Devlin’s presence in the English fold would be a very big secret, indeed. The man, if captured, would be the ultimate prize. Perhaps the lady wouldn’t betray him; perhaps she would. As Devlin said, it all depended on what meant more to her – her lover or betraying Devlin to the English. The woman would indeed hold the key to Devlin’s survival or lack thereof.
With Devlin captured or dead, the command would fall to Shain, but Shain was a man who was too timid sometimes. He was an excellent warrior but was often too cautious for Frederick’s taste. Then, there was Iver… a very wise warrior but he was better when someone else was telling him what to do. And then there was himself… Freddy, as they called him. He thought he was the best warrior of the bunch but he’d been under Devlin’s command most of his life. He’d never truly had a chance to show is mettle. If Devlin was gone, then he might have a chance. But unless the man was betrayed or eliminated somehow, there would never be an opportunity.
So perhaps the lady wouldn’t betray Devlin… but what if someone else did?
As Devlin and the other commanders continued to chat, he slipped from the room.
∾
CHAPTER SEVEN
She was back.
It was nearing the evening hours as Emllyn sat upon the chair that had been brought to her chamber that afternoon by one of the raggedy male servants, along with a table to go with it. It seemed that, bit by bit, the room was becoming more furnished and Nessa, Enda’s silent daughter, had even brought an armful of willow branches and tossed them onto the floor around the bed. The smell of fresh cut branches filled the room. But then, Eefha returned and the entire room smelled like her shite pipe again.
So she was back.
Emllyn sat and watched the old woman for a short while before deciding to ignore her. She really had no idea why the old woman had come because there was no real way to communicate with her, so she decided to go about her business which happened to be trying on the garments Eefha had given her. In fact, she was rather excited to try on the new clothing.
Her first order of business was to sort all of the items out and she took to the task eagerly. When all was said and done, with everything, including the garments Enda had brought her the day before, she had two shifts, three surcoats, a red silk robe that had beautiful gold stitching around the edges, a cloak, three belts that were made from various metal links or fabric, two pairs of leather slippers, and a leather sack that contained a bone comb, fine strips of cloth that were meant to tie off hair with, some kind of fat or pomade in a small, heavy clay pot that smelled of rosemary and mint, and a very lumpy white hunk of what she assumed to be soap that smelled of myrtle or pine, she thought. There were even flecks of green in it.
In all, it was an interesting horde, and Emllyn was quite pleased with all of it. Enda had left her a pitcher of water and a bowl earlier; she used the water to work the soap bar up into a reasonable paste just to make sure that it was, indeed, soap. The pomade in the pot that smelled of rosemary and mint seemed to be something to soften the skin because she rubbed it on her chapped hands and it soothed them nicely. .
Next, she tried on the fine white shift and pulled another surcoat of white wool over it. It was very warm and fit her rather well. A belt of green silk with tassels draped around her waist. Thrilled that she finally had clothes that fit, and decent clothes at that, she proceeded to comb her hair with the bone comb and braid it. A heavy, silky reddish-blond braid draped elegantly over her right shoulder.
One of the belts seemed to have an issue with the weave so she sat in the chair again and tried to fix the problem. All the while, she kept glancing over at the stool next to the hearth where old Eefha sat. The woman was staring into the flames, puffing away on that stinky pipe. Emllyn found her attention increasingly on the silent old woman and she eventually lowered the belt to her lap.
“I am not entirely sure if you can understand me,” she said politely, “but I want to thank you for what you have given me. You are very kind. I realize I am the enemy and you could have very well disregarded me, but I am grateful that you did not.”
The old woman puffed and puffed, seemingly ignoring her. Emllyn wasn’t sure what more to say because the woman clearly didn’t understand her. Maybe she’d lost the ability to communicate normally long ago, speaking strangely as she did. With a sigh, perhaps of some regret that the woman didn’t understand her gratitude, she returned to the belt repair and murmured a song from her childhood simply to pass the time.
