Cort recognized Dillon de Winter on sight. Dark and muscular like the rest of the de Winter line, Dillon was the shining star of the family. Cort pointed at the man.
“I thought you were in town to see a fishmonger about a daughter?” he shouted.
Dillon immediately held up his hands to silence the man. “Are you trying to bring my mother down on me?” he hissed. “Cort, I love you, but another outburst like that and I will be forced to kill you and throw your body to the wolves.”
Cort laughed softly, embracing Dillon as the man came close. “Is it as bad as all that?” he asked. “Are you really interested in a fishmonger’s daughter?”
Dillon pursed his lips wryly, glancing at Brend before answering. “She is a lovely lass,” he said. “I will say no more about it out here in the open where my mother’s servants can hear. They will tell her and she will box my ears.”
Cort patted him on the head. “Your secret is safe,” he said. “How is your father taking it?”
“He is more at peace than my mother is.”
Cort accepted that without comment. Denys de Winter was an even-tempered man, so he wasn’t surprised. He’d also married a lady who was below his station in Lady Alais, which she’d evidently forgotten, but he didn’t comment. He simply pointed to the keep.
“I am heading inside now to greet your mother and demand sweets from her,” he said. “Come with me. Let us speak of my father and of the adventures I’ve had on Henry’s behalf.”
Dillon nodded. “Happily,” he said. “But no mention of the fishmonger’s daughter.”
“I swear it.”
Cort gave Dillon a cheeky grin which led the man to believe he didn’t mean it. Cort simply wanted to see Lady Alais spank her eldest son in a rage. If Dillon hadn’t loved the man so much, he would have sewn his mouth shut before they went inside.
With Cort de Russe around, life wasn’t always easy, but it certainly was exciting.
Brend and Dillon followed Cort into the keep of Narborough through a double-doored entry that opened up into a vast hall where servants were sweeping up old rushes and dumping the ashes from a hearth that saw far too much action.
A woman stood over them, her hair wrapped in a kerchief to keep the dust out of it, but the moment she looked up and saw Cort, she shrieked with surprise. Lady Alais de Winter rushed in Cort’s direction, her arms open wide.
“Cort!” she greeted happily as he embraced her and kissed her cheek. “I heard you had arrived. Shame upon you for not visiting me the second you rode in.”
Cort grinned at the sweet, plump woman he liked a great deal. “I tried, but I was delayed at every turn by Bella and Brend and Dillon,” he said. “They did not want you to see me because they know you love me best. Tell me you love me best and I shall live on it the rest of my days.”
Alais laughed softly. “Cort, you never change,” she said. “Come into the hall and I will send for wine. You must be weary from your travels. Have you come all the way from Deverill?”
He nodded as he let her take him by the hand and lead him over to one of two enormous feasting tables in the hall. “All the way,” he said. “This is my seventh day of travel and I am thoroughly exhausted. When you send for wine, send for food as well because I’ve not eaten all day.”
Immediately, Alais was clapping her hands and sending servants running to the kitchens. Cort stood by the table, removing his broadsword and laying it on the tabletop before he sat down, heavily. Brend and Dillon sat across from him while Alais took a seat beside him.
“Now,” Alais said. “Tell me how your mother and father are. Is Gaston feeling better these days?”
“He has good days and bad days,” Cort said, keeping a smile on his face at a painfully sensitive subject. “Of course, my mother is very well. She sends her greetings. My sister, Adeliza, is living at Deverill these days with her brood because her husband is in France for Henry, so my father has grandchildren crawling all over him at the moment.”
Alais smiled. “And he loves every minute of it.”
Cort nodded. “He does,” he said. “All girls, you know. My sister has six girls. As you can imagine, my father is in his element. He took care of my mother and her sisters long ago, so having Adeliza’s girls about is natural to him. Much like me, women naturally seem to love him.”
