The Parish of St. Brendan wasn’t a large church, but it had a massive graveyard. Cort couldn’t help but note its size. As soon as they reached the wall that surrounded the church, she slithered off the horse.
“Bring Vulcan inside the wall and tie him off,” she told Cort. “Father Finbar should be inside.”
Cort dismounted and did as he was instructed, leading the horse inside the chest-high stone wall and tying him off on a tree that was growing next to the church. He looked around, an edginess to his manner.
“You said that this is a hive of rebels,” he said. “I confess I am not particularly comfortable that we rode in, out in the open for everyone to see. Surely word is spreading about the English knight who has entered the village.”
Dera reached out and took him by the hand. “Even if that is true, there is probably no one who will do anything about it,” she said quietly. “It is my suspicion that all of the men in the village, at least the fighting men, are at Mount Wrath.”
He looked at her. “You believe it was men from the village who sacked the castle?”
She nodded. “It is very possible,” she said. “And the village is close to the castle, so it would make sense to me. But let us go in and speak with Father Finbar. He will know.”
Leaving Vulcan under the tree, munching hungrily on the fat, green grass beneath it, Cort permitted Dera to lead him into the church. It was dark inside, with the smell of incense heavy in the air because of the recent lauds mass. A few acolytes were moving about, sweeping the floor up near the altar while others were performing other tasks.
It wasn’t as empty as it looked outside. Cort let Dera pull him in about halfway when he came to a halt and disengaged his hand from hers. When she looked at him curiously, he gestured towards the front of the church.
“Find Father Finbar,” he said. “I will wait here.”
She nodded. “I will,” she said. “I will hurry.”
She rushed off. Cort watched her go, heading to the front of the church and speaking to an acolyte. When the lad pointed to a door on the north side of the church, Dera quickly disappeared through it.
Feeling increasingly nervous, Cort made his way to the edge of the church, remaining in the shadows. He could watch the situation much better from here without feeling exposed. He watched men and boys move around the church, going about their duties, and he also watched Irish peasants coming in and out, saying a brief prayer. They looked completely normal to him, not like the mindless animals he’d always painted in his mind.
In fact, standing there had been an interesting experience.
It gave him a chance to view the Irish in their natural state, as people and not as enemies. Mothers who tugged on the ears of lads who wanted to run wild through the church, or old couples who lovingly gripped each other as they prayed.
But the truth was that they were enemies.
As Cort stood there and observed life going on around him, it began to occur to him that the deliriously warm emotions from last night were wearing off and the reality of being in Ireland was hitting hard. The reality of a pending battle was hanging over his head, reminding him of why he’d really come. It wasn’t to languish the night away in a little inn by the sea with a woman he’d fallen heavily for.
It was to regain a castle in a land of men who wanted to kill him.
He was a man torn.
“Cort?”
Dera’s voice came from behind him, off to his right, and he turned to see her approaching him in the shadows, followed by a tiny man in brown woolen robes. He didn’t smile at her, but he nodded his head to acknowledge her, and she turned to indicate the man behind her.
“This is Father Finbar,” Dera said. “Father, this is… well, he’s English and I want you to speak to him about the plight of the Irish against the English. He’s come to understand our perspective. Will you help him?”
Father Finbar came closer, studying Cort in the darkness. The man was not only short, but he had little hands, stringy white hair, and was blind in one eye. But evidently, he could see clearly enough.
He could see the enormous English knight.
“Did you come with the army that arrived yesterday?” he asked warily.
Cort couldn’t deny the obvious. “Aye,” Cort said without hesitation. “And my name is Cort de Russe. I am an English knight, but I am also going to marry Dera, so you may as well know.”
The priest’s eyebrows rose. “Is that so?”
“It is.”
The priest looked at Dera in surprise, who nodded her head to confirm what the man had been told. The priest returned his wide-eyed gaze to Cort. “Then what comes first?” he asked. “The marriage or the reclamation of the castle?”
Cort thought there was an ironic twist of humor to that, but he couldn’t be sure. He remained serious.
“The castle, of course,” he said. “It is a de Winter castle and I have come to take it back. I want to know about the men who are holding it. Will you tell me?”
The priest continued to stare at him a moment before taking another step towards him and lowering his voice.
“I will not tell you about them so you can kill them,” he said. “I will not help you do that.”
Cort remembered what Dera had told him about the priest, how the man didn’t advocate violence. But he was a man loyal to his people, to his religion, and to his country. That recollection forced him to change his tactic.
“I do not want to kill them if I can help it,” he said. “I would prefer to talk to them and find out what their terms are. I want to… understand their side of the situation, Father, because Dera has asked me to. If you will help me understand, then mayhap we can end this situation… peacefully.”
He spoke the last word as if he weren’t at all sure it was possible. Father Finbar didn’t seem convinced, either, but he didn’t call him out on it. There was enough hesitation between them that Dera felt the need to speak up.
