Dark Warrior (de Russe Legacy Book 9)

by Kathryn Le Veque

So she knows, he thought. But he shrugged his shoulders and peered more closely inside the basket. “Why on earth would you be a hostage?” he said. “MacRohan is sworn to de Winter. It is not as if you are an enemy prisoner.”

  She shook her head, reaching in to pull out a smaller basket that contained the honey crisps. “Nay,” she said slowly. “MacRohan is not the enemy. Cort, may I ask you something?”

  “If you wish.”

  She looked at him thoughtfully. “What would you do if France or Spain or Scotland tried to invade England?”

  “Fight them off, of course.”

  “Then why are the Irish not allowed to fight off England as she invades our country?”

  He’d fallen into that trap, realizing it too late. She was starting off the conversation with a confrontational question immediately. No gentle discussion leading into the fight; she would delve right into it. But he wasn’t so sure that he wanted to delve right into it. He pointed to the basket in her hand.

  “What do you have there?” he asked.

  She was waiting for a reply to her question, looking at the basket in disappointment that he hadn’t answered her. “These are called crisps,” she said, extending it to him. “They’re little dough biscuits with honey. I made them myself.”

  Cort took a couple but he refrained from putting them in his mouth just yet. He sniffed them, all the while remembering her last four words to him – I made them myself. If she was the rebel and killer of men that they all thought she was, then that killer instinct might very well trickle over into the food. Until he was certain that was not the case, he wasn’t going to eat anything she gave him.

  A pity, too.

  Nothing endeared him to a woman more than one who liked to ply him with food. He was a fool for a good meal. He watched Dera and she made no move to eat her own treats, which he took as a warning. As she dug around in the basket, he pretended to eat the crisps but the truth was that he ended up depositing them onto the ground behind him when she wasn’t looking. When she looked up, he pretended to be chewing.

  “Delicious,” he said. “And you made them yourself?”

  She nodded. “Do you really like them?”

  “I do.”

  “Then you can have all you wish.”

  She put the little basket with the crisps in front of him, much to his chagrin. But he smiled as he reached out and took a handful. They were hard, which meant they would crunch when chewed, so he suspected he should at least make crunching sounds so she wouldn’t get suspicious. He put a couple in his mouth, chewed loudly, and then spit them on the ground behind him when she wasn’t looking.

  “Try these,” she said, holding up a basket of what looked like a pink, spongy loaf. “It’s cherry bread. Try it.”

  He took a piece, not hinting at the fact that he had no intention of eating it. He sniffed it as if interested.

  “It smells delicious,” he said. “While I eat, tell me about the Ireland I do not know.”

  Dera looked up from the basket, her gaze moving over the lake as she thought on his question. “It doesn’t look much different from this,” she said. “Lakes, homes, and villages. People going about their way of life. And the music… so much music. My brothers and I sing and play instruments. So does my mother. She has the voice of an angel.”

  “And you?”

  She looked at him, slightly chagrinned. “All I can say is that I sing loudly and know all of the words,” she said, watching him laugh. “But singing is at the heart of my people. We sing of heroes or family or lost lovers. We sing of anything at all. Some songs are sad, but some are inspiring.”

  Cort could see that music had touched something within her. Her entire face lit up when speaking of it, so clearly, it was a deep love. He was seeing a facet of her that he’d never seen before, this woman who could kill so easily yet had a musical soul.

  There was something undeniably enchanting about her.

  “Tell me your favorite song,” he said.

  Dera paused, thinking. “There is a song about a lost bride, which reminds me very much of Bella and Brend,” she said. “In fact, when I first realized their relationship, I thought of the song. It’s about a woman who falls into the well and dies, but her ghost lives on and she can hear her lover above the well, singing to her and hoping she’ll come to him. It’s very sad but very sweet. He won’t marry unless he can marry her, so he never marries at all.”

  Cort’s eyebrows lifted. “Ah,” he said. “I hope that is not Brend or Bella’s fate, but I can see the commonality. What’s the song called?”

  “The Groom’s Lament.”

  “Sing it to me.”

  She flushed deeply. “I am not sure it will sound very good,” she said. “I usually play the harp when I sing because I’ve never been able to sing very well without it.”

  He smiled to encourage her. “I’m sure you sing beautifully, with or without the harp,” he said. “Let me hear you.”

  She eyed him. “If you wish, but you’ll be sorry.”

  “I’ll take my chances.”

  Taking a deep breath, she launched into the song.

  One fine day, her laughter called to him;

  O’er the mountains, to the sweet and green vale.

  He answered the call and climbed the mountain,

  To find an angel resting in the vale.

  To those who knew, the lovers grew,

  And adored only each other.

  But the day came when the bride fell away,

  To a cold and dark well below.

  The groom searched, singing her name aloud,

  But the spirit from the well could not answer.

  She died that day, but her heart remained true

  To the groom from o’er the mountains.

  The ghost in the well was the bride, you see, the lass with heart so true;

  Her groom died alone, upon his lips was the song, to call to his angel in the vale.

  Now a ghost at the bottom of a well.

