Lords of Ireland II

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  “I say we take the English prisoners in our vault and make an example out of them,” Frederick was saying; he was drunk, which always gave him an overflowing mouth. “Why are we keeping them locked up if we do not intend to do anything about them?”

  The men roared in agreement, banging their tankards against the heavy feasting table. They were banging so hard that chips of wood were spitting all over the floor, sending the dogs scurrying with fright. All attention inevitably turned to Devlin, who was sitting quite calmly with one big leg thrown up over the arm of the chair. He was watching everything with calculating eyes and when he saw that he had the attention of his men, he knew he had to speak or Frederick might cause him some serious problems.

  “Those men are mine to do with as I please,” he said loudly, turning a baleful eye to Frederick. “I will decide what’s to be done with them.”

  “But what will you do?” Frederick demanded. “We have a right to know what’s to be done! We should have the right to say what’s to be done!”

  Devlin could feel his patience waning. “You have no rights. I will tell you what your rights are.”

  Frederick’s dark eyes bulged and he jabbed a finger in the direction of the gatehouse and subsequently the vault. “Those English belong to all of us, not just you!”

  Devlin was finished humoring the man. If he didn’t make a show of strength now, in front of everyone, it was possible that the situation might turn even more volatile. Men were on edge, fed by blood. Quick as a flash, Devlin launched himself out of his chair and, in the same motion, clobbered Frederick in the jaw with a crushing blow.

  Frederick was a big man but he wasn’t nearly as big or as powerful as Devlin, which made withstanding a blow such as the one Devlin delivered an impossible feat. Frederick tumbled backwards, falling over the feasting table and several men in the process. Devlin went after him, kicking men aside as he reached down and grabbed Frederick by the neck, throwing another punch into his face that knocked the man out completely. Picking Frederick up, he turned to the room full of stunned and confused men.

  “Is this who you listen to?” he bellowed. “A fool of a man who uses drink to bolster his courage? Freddy is a good warrior and he is my kin, but I swear by God I will kill him and every man who listens to him if he goes against my directive. There can only be one leader and that is me!”

  With that, he tossed Frederick into a group of men seated several feet away, and the entire collection crashed to the floor with Frederick on top of them. Devlin leapt onto the feasting table and beat at his chest.

  “I am Devlin Mac Niall de Bermingham,” he roared. “I am Black Sword and any man under my command will follow with complete and utter obedience, or I will destroy him. Is this in any way unclear?”

  The men roared in return, approval and support shouted back to Devlin, who was showing distinct signs of fury at this point. “I fight for Ireland and for you and your families,” he shouted. “I fight for freedom for our people. Do you fight with me?”

  “Yes!” they cried.

  “Do you fight with me?”

  “Yes!

  Devlin had managed to work the men up more than Frederick ever could; he was a great leader, a man of tremendous charisma, and his men loved him for it. Frederick had the ability to interest men but it was Devlin who had the ability to capture their minds and hearts. As Devlin jumped off the table, he moved back to his chair and collected his falcon. Then he turned to Iver and Shain, standing nearby.

  “Put a few men on watching this group to see that they don’t get out of hand,” he said. “Freddy has them so worked up that I am concerned they will form a mob and kill the English prisoners when my back is turned.”

  Iver nodded, snapping his fingers at a couple of men standing a few feet away and motioning them over. Meanwhile, Shain moved closer to Devlin.

  “What about Freddy?” he asked, his tone low. “What do we do with him?”

  Devlin looked at him. “Do you really want to know?”

  “Indeed I do.”

  Devlin lowered his voice; his dark blue eyes were deadly. “I have had enough of him,” he muttered. “I grow weary of him questioning my command and I fear we are on a path for Freddy’s personal rebellion. He is increasingly vocal against me and that makes the men uncertain. This I can no longer tolerate. Put him on the back of your horse and take him someplace far and dump him.”

  Shain liked that idea a great deal. “Finally, Devlin,” he hissed. “You give the command I have been waiting for. But if you do not kill him, he will come back for you. You cannot leave him alive.”

