Lords of Ireland II

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  “What are you doing?” he demanded. “I told you to stay to the keep.”

  Startled by his appearance, Emllyn scrambled to explain. Show the man compliance and obedience! “I…,” she stammered, pointing lamely at the tiny figure. “I… was in the keep when this… this person came to the chamber. I do not know who it is because… well, I do not even know if it is a man or a woman because it has not spoken to me, but it….”

  Devlin cut her off, looking to the tiny person that still had hold of Emllyn’s wrist. His manner was stern.

  “Eefha,” he said, almost scolding. “You cannot remove her from the keep. For her own safety, she must stay there.”

  Emllyn looked between Devlin and the scruffy little figure. “Who is this?” she asked.

  Devlin looked rather impatient. “My mother’s sister,” he said. “Her name is Eefha. She’s quite mad.”

  Emllyn looked at the tiny old woman and recoiled, leaning in Devlin’s direction. “Mad, you say?” she said apprehensively. “She must be to smoke that horrible pipe. What is in it?”

  “What does it smell like?”

  Emllyn eyed him reluctantly. “Well,” she said slowly, “it smells like…”

  He cut her off but not without an inkling of droll humor. “It is,” he said. “She gets it from the horses, dries it out, and then smokes it. Mayhap breathing all of that foul air in contributes to her madness.”

  “Is… is she dangerous?”

  Devlin shook his head. “Nay,” he said, sounding less frustrated and more resigned. “She’s harmless. She was probably taking you to add to her collection.”

  Emllyn looked at him. “Collection?” she repeated. “What do you mean?”

  Devlin opened his mouth but the old woman interrupted. “She hath healed a monarch’s eye,” Eefha said, pointing at Devlin. “Many a war for she hath thou raged.”

  He looked at his mother’s sister with a mixture of impatience and resignation. Emllyn leaned closer to him. “What does she mean?” she whispered loudly. “She was saying such strange things to me earlier. Why does she speak like that?”

  Devlin glanced down at Emllyn; it took him a moment to speak because he realized, in that instance, that he had never seen the woman in the light of day. Now all he could see was creamy skin and rosebud lips. Tendrils of wavy reddish-blond hair peeked out from beneath the heavy woolen hood and for a moment he was actually speechless. Was it true there was such beauty in the world? His heart, a hardened and protected thing, began to thump strangely against his ribs in a manner he’d never before experienced.

  “She always speaks like that,” he told her. “It is simply her way. When I was young, she was a teacher. She would recount all of Ireland’s great tales. The older she became and the more madness set in, the more she would use passages from these tales to describe what she was feeling or what she wanted to convey. For example, if she wanted to imply that danger was coming, she would say something like ‘thousands rouse to battle’s rage’. We knew it was from a passage of a tale of the great King Conor, a passage leading to war, so we would understand she meant danger. Unless you are Irish, however, and know the tales she is referring to, it all sounds like gibberish.”

  It was a vastly intriguing concept. Emllyn looked at the tiny old woman through new eyes. “So she is indeed trying to say something,” she said in understanding, “but you must know what she is referring to in order to understand what she means.”

  “Exactly.”

  Emllyn gazed at the old woman a moment before looking up at Devlin. “When she led me from the keep, she said ‘Devlin was mountains and gifted, but Elohr kept safe’,” she told him. “I wonder what she could mean?”

  He shrugged. “Elohr was my mother,” he said. “It could mean anything.”

  Emllyn pondered that a moment, but then she thought of something else Devlin had said. “What did you mean when you said that she was probably taking me to add to her collection?”

  Devlin’s gaze lingered on Emllyn a moment before looking at his aunt. “She is a scavenger,” he said. “She has many wonderful things among the piles of rubbish she collects.”

  “Can I see?”

  Devlin almost denied her; he wanted to return her to the keep. She was, after all, his prisoner, and prisoners didn’t usually have such freedom to roam about and visit. But the moment he looked at her and saw the curiosity and eagerness in her expression, the words of refusal died in his throat. He’d never been known to let anything sway him, but Emllyn had done it very easily. One expression from her had been the catalyst for his surrender and nothing more. Grudgingly, he gestured in the old woman’s direction.

  “If you must,” he said reluctantly. “But know that if she tries to keep you, I may have a battle on my hands.”

  Emllyn grinned, a surprising gesture, and he was instantly captivated. He’d never seen her smile before; it was as if the clouds had parted, the heavens had opened up, and the brilliance of angels was now staring him in the face. It was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

  “A journey’s long,” Eefha grasped Emllyn by the arm, pulling her away from Devlin and breaking the spell between them. “And if this cometh, not to content thee.”

