Brides of Ireland

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  Emllyn seemed to relax somewhat although she maintained a tight hold on Devlin. “Thank you,” she murmured. “I… I do not even know how I came here, to tell you the truth. I do not remember much, but please know that I am very grateful for your hospitality.”

  Devlin thought he should probably say something to address her complete bewilderment in the situation. She was waking up to a strange place and strange people. He didn’t want her to inadvertently contest his story because, at the moment, they were scrutinizing everything about him. One wrong word might see him living the rest of his days out in the vault.

  “I found you washed ashore on the beach after Kildare’s defeat at Black Castle, m’lady,” he said. “You told me that you were aboard the armada to witness your brother’s victory over Black Sword. You also had a very bad wound on your leg. Do you not remember any of this?”

  He lifted his eyebrows at Emllyn as he spoke. Please understand what I am telling you; this has become our story now! Emllyn gazed back at him intently as her mind churned over information that, in a better frame of mind, she would have caught on to quickly. It took her several long moments but eventually he could see the glimmer of understanding in her eye. Yes, it was all coming clearer now. A brief nod of her head told him that.

  “Aye,” she finally said. “I… I believe I do. I was on my brother’s flagship and we sailed to Ireland to meet the rebels who had taken over his lands. The ships… they crashed against each other when they made shore because the weather was so bad. I… I truly do not know how I made it out alive.”

  Devlin breathed a long sigh of relief. “I found you on the beach,” he repeated. “You must have swam away from the destruction.”

  Emllyn blinked, struggling to think clearly. “Mayhap,” she said softly. “I do not remember clearly.”

  There wasn’t much more to say; she had played into his plans perfectly and Devlin could not have been more pleased or more at ease. He squeezed her hand and resisted the urge to kiss it as well; instead, he turned his focus to Elyse as the woman began to gingerly bathe away the mud from Emllyn’s leg.

  “It was very swollen and painful,” he told Elyse, trying to be helpful. “I had nothing to give her for the pain.”

  Elyse was focused on her work, eventually washing away the mud to see the angry red cut beneath. She visibly cringed when she saw how bad it was.

  “We will remedy that,” she assured him as she looked up at Emllyn. “I will try to be very gentle, my lady. If it hurts, you will tell me and I will stop.”

  Emllyn gazed back at the woman with a mixture of fear and trust. “I will,” she said. “I am very thirsty. Could I please have something to drink?”

  The words had barely left her mouth before Elyse was in motion, whipping her servants into a frenzy as they disappeared out of the service doors and went scurrying around the room. As a pale young servant girl brought Emllyn a cup of whatever was in the pitcher by Elyse’s bed, they heard commotion at the chamber door.

  “Cattle!” came the screech. “All of you crowded around this door like cattle! One would think you have never seen a lady’s chamber before and judging by the lot of you, that’s probably close to the truth!”

  Devlin, Emllyn, and Elyse looked over to the chamber entry to see a small man with a worn leather satchel push his way through the knights that were clustered there. He was round and pale, with sparse graying hair and clad in dirty brown robes. He looked like a monk. He waddled his way over to the bed where Emllyn lay, eyeing the wound on her leg before he ever looked his patient in the eye.

  “Barbarians,” he hissed. “Who sewed this wound? My dog could have done a better job of it.”

  Elyse vacated her stool for the man. “This is the Lady Emllyn Fitzgerald, sister of the Earl of Kildare,” she said, eyeing Emllyn and hoping she wasn’t frightened by the man’s curt manner. “My lady, this is Merradoc, our physic.”

  The old physic barely flicked an eye in Emllyn’s direction; his focus was entirely on the wound. He set his satchel on the floor next to him and began pulling out pouches and phials.

  “I need vinegar and the strongest ale you can find,” he snapped at Elyse. “You will also bring me silk thread. I must re-sew this. And put the powder in that brown pouch into a half-cup of wine and bring it to me. Do this now before I grow old from sheer boredom and the lady dies from a raging infection.”