“’Though oft of Fairy Land they spoke,
No eerie beings dwelled therein,
'Twas filled throughout with joyous folk
Like men, though freed from death and sin.’”
She continued to hum the tune and muttered a word now and again as she worked on the belt. She was about to start on the next verse when, from across the room, she heard another voice.
“’And sure those bards were truest knights
Whose thoughts of women high were set,
Nor deemed them prizes, won in fights,
But minds like men's, and women yet.”
Emllyn’s head popped up after the first few words were sung, realizing the old woman was doing the singing in her raspy, ancient voice. It was a common enough song but somehow, in those verses, meant they were speaking the same language. They both knew the same song. When Eefha finished the last word, she continued to stare at the fire and puff on her smelly pipe. Emllyn watched her closely for some kind of additional response but there was none. Then, she ventured softly with the last verse to see if she could elicit the same reaction as before.
“’In forms like those men loved of old,
Naught added, nothing torn away….’”
Emllyn trailed off, waiting to see if old Eefha picked up the queue. It took several long moments but, eventually, the old woman finished the song.
“’… The ancient tales again are told,
Can none their own true magic sway?”
When she finished the song she paused and puffed her pipe before very slowly turning to Emllyn. Their eyes met and, for a moment, they simply stared at one another. There was something warm in the air, perhaps a measure of understanding. Then, Emllyn broke out into a timid smile. This time, she was sure the old woman smiled back. And then she went back to smoking her pipe.
Emllyn laughed softly and returned to finish her belt but she felt, in that moment, as if she had accomplished something. Somehow, in the verses of that old song, she and old Eefha had communicated. It was progress. As she worked with the knots on the belt that needed mending, the chamber door rattled violently.
Startled by the loud burst, Emllyn nearly dropped the belt. Heart pounding in her throat, she didn’t move; she sat and waited for something else to happen. It wasn’t long in coming.
“Open the door, wench!” came a booming bellow. “Open it up or I’ll break it down.”
Emllyn was terrified. She sat, rooted to the spot, too frightened to even open her mouth. She simply sat there, hoping whoever was demanding entry would go away. But he banged on the door again, louder than before.
“Open this door, I say!” he yelled. “Open it or I shall beat you severely when I get into the room, and trust me when I tell you that I shall get into the room.”
Jolted out of inaction, Emllyn began looking around frantically for a weapon of some kind. She wasn’t entirely sure the old bolt would hold and wanted to make sure she could protect herself. As she bolted from the chair and began searching the room for something, anything, to protect herself with, Eefha quite calmly stood up from her stool by the hearth.
Emllyn was in the process of inspecting the chair she had been sitting on, undoubtedly to use it like a club, as the old woman headed for the door. Emllyn had her back to Eefha, unaware that the old woman was calmly moving for the bolted panel, and she was further unaware that the woman had unsheathed a sharp dagger buried in the folds of her robes. Emllyn only realized the old woman had moved when she hear
d the bolt unlatch. As she turned in horror, convinced she had just been betrayed, the old woman pulled open the door and plunged the dagger into the man standing on the landing outside. As quickly as she had buried the blade in his flesh, it was with equal swiftness that she removed it.
Frederick looked with shock at the wound in his gut. He stumbled back, howling, as he slapped a hand over the bleeding puncture. Seeing that it was Eefha who had stabbed him, his features contorted with pain and surprise. But the old woman simply lifted a clawed hand in his direction.
“Of great woe, for that cry is of thy own foolish mistake,” she said ominously. “Beware the protection dear of the fairest lady. In the next, thy life is forfeit.”
Frederick sagged against the corridor wall, his expression wrought with disbelief and agony. She had plunged the blade into the curve of his torso and he was bleeding fairly profusely, but he knew from experience that it more than likely wasn’t a mortal wound. Still, it hurt a great deal and needed to be tended immediately. More than his shock, he was bloody well furious.