“Father, you speak to us of freedom and living in peace with one another,” she said. “Cort wishes to understand how the Irish think and that is why I brought him. You know I would not have brought him so he can discover a way of killing our lads, but they killed my father and brother when they captured Mount Wrath. I want to know why.”
Father Finbar looked at her. “I know, lass,” he said quietly. “And I am very sorry for that. But sometimes, men do things in the heat of passion that is above what they would normally do. In Mount Wrath, the lads saw a beacon of the English and without you within her walls to give them hope that MacRohan had some semblance of Irish loyalty, all they saw was oppression. When you left, it took away their hope. Can you not understand that?”
Dera was starting to tear up, something she hadn’t done in a while when discussing her dead father and brother. “But Finn and Ardie… they fought with the Irish.”
“But they don’t have your strength, lass. You are a natural leader.”
“And my mother? Do you know where she is?”
Father Finbar shook his head. “I don’t,” he said. “I’ve not heard. If it gives you any comfort, I don’t think they’ve moved your mother or remaining brothers out of Mount Wrath. I believe they’re still there.”
Dera shook her head, quickly wiping away her tears. “But why?” she asked. “Why would they keep them there? I simply don’t understand any of this.”
Father Finbar watched her struggle before glancing at Cort. “Let’s not stand here in the open,” he muttered. “Come with me.”
They did.
Cort took Dera by the arm as they followed the old priest from the nave of the small church and into the cloister outside. It was a square cloister, with dormitories and kitchens around it, but there was also a small refectory, or dining room, for the priests. Father Finbar headed into the small chamber with its scrubbed tables and simple chairs. He had Cort and Dera sit down as he sent a pledge for drink. As the man ran off, Father Finbar sat at the end of the table with his guests.
>
“Dera, as I told you, the lads look at you as the sole beacon of Irish civility at Mount Wrath,” he said. “Ardie and Finn were patriots, ’tis true, but not like you. They did as they were told and they advocated death to all who opposed them. But you… you were the voice of reason, lass. You were an inspiration for what was right and good. You lifted men with your words and actions. And when your father sent you away… there was great resentment. And there was also no restraint.”
Dera was listening closely. “Who was it, Father? Do you know?”
He lifted his hands in an uncertain gesture. “Cillian O’Brien and Fallon MacDuffy,” he said. “At least, that is what I’ve been told. I’ve not seen them around since it happened, so I am certain they are at Mount Wrath, unwilling to leave their prize. They were always the leaders of whatever went on in these parts.”
Dera shook her head in disgust. “They were friends of Ardie and Finn,” she said. “They had their trust. Did they betray that trust to attack my home?”
Father Finbar averted his gaze a moment, pondering his answer. He truthfully didn’t have one. When he finally spoke again, it was to Cort.
“You want to learn about the men who have taken Mount Wrath,” he said. “These aren’t bloodthirsty lads. They are men who love their country as you love yours. If a great army was to invade England, you would do everything in your power to stop it, would you not?”
It was the same argument Dera had used on him and Cort glanced at her before answering. “I would.”
“And it is not because you are a rebel.”
“It is not.”
“It is because you love the land of your birth and you want to be free to govern it as it was meant to be.”
“I would agree with that.”
“And there are ways for men to live peacefully. They can coexist and not kill each other.”
“How?”
Father Finbar lifted his skinny shoulders. “It seems to me that men of power are greedy,” he said. “It’s not a new story. The ancient Celts were greedy, as were the ancient Romans. So were the Northmen. Greed drove them to distant shores. Then the Normans came and they spread out over Ireland, but their power has waned. Now, ’tis only The Pale that exists for the English, but even that is too much for some Irish brethren. The time has come that they want their country back and to coexist peacefully is something we must explore, for if we do not, men will continue dying on both sides.”
Cort sighed as he sat back, assessing the situation. He could see that Dera and Father Finbar shared the same opinions because he’d heard the exact same things coming from her.
But he wasn’t convinced.
“That is a pretty speech, but you still have not told me how the English and Irish can peacefully coexist in Ireland,” he said. “There must be order. There must be laws. Ireland has historically proven that it cannot govern itself. You have different tribes running all over Ireland, fighting and dying against each other. Ireland has not been united under one king since the time of the Duke of Normandy.”
Father Finbar smiled, revealing mostly missing teeth. “And England has suffered its share of incivility, too,” he said. “Brothers fighting brothers for the throne of England, brothers fighting fathers. Even your own king, Henry, had a father who stole the crown from another. Who knows what your King Henry will do in his lifetime to disrupt England? And you believe such a monarchy can effectively rule Ireland? Nay, lad. Henry will treat Ireland as your King Richard once treated England. He will use it for money and nothing more. There will be no love for it. Mayhap the Irish fight each other, but they all share one thing – they love their country more than England does.”
Cort had to admit that the priest had a very good argument. “But it does not change the way of things,” he said. “It does not change the fact that English lords have held lands in Ireland for hundreds of years. They want to keep their lands. Their families have toiled and died over their lands, too. There is plenty of English blood in Ireland.”
