellion and the men cannot know that the heart is gone.”
There was nothing more to say to all of that. The proposal had been laid out and all contingencies planned for. Now, all they could do was let Devlin execute his scheme and pray for the best. As Devlin and Shain and Iver began to engage in lighter conversation that didn’t involve betrayal and death, Frederick’s overactive mind began to wander.
Devlin’s presence in the English fold would be a very big secret, indeed. The man, if captured, would be the ultimate prize. Perhaps the lady wouldn’t betray him; perhaps she would. As Devlin said, it all depended on what meant more to her – her lover or betraying Devlin to the English. The woman would indeed hold the key to Devlin’s survival or lack thereof.
With Devlin captured or dead, the command would fall to Shain, but Shain was a man who was too timid sometimes. He was an excellent warrior but was often too cautious for Frederick’s taste. Then, there was Iver… a very wise warrior but he was better when someone else was telling him what to do. And then there was himself… Freddy, as they called him. He thought he was the best warrior of the bunch but he’d been under Devlin’s command most of his life. He’d never truly had a chance to show is mettle. If Devlin was gone, then he might have a chance. But unless the man was betrayed or eliminated somehow, there would never be an opportunity.
So perhaps the lady wouldn’t betray Devlin… but what if someone else did?
As Devlin and the other commanders continued to chat, he slipped from the room.
Chapter Seven
She was back.
It was nearing the evening hours as Emllyn sat upon the chair that had been brought to her chamber that afternoon by one of the raggedy male servants, along with a table to go with it. It seemed that, bit by bit, the room was becoming more furnished and Nessa, Enda’s silent daughter, had even brought an armful of willow branches and tossed them onto the floor around the bed. The smell of fresh cut branches filled the room. But then, Eefha returned and the entire room smelled like her shite pipe again.
So she was back.
Emllyn sat and watched the old woman for a short while before deciding to ignore her. She really had no idea why the old woman had come because there was no real way to communicate with her, so she decided to go about her business which happened to be trying on the garments Eefha had given her. In fact, she was rather excited to try on the new clothing.
Her first order of business was to sort all of the items out and she took to the task eagerly. When all was said and done, with everything, including the garments Enda had brought her the day before, she had two shifts, three surcoats, a red silk robe that had beautiful gold stitching around the edges, a cloak, three belts that were made from various metal links or fabric, two pairs of leather slippers, and a leather sack that contained a bone comb, fine strips of cloth that were meant to tie off hair with, some kind of fat or pomade in a small, heavy clay pot that smelled of rosemary and mint, and a very lumpy white hunk of what she assumed to be soap that smelled of myrtle or pine, she thought. There were even flecks of green in it.
In all, it was an interesting horde, and Emllyn was quite pleased with all of it. Enda had left her a pitcher of water and a bowl earlier; she used the water to work the soap bar up into a reasonable paste just to make sure that it was, indeed, soap. The pomade in the pot that smelled of rosemary and mint seemed to be something to soften the skin because she rubbed it on her chapped hands and it soothed them nicely.
Next, she tried on the fine white shift and pulled another surcoat of white wool over it. It was very warm and fit her rather well. A belt of green silk with tassels draped around her waist. Thrilled that she finally had clothes that fit, and decent clothes at that, she proceeded to comb her hair with the bone comb and braid it. A heavy, silky reddish-blond braid draped elegantly over her right shoulder.
One of the belts seemed to have an issue with the weave so she sat in the chair again and tried to fix the problem. All the while, she kept glancing over at the stool next to the hearth where old Eefha sat. The woman was staring into the flames, puffing away on that stinky pipe. Emllyn found her attention increasingly on the silent old woman and she eventually lowered the belt to her lap.
“I am not entirely sure if you can understand me,” she said politely, “but I want to thank you for what you have given me. You are very kind. I realize I am the enemy and you could have very well disregarded me, but I am grateful that you did not.”
The old woman puffed and puffed, seemingly ignoring her. Emllyn wasn’t sure what more to say because the woman clearly didn’t understand her. Maybe she’d lost the ability to communicate normally long ago, speaking strangely as she did. With a sigh, perhaps of some regret that the woman didn’t understand her gratitude, she returned to the belt repair and murmured a song from her childhood simply to pass the time.
“‘Though oft of Fairy Land they spoke,
No eerie beings dwelled therein,
’Twas filled throughout with joyous folk
Like men, though freed from death and sin.’”
She continued to hum the tune and muttered a word now and again as she worked on the belt. She was about to start on the next verse when, from across the room, she heard another voice.
“‘And sure those bards were truest knights
Whose thoughts of women high were set,
Nor deemed them prizes, won in fights,
But minds like m
en’s, and women yet.”
Emllyn’s head popped up after the first few words were sung, realizing the old woman was doing the singing in her raspy, ancient voice. It was a common enough song but somehow, in those verses, meant they were speaking the same language. They both knew the same song. When Eefha finished the last word, she continued to stare at the fire and puff on her smelly pipe. Emllyn watched her closely for some kind of additional response but there was none. Then, she ventured softly with the last verse to see if she could elicit the same reaction as before.
“‘In forms like those men loved of old,
Naught added, nothing torn away….’”
Emllyn trailed off, waiting to see if old Eefha picked up the queue. It took several long moments but, eventually, the old woman finished the song.
“‘… The ancient tales again are told,
Can none their own true magic sway?”
When she finished the song she paused and puffed her pipe before very slowly turning to Emllyn. Their eyes met and, for a moment, they simply stared at one another. There was something warm in the air, perhaps a measure of understanding. Then, Emllyn broke out into a timid smile. This time, she was sure the old woman smiled back. And then she went back to smoking her pipe.
Emllyn laughed softly and returned to finish her belt but she felt, in that moment, as if she had accomplished something. Somehow, in the verses of that old song, she and old Eefha had communicated. It was progress. As she worked with the knots on the belt that needed mending, the chamber door rattled violently.
Startled by the loud burst, Emllyn nearly dropped the belt. Heart pounding in her throat, she didn’t move; she sat and waited for something else to happen. It wasn’t long in coming.
“Open the door, wench!” came a booming bellow. “Open it up or I’ll break it down.”
Emllyn was terrified. She sat, rooted to the spot, too frightened to even open her mouth. She simply sat there, hoping whoever was demanding entry would go away. But he banged on the door again, louder than before.
Lords of Ireland II Page 10