  Devlin knew that. Although he was reluctant to order the man’s death, he knew that Shain had a point. Frederick was a good enough warrior that he could very well come back to try and kill him. If it was a choice between ordering the man’s death or looking over his shoulder for the rest of his life, he knew what he had to do.

  “Then make it quick and dump his body in the sea,” he whispered. “Do it now while he is still unconscious and cannot fight back.”

  Shain was gone, commandeering a few men to carry Frederick’s still-unconscious form out of the hall. Devlin watched them go, not feeling the least bit remorseful for the brutal command. This was survival, in his opinion, and he would do all he could in order to survive.

  As Shain quit the hall with Frederick’s limp body, Iver came to stand next to Devlin. “Where are they going?” he asked.

  Devlin glanced at Iver before motioning the man to follow. “Come with me.”

  He did. The pair of them headed up to Devlin’s chamber above the feasting hall, the chamber that Emllyn had stayed in during her days at Black Castle. It still looked as if a woman lived there with hides on the bed, the table and chairs in the corner, and other items that had been brought in to make her more comfortable.

  Once they entered the room, Devlin shut the door behind them and perched the falcon on the back of one of the chairs. With a heavy sigh, he pulled off the black glove he always wore to battle, the one that Neart perched on, and tossed it onto the table. Outside, the thunder rolled and the waves crashed. It was a night of evil tidings.

  “Where did Shain take Freddy?” Iver asked again, watching Devlin pour a measure of wine from an old earthenware container.

  Devlin handed him the wine. “I can no longer tolerate the man’s attitude,” he said, watching Iver drink deeply from the cup. “Freddy borders on rebellion more and more every day. I am afraid that one of these days, he will turn my own men against me with his lies. He has the ability to manipulate and most of these men are fairly simple minded. They love me, that is true, but if Freddy works them into madness, they will follow the crowd. They will not think for themselves. I have therefore ordered Shain to kill him.”

  Iver sighed faintly and drained the rest of his cup. “We have been telling you that for quite some time, Dev,” he said. “Freddy is no longer content to follow. He wants to lead.”

  “I know,” Devlin sighed, pouring himself some wine as well. “He has good ideas and he is ambitious, but I am finally forced to agree that his ambition is to replace me. He is a cousin on my father’s side, after all, and I did not want to believe a relative could be out to destroy me. But….”

  He was interrupted by a loud thump. Turning around, he saw Iver on the ground. Rushing to the man’s side, he watched in shock as a white foam spilled out of Iver’s lips. The man twitched and twitched some more, and then he fell still. Devlin searched frantically for a pulse but there was none. Iver was dead.

  Seized with shock, with disbelief, Devlin shook Iver as if to bring the man back from the dead. He began to look for a puncture wound or some other kind of injury that would kill him but as he did so, his gaze came to rest on the empty cup of wine the man had just finished. It was still sitting on the table where Iver had put it. Devlin’s astonished gaze returned to Iver and the white froth coming out of his mouth and nose. And then, it began to occur to him.

  Poison.
/>   Filled with grief, Devlin stood up unsteadily, his gaze still on Iver. Someone had meant that poison for Devlin, someone who was clever and bold. It had to be someone the servants trusted because he knew for a fact Enda or Nessa would not have done it. They had served Devlin for years and Enda had helped raise him. Nay, it wasn’t them; but in order to put poison in his room, it had to be someone the servants trusted. No one else would have been able to gain access.

  His commanders.

  Nausea joined his sense of grief now as he realized that Iver, Shain, and Frederick would have been allowed access to the chamber. The servants wouldn’t have questioned them. It wouldn’t have been Iver, for the man wouldn’t have knowingly drank wine that he had poisoned. And Shain was as loyal as a dog; nay, it could not have been him. That left Frederick.

  Devlin bolted out of the room faster than he had ever moved in his life.

  Glenteige Castle

  “He keeps staring at me,” Emllyn said. Then she grunted in frustration and turned her attention to the oriel window that overlooked the east portion of Glenteige’s complex. “I know you do not understand a word I am saying, but I do not want to complain of this to Elyse. It is her father, after all. I just wish he would not stare at me. I cannot even eat my meal at sup because the man watches every chew I make!”