The priest nodded, conceding the point. “That is true,” he said. “I understand that the English have fought and bled for their lands, but the legacy of Irish loyalty runs deep. The men of this land feel that the Lords of de Winter only use them for taxes and conscript.”
Cort shrugged. “But that is how the nobility builds their armies, even in England,” he said. “That is nothing new and it certainly is not limited to the Irish.”
Father Finbar knew that, but he was trying to explain it from the Irish perspective that Cort, so far, hadn’t seemed to understand.
“All the Irish want is to be free to rule their own lands,” he said. “But hundreds of years of battles has not helped the situation. The English have been driven into The Pale and that is where they remain.”
Cort shrugged. “Then short of England leaving Ireland, which is not going to happen, what would you suggest? Men hold Mount Wrath and there is a three-thousand-man army waiting to wrest it from them. What should I tell the army? Because de Winter wants his property back and he will get it, even if we have to kill every Irish rebel in the castle.”
Father Finbar stroked his chin. “Those lads aren’t bad men, you know.”
“I understand that, but we cannot simply leave the castle to them. It is certainly not a decision I can make. My brother commands the English army, so I can advise him on the matter, but what else can we do?”
Father Finbar scratched his head thoughtfully. “Would you be willing to negotiate?”
“Gladly. With what?”
“Mayhap promise the lads that they will have some say in what happens on de Winter lands,” he said. “That’s all they want; the opportunity for fairness. Form a local council to advise de Winter. The Earls of Kildare have alliances with local lords, but de Winter does not. They never have. Form alliances that will strengthen both sides of The Pale.”
Cort was listening with some interest. “Is that what you mean by coexisting in peace?”
Father Finbar nodded firmly. “Indeed,” he said. “The lads in this land are angry because de Winter does not listen to them. MacRohan holds the line at Mount Wrath and will not listen at all.”
“That is because my family is treated like traitors,” Dera spoke up. “You know this, Father. Because Clan MacRohan holds a legacy debt to de Winter, we are viewed as a family who betrays our very country, but that is not true. We have had to walk the razor’s edge between our oath of honor and our heritage. The more we are treated poorly, the more I have seen my father withdraw until this contention finally killed him.”
Father Finbar couldn’t deny that. He nodded, acknowledging her point. “De Russe, if you are willing to talk to your armies so they will not attack Mount Wrath right away, then mayhap we can negotiate with those who hold the castle.”
Cort shrugged. “I cannot make any promises,” he said. “De Winter is here and they want their property returned.”
“Will you at least try?”
“I will speak to them, but that is all I can do.”
“Then that is all I can ask.”
It seemed the situation was settled, at least for now. It was far more complex than their brief conversation, centuries of turmoil and conquest and, as Father Finbar said, greed. It almost always boiled down to greed. But one tiny step towards peace was better than more sieges and more death.
Cort thought it was worth trying, anyway, but he wasn’t sure how Dillon was going to respond. The man was going on his father’s orders and could not disobey them. But as the discussion of Mount Wrath came to a conclusion, something else came to mind.
There was a little matter of a marriage.
“Now, there is something I must ask of you,” Cort said. “I told you I plan to marry the lady. I would like to do it now and I would like you to perform the ceremony. I realize this request may seem very strange considering the fact that we are potentially facing a battle of her people against mine, but I do not see an Irish woman when I look at her. I simply
see a woman that I love. We would like to be married and I will pay you well to perform the ceremony.”
The old priest didn’t seem so shocked by the request considering he’d been forewarned of Cort’s intentions, but he did look at Dera to see what her reaction was to all of this.
“Is that what you want, lass?” he asked her.
Dera was looking at Cort with utter adoration in her eyes, a smile playing on her lips. “It is.”
The priest sighed in resignation. “You know a marriage between you and an English knight… the lads who hold Mount Wrath will not be pleased by it. They may view you as a traitor, which will only feed their anger against MacRohan.”
Dera knew that, but gazing up at Cort, she didn’t care. It was a defining moment for her, because she had been the voice of reason in the matter of their marriage. She had been concerned about the consequences for Cort even when he hadn’t been. She’d been afraid of the man ruining his life for her. She’d tried to be unselfish about it.
But she could no longer be unselfish.
She loved him and she wanted him.
“I cannot help what they feel, Father,” she said. “I cannot help what I feel for Cort. I don’t see a Béarla when I look at him. I only see a man of strength, of wit, and of conviction. But you must not tell anyone about the marriage. Until Cort is able to speak with his king, no one must know. Do you understand?”
The priest looked at Cort strangely. “You would speak to the king about your marriage?”
Cort nodded. “Henry and I grew up together. He is a personal friend as well as my king.”
Either that terrified the old priest or it impressed him; it was difficult to tell from the look of possibly horror he had on his face. But he quickly nodded his head, motioning for the couple to remain at the table as he stood up.
Dark Warrior (de Russe Legacy Book 9) Page 24