  He was dramatic and snappy in a hilarious sort of manner. Had Devlin not been so taken aback at the man’s horrendous bedside manner, he would have laughed at his brusque impatience. Elyse, however, was on the move, handing off the pouches to her servants as more of them rushed through the servant door with boiled linens in their arms. Everyone was running around doing Merradoc’s bidding and soon enough, there was a half-cup of wine being handed to Elyse. She brought it over to Emllyn’s bedside.

  “You must drink this,” she said softly. “It will make you sleep while he tends your leg.”

  Emllyn wasn’t so sure about being put into a drugged sleep; she was still holding Devlin’s hand tightly, eyeing him anxiously as she spoke to Elyse.

  “What will the physic do?” she asked.

  Elyse glanced over her shoulder at the old physic, who was pulling out a razor-sharp knife from his satchel.

  “Clean your wound and fix it,” she replied gently. “You do not want to be awake for that, my lady. Please drink this.”

  Emllyn knew the woman was trying to help her but she was still frightened. Devlin squeezed her hand reassuringly and she looked up at him, perhaps more fearful for him at the moment than she was for herself. She could see the English knights clustered back by the door. She had a feeling they were not there for her.

  “He stays,” she said to Elyse. “I do not want him going anywhere. Even if I fall asleep, I do not want him removed. Please make it so.”

  Elyse nodded firmly. “I will not allow him to go anywhere, I promise,” she said. “Will you drink this now?”

  Reluctantly, Emllyn complied, and within fifteen minutes she was snoring upon the linens. She seemed to be very sensitive to sleeping potions, as she had been sensitive to the draught Eefha had given her as well. Once she was fully asleep, evidenced when the physic pinched her toe, the old man finally went to work.

  As promised, Devlin remained at Emllyn’s bedside. He sat on the floor by Emllyn’s head as the physic removed the cat gut sutures he had put in her leg and replaced them with boiled silk thread. He put in fine, neat stitches. The physic also cleaned the poison out of the wound and doused it repeatedly in vinegar and ale. When he was finished with that, he bound her leg up tightly and left her to sleep. The entire procedure took less than fifteen minutes, a swift and confident undertaking by the snappy physic. When he was satisfied with his work, he began packing his items away.

  “I am going to bring her some rotten tea,” he told Elyse. “I will return later tonight with it. It will help her fever.”

  Elyse listened to him intently. “What should I do for her in the meanwhile?”

  The physic glanced over his shoulder at the sleeping patient. “Keep her warm and watch her closely,” he said as he collected his satchel and moved for the door. “If she begins to sweat or becomes delirious, send for me. Otherwise, I will return tonight.”

  Elyse thanked the man and ushered him to the door. The physic beat back the three remaining knights who were still standing in the entry, as the rest of the crowd had returned to their duties. De Ferrer remained, as did Elyse’s escort and another man, an older one who had made an appearance only a few minutes earlier. He had seen the old physic as the man finished stitching up the leg of the strange woman lying on his daughter’s bed, but nothing more than that. He stopped the physic before the man left the room completely.

  “How is the lady?” he asked.

  Merradoc glanced back into the room again, at the big bed where an enormous man sat on the floor next to it and an injured lady slept peacefully. He shrugged his shoulders.

&
nbsp; “We shall see,” he said. “The cut is deep. It looks like a sword wound to me. I shall see what I can do for her but no promises.”

  The older man nodded and let the physic continue out of the room. Then, he stepped into the chamber and headed for Elyse.

  “I hear we have had a visitor,” he said, eyeing Devlin seated on the floor. “De Ferrer told me about the lady and her savior. I have come to see for myself.”

  Elyse smiled at the man. “Greetings, Father,” she said as she gestured to Emllyn, fast asleep. “This is the sister of the Earl of Kildare, the Lady Emllyn Fitzgerald. She had sailed on her brother’s war fleet but was injured in a battle at Black Castle. She washed ashore and this farmer found her and helped her. We owe him a great deal of gratitude for saving her.”