Alais shook her head. “It seems hard to believe a knight as fearsome as your father has such a tender side to him,” she said. “I did not know him those years ago, of course, but I have heard tale of the great Gaston de Russe’s history. Were it not for him, the Tudors would not have the throne of England. They own him much.”
“Henry is quite conscious of that, of course. He respects my father dearly.”
“And your mother is keeping busy these days?”
“Verily.”
“It is a pity she could not come and visit us, as well. In fact, to what do we owe the honor of your visit? It is a surprise to see you.”
Cort and Henry had come up with a plausible story for his sudden appearance at Narborough, so Cort was prepared. He relayed it with ease.
“My father has sent me on his behalf,” he said. “He is concerned with the de Winter properties in Ireland, since there is so much turmoil there, and has sent me to offer de Russe support. As much as I adore you, Lady Alais, and as much as I think your son is a bore, I have not come to see either of you. I have actually come to see Sir Denys.”
As Dillon chuckled at Cort’s insult, Alais simply grinned. “He will be delighted to see you,” she said. “He should be returning shortly with Damien. They went to see about a horse, you know. Damien’s birthday is next week and his father wants to purchase a big beast of a horse for him.”
“A warhorse, Mother,” Dillon said patiently. “It is time Damien had a piece of horseflesh that he can learn and grow with. He’s off to Thunderbey Castle soon to squire for the knights there and Father wants him to have a sturdy horse of his own.”
Cort’s eyebrows lifted. “I will believe it when I see it,” he said. “I remember Damien coming to foster at Deverill and his mother becoming so distraught at the separation that he returned home after only one year.”
There was a criticism there for Alais, however light, but she stood her ground. “I will not apologize for wanting my son to come home,” she said. “He is my baby, my last child, and unlike Dillon, he does not do well away from home. Dillon wanted to leave me when he could walk.”
Dillon looked at his mother, a smile on his lips. “I did not want to leave you, Mother,” he insisted. “I am simply the independent type. Damien has never left your breast.”
Alais had enough of being criticized for her childrearing. She stood up. “I can see that this table is turning hostile,” she sniffed. “Cort, I will go and see to your meal. Dillon, you will get nothing. Fend for yourself.”
With that, she marched away as the three knights snickered silently, like naughty boys. Dillon watched his mother go.
“She will forget what she said and bring me more than I can eat,” he said. “But you should know that it is my father who insists Damien go to Thunderbey. My mother is so angry over it that my father sleeps in another room these days.”
Cort shrugged. “My mother was the same way with all of us,” he said. “My brothers, me… when my youngest brother, Gage, went to foster, she cried for a week. When my father tried to comfort her, she punched him. He didn’t try to comfort her after that.”
Dillon laughed at Gaston’s expense. But quickly, he sobered. “So your father has offered his army for Ireland, then?” he asked. “That is quite an offer, Cort. The de Russe army is massive.”
That really wasn’t true, but Henry said he’d talk Gaston into it if de Winter needed the support, so he continued on that premise.
“He wants to know what is going on before he fully commits,” he said. “Tell me what happened with Black Cove? Who holds it now?”
“Magennis and Gilmore,” Brend said unhappily. “They
are MacRohan allies. At least, they were.”
Cort was trying to get information without truly prying. He was trying to make it sound more conversational. “Have you heard from your father?”
Brend nodded. “I saw him before Black Cove was taken because we went to collect Dera,” he said. “The garrison fell within a month after that. My father told Denys that he would hold the other de Winter garrisons but he needed reinforcements to gain back Black Cove because his men were stretched thin.”
Cort looked between Brend and Dillon. “It sounds as if you do not believe him.”
Brend looked at Dillon before shrugging his shoulders. “MacRohan has few allies when it comes to holding ground at the northern tip of The Pale,” he said. “My family is in a difficult position. Sir Denys wants to gather an army to regain Black Cove, which is why your father’s offer of men will be most welcome.”