  She had a sweet, breathy voice, not very strong, but it was in tune. The music to the song was mournful and haunting, and she sang it well. Cort thought that it was incredibly charming.

  “You sing very sweetly,” he said. “I should like to listen to it again.”

  Dera was so embarrassed that she couldn’t even look at him. “Not again,” she said. “Unless I have accompaniment, it is difficult for me to sing. I fear it wasn’t very good.”

  “It was marvelous,” he assured her. “Whoever tells you that you cannot sing will have to answer to me, even if it is your own brothers. I will take them to task.”

  She smiled bashfully. “You are going to swell my head,” she said. “But I thank you for it. Truly, there is much song in my land, and so much of it is old and mysterious. Songs carried down through the centuries. Ireland is an ancient land that has been untouched by many of the people who have invaded England.”

  “For example?”

  “The ancient Romans never invaded Ireland like they invaded England,” she said. “My father told me it was because they were discouraged after dealing with the Scots. They didn’t want to fight any more rabid Celtic tribes.”

  Cort lifted his hand to gesture as he responded, but he realized he was still holding the uneaten cherry bread. If he liked her treats as much as he said he did, then he knew he needed to take a bite of the bread so she wouldn’t get suspicious.

  “That is true,” he said, taking a big bite. “But the Northmen came to Ireland just as they came here.”

  Dera nodded and looked back to her basket. Cort hadn’t even chewed the bread; he turned his head and spit it out like a cork popping from a bottle and Dera was none the wiser.

  “They did come, that is true,” she said. “But Ireland remained untouched for the most part by all of the armies who came to England. We have such ancient ways that belong only to us. It is something to be shielded and cherished. That is why we are so protective of our country – to keep it safe for the genera
tions of Irish to come. Why should England want any part of our country?”

  Cort had enough of his fake eating. As it was, there was a pile of half-chewed food behind him that looked like vomit that he hoped she wouldn’t see. He didn’t want to eat her food, but he didn’t want to insult her, either. He leaned back on his elbows, stretching out his big body in the hopes of hiding the pile of masticated edibles as he pondered her question.

  “It is not that simple,” he said after a moment.

  “Then explain it to me. Please.”

  He eyed her. “Ireland cannot peacefully govern herself.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He shrugged. “Do you have one king? One country? Of course you do not. You have dozens of warring tribes, running around killing one another. Ireland has always been filled with men willing to kill each other and divide one another. Ireland is divisive with or without the English, Dera. Surely you know that.”

  “But it is our country,” she said passionately. “If we are to divide it, let it be by us. We do not need interference.”

  Cort looked at her. “Then let me put this in a way that makes sense,” he said. “England is a country under one king. France is under one king and so is Spain. These countries are strong because they are united. There is order and there is law. These countries have exports and economies so they can make money for themselves and for their people. They are civilized. Now, just how civilized do you think Ireland is with a bunch of warring tribes determined to kill each other? There is chaos. That is no way for a country to exist. England is trying to help Ireland, Dera, by bringing that order so Ireland can thrive.”

  It was a way of putting it that Dera hadn’t thought of before. He had some good points, but she wasn’t going to admit it. She had come out to the lake to convince him that Ireland needed to be free, not the other way around. He was trying to force her to see the need for England’s intervention and that wasn’t something she was willing to accept.

  “You said yourself that if another country tried to invade England, you would fight them off,” she said. “Why is it wrong for Ireland to want to be free of England?”

  Cort’s gaze lingered on her for a moment. “You came here to tell me about Ireland,” he said slowly, “but what you have done is leapt to the defense of your country as if I am the one to personally blame for the English occupation. England has been in Ireland long before I was born and long before you were born, too. Like it or not, it is the way things are.”

  He was giving her the reality of the situation and her cheeks turned red, embarrassed. She averted her gaze, clearing her throat softly.

  “I did not mean to make it sound as if you alone are guilty for anything,” she said. “I suppose I am simply trying to understand why. I thought you could help me.”

  “And I thought you were going to tell me more of an Ireland I do not know. I would rather talk about that.”

  She looked at him, then, realizing she had to take another angle in the conversation if he was going to see her side of things. Condemning England hadn’t convinced him.

  Perhaps something else would.

  “It is a beautiful place that is greener than anything you’ve ever seen,” she said. “The people are fiercely loyal because they have a heritage that hasn’t been clouded. It’s a heritage that goes back thousands of years and it is full of great warriors, much like you.”

  Cort smiled faintly. “Tell me about the warriors.”

  Dera smiled in return, thinking of the oral histories of her people that she’d been told by her mother and grandparents on her mother’s side, those who weren’t sworn to de Winter.

  “In ancient times, there were heroes called the túath,” she said. “These are great warriors who protect the land and the people. But even before them, there was a race of great beings called the Tuatha De Danann. They were good for the most part and they faced off against their enemy, the Fomorians, who were led by a terrible man known as Balor of the Evil Eye. There were great battles between the two that tore Ireland apart, only to be restored by the gods and goddesses that protected the land.”