  Sir Raymond de Noble was fixated on Devlin. A tall man with a full head of gray hair, de Noble seemed rather calm and wise, giving Devlin a good going-over as he stood there. De Noble’s dark eyes missed nothing as he studied him. Devlin stared back at de Cleveley’s brilliant commander. He’d fought the man before; now, he was seeing him face-to-face. It was an odd realization.

  “Indeed we do,” de Noble finally said, but it was clear he wasn’t finished scrutinizing Devlin. “What is your name?”

  “John, m’lord,” Devlin replied.

  De Noble acknowledged him with a bob of the head. “John,” he repeated. “I was told you have a farm south of Black Castle.”

  “Aye, m’lord.”

  “I am also told you have been inside of Black Castle.”

  “Aye, m’lord.”

  “Where do your sympathies lie, John?”

  It was an interesting question, now with the other knights listening in. Devlin wasn’t a fool; he knew he had to play the game, but it was harder than he thought. He wanted to jump up and roar for the victory of the Irish, but he kept still. He had been fighting men like de Noble for years and had served under them for longer still. The English had always given him commands or oppressed him one way or the other, and his natural urge to rebel was strong. But his sense of self-preservation, and of the preservation of Emllyn, was stronger.

  “I have never had a quarrel with the English,” he said. “In fact, my fellow Irishmen seem to give me more trouble.”

  “How is that?”

  Devlin shrugged, thinking now would be a very good time to start gaining English sympathy and trust. “Men from Black Castle raid my fields and steal my vegetables,” he said. “The O’Connors have been known to steal my stock. When the English want something from me, at least they pay me for it.”

  That brought a thin smile from de Noble. Looking Devlin over, he could see that the man appeared very exhausted. The dark blue eyes were dull. But as he gazed at him, he also found the man strangely familiar. He couldn’t put his finger on it, because all Irishmen looked alike to him, but there was something vaguely recognizable. Ah, perhaps it would come to him at some point. For now, he was intent to glean what information he could out of the man about Black Castle, only his tactics were far more subtle than his lesser officers. He was a man who knew how to get what he wanted.

  “That sounds typical,” he replied after a moment. “When was the last time you ate, John?”

  Devlin thought about it. “Yesterday, m’lord.”

  “You must be starving,” de Noble said. “Would you join me for a meal? I have not yet eaten myself and I would like to hear more about this defeat of Kildare’s armada.”

  Careful, Devlin told himself. He knew it was more than an invitation; it was a directive because they wanted to probe him. He was on to their game. “I am not sure what I can tell you, m’lord,” he said. “I only heard about it from others.”

  “But you found a woman who said she was with Kildare’s fleet.”

  “Aye, I did, but she didn’t tell me more than that.”

  De Noble didn’t push. He would get the information he wanted, eventually. “Will you come and eat with me, John?”

  Devlin hesitated; he didn’t want to walk into a trap, lured by a smooth-tongued Englishman, but he knew he could not refuse. “Can I return when we are finished?”

  “Of course.”

  Elyse, who had been listening to the conversation, went to Devlin and put her hand on his arm. “Go now and eat with my father,” she said encouragingly. “He will bring you back here when you are finished.”

  Devlin didn’t want to be rude and refuse, not when he was trying to establish some trust, but he was very hesitant to leave Emllyn. Still, he had little choice. Stiffly, he climbed to his feet.

  “Will you send word to me if something changes with her?” he asked Elyse.

  The woman nodded patiently. “Of course,” she said, giving him a little push in her father’s direction. “Go and eat now. We will be here when you return.”

  Genuinely exhausted, Devlin allowed himself to be led out of the chamber by de Noble and wasn’t surprised when the knights who had been lingering by the door closed ranks behind him, effectively escorting him out of the room. Together, the small group made their way back down the stairs to the feasting hall below.

  De Noble called for food and soon, they were swarmed with more food and drink than Devlin had seen in a very long time. He was starving, shoving the succulent beef into his mouth and downing very good English wine. De Noble ate along with him and gave him plenty of time to drink more wine before commencing with the questions.