Off to their left, servants began to come through the door with trays of food and the conversation about Ireland and Irish rebels died down. At least, on the surface. But in Cort’s mind, it hadn’t died down at all. Even when Dillon began to talk about other things purely because his mother had returned and Brend departed to go about his duties, Cort was still thinking about Ireland.
And one specific MacRohan lady that he was rather anxious to see again.
CHAPTER FOUR
“This is perfect, Brend,” Dera said. “Everyone knows that the House of de Russe is close to the king. Surely Cort de Russe knows what Henry is planning.”
Brend was facing his sister in the small chamber that had belonged to her since her arrival at Narborough. It had spectacular views of the countryside over the tops of those great curtain walls, the greenery and blue sky that was England spread out before them like a canvas. The chamber had a small hearth, a very comfortable bed, and a wardrobe for everything she owned. His sister had settled into it admirably, presenting the very appearance of a proper Irishwoman who knew her place in English society.
But it was all an act.
Brend had realized that the very first day. He hadn’t seen his sister in a couple of years, but in those two years, something had changed with her. Dera had been born and raised in Ireland, at the MacRohan stronghold of Mount Wrath. While their father Ardmore, or “Ardie”, and his brother, Oliver, seemed to hold true and fast to the MacRohan legacy of serving the House of de Winter, Dera held no such loyalty.
She was a rebel to the bone.
As Brend found out, his younger brothers Finn and Ardmore were, too, only they were much more discreet about it. But not Dera; she was convinced that the time of MacRohan servitude was over and a new age of independence was on the horizon, and even though she was well aware that her presence in England was as a hostage to ensure MacRohan submission, she viewed it as entirely something else.
A chance to gather intelligence from the belly of the beast.
England.
That put Brend in a terrible position. In truth, he was English, just as he’d told Cort. He’d been raised in England and it was his home. But his blood was Irish. Although he didn’t agree with his sister and her position, he would never betray her to the House of de Winter. Her secret was his secret. His family ties ran deeper than any country’s loyalty.
“Cort de Russe is an elite knight, Dera,” Brend said. “He comes from a long line of elite knights. If you try to gain information from him, he will know it and your loyalties will be discovered. Cort will not protect you like I have.”
Dera eyed her brother. She was dressed in a soft blue dressing gown, something she’d borrowed from Arabella after washing the pond scum off, and she sat by the fire as she combed through her drying hair.
“He will never know what I am doing,” she said. “All I have to do is play the charming halfwit and he will never know the difference. I will look at him adoringly, tell him I love him, and he will believe me.”
“He is not that stupid.”
“Neither am I.”
Brend was genuinely trying not to become frustrated with her. “So this is your great scheme?” he said. “Glean information from Cort? And then what? How will you get it back to Mount Wrath?”
She returned her focus to her hair. “I have heard that Lord de Winter is sending an army back to Ireland to regain Black Cove,” she said. “You can take the information with you when you go and relay it to Father Finbar at St. Brendan’s in Lisnadara. He will make sure it gets to the right people.”
“What makes you think I am going?”
“Because the legacy knight always leads the army, in any de Winter battle.”
He hissed through his teeth. “Did you ever stop to ask me what I think in all of this?” he asked, frustrated. “I am not like you. I am not embroiled in this rebellion against the English. In fact, if the Irish regain The Pale, I will remain here with de Winter. This is my home.”
“It may be your home, but it is not your country,” Dera said, looking at him. “You are a servant in this land, Brend. You cannot own land, you cannot even marry Arabella even though you love her and she loves you. Is that what this country means to you? Treating you no better than a dog in spite of the fact you are willing to die for it?”
Brend’s expression cooled. “It is the only home I’ve ever known,” he said. “I was sent here when I was five years of age, Dera. I am English.”
“Not to them.”
He sighed sharply. “They have never treated me any differently.”
“Oh?” she said. She gestured to the door with her brush. “Then go down into the hall tonight and ask Sir Denys if you can marry Arabella. See how much they accept you then.”