“Why did you do that, you foolish sow?” he demanded.
Eefha didn’t say another word. She shut the door in his face and threw the bolt. Then, quite calmly, she returned to her stool and sat. All the while, she had been puffing steadily on the shite pipe. She never missed a puff.
Emllyn was stunned. She could hear Frederick on the opposite side of the door, cursing and grumbling, and she kept waiting for him to kick the door in and kill both her and Eefha. But he never touched the door; he cursed steadily and loudly and eventually his voice faded away. That was how Emllyn knew he was leaving; eventually, he simply faded into silence.
It was quiet again but for the popping of the fire. Emllyn looked at the smelly old woman through new eyes. The woman had clearly protected her from the enraged Irish warrior and Emllyn was shocked, appreciative, and touched. She was trying to figure out what to say to the old woman, conveying words of gratitude that she might hopefully understand, when the door jolted again with a series of heavy blows.
“Open the door!”
It was Devlin. Emllyn jumped up and raced to the door, throwing the bolt and pulling open the heavy panel. Before he could say a word, Emllyn pointed at Eefha.
“Your aunt stabbed a man who appeared at the door and demanded entry,” she said, breathless. “He came to the door and demanded I open it but I did not, so he said he was going to break into the room and punish me. Your aunt went to the door and stabbed him!”
She was pale-faced and excited. Devlin’s gaze lingered on her a moment before passing an amused glance at his aunt.
“Why do you think she has been coming to this chamber to sit with you?” he asked, pushing into the room and closing the door behind him. “She is a better protector than any seasoned warrior.”
Emllyn looked at the old woman with her mouth agape. “She is here to protect me?”
“Of course,” he replied as if an old lady with a knife was the most natural thing in the world. Then he began looking around the room and noted the table and new furnishings. “I see the accommodations are better today. Have you eaten yet?”
Emllyn shook her head. “I have not.”
Devlin ran his hand over the old table, warped and leaning. “We shall remedy that,” he replied. “Do you recognize this table?”
“Should I?”
“It came from one of your English ships.”
Emllyn looked at the table, the chair, pondering his statement, but she just as quickly pushed it aside. She wasn’t yet finished with the discussion of Eefha’s shocking offensive.
“Wait,” she demanded, throwing out her hands as to stop all chatter and action. “I care not where you got the table and chair at the moment. I want to know how you can so easily brush off what your aunt did. She stabbed a man!”
“I know. I saw him downstairs in the hall.”
Emllyn stared at him, aghast. “Is he dead?”
“Nay, but she sufficiently wounded him.”
“But you said she was not dangerous!”
“She is not dangerous to you,” he said, amused with her bewilderment. “Lady, Eefha is here to protect you. She did what she is supposed to do. Freddy will think twice before coming back up here and trying to molest you. In fact, I would wager to say he will not try it again, at least not with Eefha around.”
Emllyn let it all sink in. So she was being protected by an old mad woman who was fearless with a dagger. It was unconventional to say the least but in the same thought, it was quite pleasing. She felt strangely comfortable with the old woman’s protection. Still, one more thought crossed her mind as she gazed at Devlin. It was a serious thought and her expression reflected it as such.
“Will she protect me from you?” she asked.
Devlin’s humor faded. “She will not need to protect you from me,” he said. “I will not harm you.”
She lowered her gaze. Be compliant! Her mind screamed because, so far, being compliant had worked wonders. The mighty beast of de Bermingham had softened to her somewhat. But the last shards of stubbornness flared in her at his softly uttered statement. She found she could not keep silent on the subject.
“That is a matter of opinion,” she said. “It is true you’ve not drawn blood or physically caused me great pain, but you have… that is to say, you have molested me.”
Devlin didn’t disregard her remark as he would normally have done. He didn’t posture angrily and point out that she belonged to him again because she already knew that. So he met her head–on.