  He was smiling as he listened to her. “I think both of our countries have been battling within themselves for thousands of years,” he said. “England has her own magical beings of the past.”

  “But aren’t they the gods of those who invaded England?”

  He shrugged. “In part,” he said. “I think we all have ancient gods that were the equal of each other, regardless of our countries, but then the Christians came and now we all believe in one god. The church has unified us all.”

  “That is true,” she said. “But that is the only thing that unifies England and Ireland.”

  “There are other things,” Cort said. “We both share Northmen ancestors. Your race is not so pure as you would like to believe. You have been invaded, as have we, so that links us as well, only Ireland has kept to her legends. Ireland considers them history.”

  “They are history.”

  “You believe those people in ancient times actually existed?”

  She nodded fervently. “They made our country strong, from the beginning of time.”

  “They are stories, Dera,” he chided, as if she were an infant to believe in such things. “There is not one man on this earth that can produce a grave of a god or goddess, and certainly not the grave of an Irish hero. It is fine to respect the legend, but to believe they were real? That is childish. Grown men and women do not believe in myths.”

  Dera was feeling rebuked. “Ireland has a rich history that I am proud of,” she said. “You are proud of your country. Why can I not be proud of mine?”

  “I never said you could not be proud, but you must be sensible, too.”

  Dera sat there for a moment, pondering the turn of conversation. It hadn’t gone at all the way she had hoped and he’d hurt her feelings with his scolding, however gentle. Gone were thoughts of charming him, at least at the moment. Gone was the warmth from when she had sung to him. He was stubborn in his beliefs as she was stubborn in hers and she wouldn’t let the man reprove her for something she felt strongly over. In fact, his entire attitude seemed to be condescending, which didn’t sit well with her.

  “I am sensible,” she said. “I am also loyal to the land of my birth. You are loyal to England and so is my brother, but those are not my loyalties. When discussing Ireland and her freedom, you are simply regurgitating what you have heard from others, what every Englishman’s opinion is. You do not know Ireland. You do not know her people and how proud and generous they are. You only know what greedy men have told you, men who covet our lands and our wealth.”

  Cort watched her become angrier with every word she spoke. “Greedy men are the ones who make the laws and rule the world,” he said. “I would rather listen to greedy men than to barbarians who kill each other simply because it is tradition. How many Irishmen hate their neighbors because their forefathers did? How many of your lads die a fool’s death against one another? There is no honor or glory in your men; no knighthood or training or military structure worth speaking of. Men do not speak of Irish warriors as the greatest in the world. They are savages to the rest of us.”

  Her face was red by the time he was finished. “They are savages strong enough to kill Béarla dogs,” she hissed. “They kill them and rejoice in it.”

  Cort grinned, but there was no humor to it. “Mayhap they do, but remember this – there are more of us than there are of you,” he said quietly. “The sooner you come to that understanding, the better. At least your brother has the sense to know where his loyalties should be. If you do not learn this, you are bound for trouble. As both a woman and someone born in Ireland, you must learn your place in the world.”

  Dera was furious. Hurt, furious, and embarrassed by the entire conversation. This was not what she had planned. This wasn’t the sweet, flirtatious conversation she’d hoped to have with Cort. It had become something raw and angry. Flustered, she grabbed the ba
sket of food and lurched to her feet, marching back towards the castle without another word.

  Cort watched her go. He was still sitting on the cool grass, distressed that the conversation had gone as it had, but he’d driven it in that direction for a reason. He’d wanted to see just how far he could push her before she pushed back. He had hoped that in doing so, she might reveal her true colors.

  Unfortunately, she had.

  And he didn’t feel good about it.

  That fine-looking lass with the pale eyes had just shown him what she was made of and the more he thought about it, the sadder he became.

  When Dera disappeared through the postern gate in the distance, Cort got to his feet and followed her path back to Narborough Castle.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “Brend?”

  Brend was bent over the hoof of his big, spotted warhorse, one that Denys had purchased for him as a gift from the same dealer he’d purchased Vulcan from. In fact, Vulcan was in the next stall, munching loudly on his grain, as Brend looked up at the sound of his name.

  He knew that voice.

  Arabella was approaching, smiling timidly as she came near. “I have been looking for you,” she said quietly. “In fact, I looked in here a few moments ago but didn’t see you because you were back in this stall.”

  He smiled at her, dropping the hoof he’d been working on. “I came here to think,” he said. “I think best when I’m doing something with my hands. Something to keep busy.”

  Arabella’s smile faded. “Are you thinking about Dera?”

  Brend sighed heavily, turning back to the horse. “Aye.”

  Arabella watched him as he went back to the hooves. “She’s very upset, you know,” she said quietly. “My mother and I spent the past hour comforting her. What on earth did she do that would cause you to shout at her so?”

  Brend picked up a shaggy hoof, using a big, metal pick to clean it out. “She did not tell you?”

  “Nay. But she had blood on her and she said it was not hers.”

  “It wasn’t.”

  “Who did it belong to?”

  Brend didn’t say anything for a moment. He continued scraping out the hoof. “It belonged to one of the knights from Northbeck,” he finally said. “Dera killed him.”