His jaw ticked angrily because he knew she was right. The whole situation between him and Arabella was pathetic and sad. He loved the woman; he had for a couple of years and she returned those feelings. Secretly, they discussed marrying and running away to France where their marriage would not be illegal, but they both had love and loyalty towards the House of de Winter, making the execution of that plan very difficult. Mostly, Arabella didn’t want to leave her family, as much as she loved Brend, and Brend had never brought up the subject of marriage to Denys because he knew what the man’s answer would be.
Dilemma, indeed.
“If you want to interrogate Cort de Russe, then you can do it by yourself,” he finally said, turning away. “I’ll not help you. These people you want to rebel against are my friends.”
“And I am your family,” Dera clapped back. “Do they mean more to you than I do?”
Brend grunted at the ridiculous of that statement. “Apparently, I don’t mean anything to anyone,” he said. “I’m an Irishman pretending to be an Englishman, and the English don’t accept me nor do the Irish. I’m caught in limbo, a man with no country. Don’t try to manipulate me by telling me I’m your family. I am your brother in blood and in name, but that’s where it ends. I would never betray you, but leave me out of your scheming.”
Dera was torn between feeling sorry for her brother and being angry at him for denying his Irish heritage. “I’m not scheming,” she said. “Don’t you think our family has a right to be free of de Winter after two hundred years of servitude? Isn’t that enough?”
Brend threw up his hands. “I am honored to be a legacy knight,” he said. “Being a woman, you cannot understand that and I don’t think I can explain it to you. You look at me as a traitor and I don’t care, Dera. I really don’t. I will make my way in life with or without your approval, but I will tell you this – if you hurt my friends or shame our family in the eyes of the House of de Winter, I will pretend I don’t have a sister. No flesh and blood of mine would stoop to dishonor and insurrection.”
Dera was starting to turn red in the face at his personal attack. “Is that what being a legacy knight for de Winter has done for you? Turned you against your own family?”
“It has given me more honor than anything you could ever hope to understand. It’s a pity you cannot grasp it.”
Wi
th that, he turned on his heel and quit the chamber, leaving Dera wondering if her brother had been brainwashed by the English or if she was indeed showing dishonor to two hundred years of MacRohan men who served the House of de Winter with distinction.
Perhaps it was a little of both. She had her world and Brend had his. But one thing was for certain; at some point, those world were going to collide and when they did, she intended to be on the side of right.
She was fighting for freedom.
Even if that freedom didn’t include her brother.
CHAPTER FIVE
Damien de Winter was a delight if there ever was one.
Damien and his father, Denys, returned to Narborough after dark, riding into a bailey that was lit by the fire of dozens of torches. Damien, of course, was on his brand new horse, a magnificent blond beast that he was extremely proud of.
But it was too much horse for the lad, as was soon to be proved.
Once they entered the bailey, Damien crowed in delight as the soldiers paused to admire his horse, but the animal was weary from the ride, and a bit skittish, and Damien lost control of the steed when someone slapped it on the rear and it bolted.
As Damien tried desperately to rein the horse in, it charged right up the small flight of stairs leading into the keep. The doors were open because of the heat of the day, so the horse ended up charging into the hall where the evening meal was commencing.
By that time, Damien had managed to stop the horse, but not wanting his mother to insist it was too much animal for him, he cheered loudly for himself and raised a fist to the startled crowd in the hall as if he’d planned the entire thing.
“Alas!” he cried. “I have the greatest horse in all of England and I shall be invincible in battle! All hail Damien the Magnificent! Cheer for me, do you hear? Do it now!”
The hall burst into laughter and cheers as Damien struggled to back the horse out of the hall, revealing that he really didn’t have control of it as much as he wanted everyone to think. Denys ran in at that point as Cort and Dillon approached cautiously, hoping to help Damien with a horse that was clearly too much for him and not insult him in the process.
Dark Warrior (de Russe Legacy Book 9) Page 5