  It was then that Devlin realized he shouldn’t have drunk so much wine. The clear-headed English commander had plenty of questions for him.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Black Castle,” de Noble said slowly as he poured Devlin more drink. “I was there once, several years ago during the peace. Before the rebellions, when it was still Kildare’s holding. It is a big place.”

  Devlin was minimally drunk and he could clearly see that de Noble was trying to get him drunker. He was fairly certain that the man didn’t suspect his true identity but he knew the man was trying to press him for information. If Devlin had been in de Noble’s position, he would have done the same thing. Sometimes the peasants heard and saw things that were valuable during a time of crisis. With that in mind, Devlin put the ale to his lips but he didn’t drink; he just pretended to. He wasn’t going to allow himself to become more addled than he already was.

  “Me da used to take me there,” Devlin said, playing the part of the ignorant peasant. “Me da was a farmer, too, and we would take our produce to Black Castle when I was young, when Kildare was still in possession. I still remember the big English knights and their big swords. As a boy, that was exciting.”

  De Noble smiled faintly. “And now?” he asked. “Do you still find big English knights with their big swords exciting?”

  Devlin shook his head and pretended to take another drink, spilling some of it clumsily as he set the cup down. That would throw de Noble off somewhat on exactly how much he had imbibed.

  “Nay, m’lord,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I don’t find it exciting. I find it a burden.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I take me produce to market at Black Castle but the peasants are so a-feared of Black Sword that there is hardly any commerce there anymore,” he said, pretending to be upset by it. “Black Sword keeps the castle fairly bottled up. Not many pass between the gates these days. But… well, I shouldn’t be telling you this, but I was there about a month ago. I had gotten to the castle before sunrise and sold some of me goods to the castle cook. As I was leaving, many men entered the castle, men in blue tartan that someone said were O’Connor men. There must have been hundreds of them. It looked as if Black Sword was planning a meeting with them.”

  De Noble was listening intently. “What kind of a meeting?”

  Devlin shook his head and took another pretend drink of the ale, spilling it on his chin to disguise the fact that he’d swallowed nothing. He was starting to see that de Noble was willingly listening to anything he said so
he thought it would be a great opportunity to feed the man false information. His clever mind was working quickly; if de Noble was foolish enough to try and play him for an idiot, then Devlin would comply – and he would turn the tables on him.

  “I don’t know,” Devlin said, pretending to be very dumb about the entire thing. “But there were a lot. Do you think they were the same men who destroyed Kildare’s fleet? It could have been. I heard that the Irish banded together for that battle, uniting under Black Sword. They say they are remaining united, for something very big. At least, that’s what I’ve heard.”

  By this time, de Ferrer and the Lady Elyse’s escort, a tall and handsome man introduced as Sir Christopher Connaught, were leaning in to listen. They were all evidently very interested in what the enormous, and rather dumb, Irishman had to say.

  “What is very big?” Connaught asked; he had a slight Irish accent mixed in with his Norman speech pattern. “What have you heard about Black Sword’s future plans?”

  Devlin looked at the man with feigned reluctance, as if he had already said too much. “I shouldn’t have said that,” he said, looking uncomfortable. “I’m just a farmer and that is all I want to be. I don’t like war and I don’t like the Irish who wreak havoc for havoc’s sake. I don’t like the English who rape our women and steal our lands. I just want to be left alone.”

  De Noble silently waved Connaught off. “You know,” he said casually, “you speak very well for a farmer.”

  Devlin looked at the man. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that you speak like an educated man.”

  Devlin just stared at him. Then, he smiled weakly and averted his gaze. “Me mother could read,” he said. “She taught me what I know. I can read and I can write a little.”

  De Noble nodded faintly, although he was staring at Devlin with more than an intense stare; there was something glittering in the depths of the man’s dark eyes, something knowing. Devlin didn’t want to stare at him too much to try and figure it out; all he knew was that it made him uncomfortable. He didn’t like the way the man looked at him. It was more than scrutiny; it was calculating. De Noble was being very calculating.