“And you have hated every minute of it, have you?” he asked in a mocking tone. “I know for a fact that you have not. You have derived as much pleasure out of it as I have.”
The conversation was turning serious and uneasy. Emllyn kept her gaze averted, her cheeks flushing a dull red as she moved towards the lancet window. She was trying to put distance between their conversation and Eefha. Although she wasn’t entirely sure the old woman could understand what they were saying, still, it was a private and embarrassing subject, one she did not wish to discuss in front of a third party.
“I wish you would stop,” she finally whispered. “I do not want you to do that to me anymore. Please, for mercy’s sake, I beg you.”
Devlin’s eyebrows lifted. “I have every right,” he said. “By the laws of my people, you are my property now. I have marked you and no other man will touch you.”
“What do you mean you have every right?”
“You are my concubine.”
Emllyn’s mouth popped open in outrage. “Your concubine?” she repeated, appalled. All thoughts of being compliant fled and she was no longer willing to bow down to the man, not now. Not with that foolishly uttered statement. Damn her pride! “I am no such thing!”
Devlin nodded patiently. “The night I claimed you is the night you became my concubine,” he said. “Men in the Bible had concubines. I will have one also. In fact, there is a story I once heard about a man named Jacob who had a wife and a concubine. There is no shame in such a status.”
Emllyn gazed at him in utter horror. He was absolutely serious and after a moment, she plopped down onto the chair behind her. Then she burst into tears.
Devlin frowned, watching her weep painfully. He went to her. “Why do you weep?” he asked, his tone considerably softer than it had been moments before. “You do not like the term ‘whore’. I thought ‘concubine’ would be better.”
Emllyn howled angrily. “I do not want to be a concubine,” she sobbed. “It is as bad as being a whore and you cannot make either term sound remotely acceptable. I am the sister of an earl, descended from Welsh royalty, and I fostered in one of the finest houses in all of England. A proper and advantageous marriage was always planned for me. Now I find myself the whore of an Irish rebel and you tell me there is no shame in that?”
She was so angry that she was off the chair, wagging a finger at him. Devlin had never seen her truly furious and he had to admit that
she was rather intimidating. He realized that he wanted to appease her. Seeing her so upset made him uncertain and frustrated.
“Then what do you want?” he asked. “Do you want me to marry you? Would it be better to be the wife of a rebel than the whore of one?”
Emllyn froze in the midst of her tears, her eyes wide with astonishment at his suggestion. After a pause of epic proportions, she squealed with fury and was off on another crying jag, this one louder than before. She was so angry that she stamped her feet as she turned her back to him, evidently having a full-fledged tantrum right before his eyes.
Devlin wasn’t sure what more to say. Anything he said seemed to make it worse. Uneasily, he sat down on the bed, far away from Emllyn and her fit, and pondered his next move. She didn’t want to be a whore, a concubine, or a wife. But what she wanted was of little matter; he would do what he had to do. He would not apologize for anything he had said or done, but it was becoming increasingly difficult to hold his tongue. He didn’t like upsetting her, although it truthfully shouldn’t matter to him if she was upset or not. But it did. In confused silence, he left the chamber.
With the object of her frustration gone, Emllyn eventually calmed her weeping and stamping. Exhausted both emotionally and physically, she sat morosely, cursing the day she decided that stowing away on a ship bound for battle had been a wise decision. She had placed herself in this predicament and now there was no escape. She would have to face her mistakes and live with the consequences. Perhaps the reality was that being a concubine now was the best she could hope for. It was a sickening realization.
Depressed over a future filled with nothing she had imagined for herself, Emllyn eyed the old woman sitting by the fire, puffing on his shite pipe that now seemed to be running out of fuel. Was this to be the rest of her life now, being protected by a crazy old woman and bearing children for a man who viewed her as his whore? A day ago, the situation did not seem real, but as of this evening, circumstances were beginning to settle. Reality was upon her.
Lords of Eire: An Irish Medieval Romance Bundle Page 46