  In her quiet, comfortable, and cramped chamber, Emllyn was spending a rare afternoon by herself. Elyse was off somewhere with Connaught and, whenever that happened, Emllyn would shut herself up in her chamber because she wanted to stay away from de Noble. So far, he’d been completely polite and considerate, but she didn’t want to give the man the opportunity to talk to her alone.

  But she wasn’t exactly alone. Eefha was with her, seated over at the small table near the bed, working with some kind of mortar and pestle, grinding and grinding something that Emllyn couldn’t really see and couldn’t really ask about because Eefha had no way of answering her. It was just like old times back at Black Castle, frustrating as those times were. But it also brought her some comfort.

  The old woman spent most of her time in Emllyn’s chamber, sleeping in the corner and leaving only in the morning to wander the keep and sometimes work in the kitchens. Oddly enough, no one ever stopped her or questioned her. They assumed she was a servant and that’s exactly what she was posing as. As Devlin once said, no one gave notice to a mad old woman, and he had been right. Eefha was able to move freely anywhere in the keep.

  With a heavy sigh, Emllyn peeled back the curtains that were blowing softly in the wind. It was a wet day, as a violent storm had passed over the night before, leaving the landscaped whipped. She could see more angry dark clouds in the distance, hovering over the sea. As she leaned against the windowsill and inspected the wet grounds below, she began to smell something awful.

  Scrunching up her nose, she looked around to see where the smell might be coming from but she saw no smoke or hint of stench. It smelled heavily of shite. Her eyes widened as a thought occurred to her and she turned in time to see Eefha puffing great clouds of smoke into the air. Emllyn pinched her nose.

  “Eefha!” she exclaimed softly. “What in heaven’s name are you smoking?”

  The old woman didn’t say a word; she simply continued to puff on that awful pipe. Emllyn couldn’t stand it; she climbed off the window and went to the old woman.

  “Please, Eefha,” she begged. “Do not smoke that pipe in my chamber. It is too small and the room fills up with that terrible smell. Please?”

  Eefha puffed a few more times defiantly before easing up considerably. It was the first time that Emllyn could remember that Eefha actually understood what she had said. Emllyn put her hand on the woman’s shoulder.

  “Thank you,” she said sincerely, eyeing the mortar and pestle still spread around the table. “Is… is that what you were making? Something to smoke in your pipe?”

  Eefha’s reply was to shake off the mortar and pestle until a small pile of pulverized material lay upon the table. Then, the old woman took her small bone pipe and began shoving the pile into the end of her pipe. It was enough of an explanation for Emllyn and she patted the old woman’s shoulder again before turning away and heading over to the window seat where her embroidery loom was lodged against the window.

  In reality, she had two looms; one in Elyse’s fine solar and one in her room. It was too bulky and complicated to carry the big looms up and down the spiral stairs, depending on what room she was in, so she had two projects in the works. Elyse had been kind enough to loan her two looms. This particularly project was of ships and battle. It was from the night she had met Devlin.

  Everything leads me to thee.

  Emllyn sighed as she sat down on the window seat, remembering Devlin’s words as she arranged a few pillows comfortably, and sat forward against the loom. His words were all she thought of, day and night, and she tried not to grow concerned that it had been over two weeks since he had left her. She missed him terribly. She never knew her heart could ache so much. With another sigh, she picked up her needle and continued on the mast of one of the ships. It was a small distraction to take her mind off Devlin but it never worked. He weighed more heavily on her mind now than he ever had.

  “Where do you suppose he is?” she murmured, both a rhetorical question and also a question for Eefha. “I do hope nothing terrible has happened. He said he would return and I must trust him.”

  Eefha didn’t reply for a moment. When she did, it was in a low and hoarse voice. “I am a spear that roars for blood,” she murmured. “I am a tide that drags to the death.”

  Emllyn stopped sewing and looked at her, surprised that the old woman should even answer her but frightened by the words. “What does that mean?”

  Eefha was staring off into the dimness of the room, her gaze fixed on nothing in particular. She simply sat, cloaked in her raggedly gray cloak, the bone pipe protruding from her olds lips. She was as still as stone but there was something ominous there. Emllyn felt it.

  “What is it, Eefha?” she hissed at the old woman. “Are you trying to tell me something? You know I do not know the cycles of Irish stories that you tell, so if you could….”

  She was interrupted by knock on the door. Emllyn turned her attention to the door, frustrated by the interruption and unwilling to greet the caller. It would be better if people thought she wasn’t here; the door was bolted so they could not arbitrarily enter, but she still didn’t want any company, especially now that Eefha was muttering words of death and blood. It concerned her. But several seconds after the first knock came a second knock, louder than the first. Emllyn sighed sharply, hoping she could easily send them away.

  “Who is it?” she called.

  There was a brief pause. “Sir Raymond, my lady,” he said. “May I have a brief word with you?”

  Emllyn’s eyes widened; it was de Noble! Of course she didn’t want to have a private word with the man; she’d spend weeks avoiding him and ignoring his notes. He was the last person she wanted to speak with.

  “I….,” she swallowed and started again. “I am afraid I am not feeling entirely well, my lord. Mayhap we can speak at another time.”

  De Noble wouldn’t give up. “Just a brief moment of your time, my lady. I promise I will not take long.”

  Emllyn still refused. “Later, my lord, I beg you.”

  “Please, my lady,” de Noble implored politely. “A brief word and I shall leave you to rest, I swear it.”

  Unless she wanted to be rude and tell him to go jump in the well and drown, she had a feeling the man would beg until she opened the door. Peeved, she jabbed her needed into the fabric with the intention of answering the door when Eefha suddenly stood up and moved very quickly to the panel. Emllyn didn’t even have the opportunity to call her off because the woman had moved rather swiftly. She opened the panel, hiding behind it, as de Noble stood in the doorway.

  He was tall and very distinguished in his clean tunic and clean boots. He had even combed his graying
hair and greased it down. He looked very much like a man who had carefully prepared himself to call upon a woman. When his gaze fell upon Emllyn still seated behind her loom, he turned in her direction and bowed gallantly.

  “My lady,” he said in his deep, authoritative voice. “You are looking very well today. Very well, indeed.”

  Reluctantly, Emllyn stood up and curtsied before sitting back down again. “My lord,” she greeted with a hint of disappointment. “What did you wish to speak to me about?”

  De Noble took a few steps into the room, heading in her direction. He was seemingly very nervous, for his hands were clasped together and he was fidgeting with his fingers. Emllyn would have felt some pity for the man had she not been so adverse to his overtures. She didn’t want to give him any false hope.

  If de Noble sensed her resistance to him, he didn’t let on. He smiled politely and bowed again. “Are you comfortable enough in this chamber, my lady?” he asked kindly. “If not, we could move you to the larger chamber on the floor below. I realize that it is right off the feasting hall, but the door is good and solid, and I am sure no one would bother you.”

  Emllyn shook her head. “I like this room quite sufficiently, my lord,” she replied rather stiffly. “Was that all you wanted to speak with me about?”

  She was polite but she wasn’t warm. De Noble could see that and it was difficult not to let her attitude deter him. As he fumbled for more words, Emllyn could see Eefha moving from behind the door, emerging from the shadows. She had something in her hand and Emllyn could see it reflect in the weak light. A bright, silver, and sinister flash. It took her a moment to realize that it was a dagger, and the old woman was sneaking up behind de Noble with the intention of using it. Startled, Emllyn bolted to her feet and bumped into the loom, sending it crashing to the floor.

  De Noble instinctively bent over to pick up the fallen loom. As he did so, Emllyn frantically waved off Eefha, who was just preparing to lift the dirk and stab the man in his back. But Emllyn’s desperate gesture had the old woman sheathing the dirk and fleeing from the chamber just as de Noble was righting the loom.