  As Emllyn was dragged along, Devlin followed. His eyes never left the small figure in his mother’s old cloak as she trailed along behind old Eefha. He wasn’t comfortable with her out in the open like this, certainly not after the conversation he’d had with Shain and Frederick and Iver, but he surmised that no harm could come to her as long as he was around. He would protect her to the death.

  Eefha had a small hut that wasn’t too far from the barn where the valuables from the wrecked ships were being kept. In fact, as they approached the rock structure that was really no more than a small room, he wondered how many times Eefha had wandered into the barn and helped herself to the booty. He wouldn’t have been surprised. As they neared the lopsided hut with the heavy sod roof, Eefha suddenly came to a halt and pointed a gnarled finger at Emllyn.

  “Lady, come to that folk, to that strong folk of mine,” she said as she pulled the pipe from her mouth. “And with gold on thy head, thy fair tresses shall shine.”

  Emllyn had no idea what the woman meant and she looked at Devlin for help. He simply lifted his eyebrows.

  “Those are passages from the Romance of Etain,” he said. “Mayhap she has something to make you shine, although you do not need any help where that is concerned.”

  Emllyn looked at him, shocked. His expression was impassive so she thought he might be mocking her. “I cannot shine in borrowed clothing that is too big for me,” she said, somewhat defensively. “I left my proper clothing behind in England.”

  His deep blue eyes twinkled at her, amused by what she evidently thought was an insult. “You said you did not mind my mother’s clothing.”

  She pursed her lips irritably. “I lied,” she said. “Although they are comfortable and warm, it would be well and good to have a garment that actually fit me. I have tripped several times in these clothes because they are too long; it is only a matter of time before I topple and break my neck.”

  Devlin was fixed on her and hardly noticed when Eefha disappeared into her hut. “I will speak with Enda and see if she can find something that is more appropriate for you,” he said, “but I can assure you that we have no fine silks here.”

  Emllyn was coming to see that he hadn’t been mocking her and, with shock, realized that he may have very well been delivering a compliment. Was it actually possible?

  “I… I do not need silk,” she said, lowering her gaze because he was looking at her with an expression that implied warmth. “Wool or linen would do just as well as long as it fits.”

  Devlin studied her delicate profile as she gazed off into the ward. “I am sure we can find something suitable,” he said quietly. He paused a moment before continuing. “I am sure that where you come from is quite grand and you have possessions that reflect that. We have no such grand
things to provide you.”

  Emllyn shrugged, her attention turning to the gulls that were riding the breeze overhead. “Grand things do not matter overly,” she said. “I was born at the not entirely grand Llansteffan Castle in Wales. That is where we are from, you know. You keep calling me English but the truth is that we are more Welsh than English, although my brother would beat me if he heard me say that.”

  He knew that about her family but he pretended to be interested simply to keep the conversation going. “Is that so?”

  “It ’tis,” she said as she nodded her head. “My ancestor and his brother came to England with William the Conqueror and were charged with settling Wales. My ancestor was Maurice Fitzgerald, Lord of Llansteffan, and his brother was William, Lord of Emllyn. That is where I got my name – the Lady Emllyn Nesta Isabella Fitzgerald. I am named after many people in my family, Welsh and Norman.”

  For the second time in as many days, they were having a civilized conversation. Devlin wasn’t hard pressed to admit that he could have listened to her sweet and soft voice forever. He liked it very much when the mood was calm between them, now on the subject matter of her background. He was very interested in what she was saying, and in her, as if he couldn’t focus on anything else.

  “I see,” he said. “And do you speak Welsh?”

  She nodded. “I do, but make no mistake,” she said as she looked up at him. “I am not Welsh. I am Norman. There is a distinction and my brother will make it very clear that even though our family has been in Wales for over two hundred years, and our ancestor is a Welsh princess, we are not Welsh.”

  He gave her a half-grin because she said it with mock-seriousness, as if she thought the whole idea of living in Wales for two hundred years but not being Welsh ridiculous. “Then I will make sure not to call you Welsh,” he said.

  Emllyn fought off a grin and lowered her gaze again, feeling a distinct charm from the man and having no idea how to handle it. He was making her a bit giddy. “Have you never been out of Ireland?”

  Devlin shook his head, folding his massive arms over his chest as he thought on his reply. “Never,” he said. “There was never any reason to go anywhere else. I fostered here on Kildare lands and I was trained by Norman knights to serve Kildare. I am a knight sworn to your brother, you know. Or, at least I was. Now I am sworn to myself and to my father.”

  She dared look up at him, the giddy feeling in chest growing worse as she gazed upon him. “Who is your father?”

  Devlin’s warm expression faded somewhat. “John de Bermingham, Earl of Louth,” he said. “I am his eldest son. Even though I am a bastard, he has acknowledged me. Black Castle is his holding, or at least it is now that we have taken it from Kildare, and I lead his rebellion. Ireland will belong to the Irish once again and it is my honor to fight for my kinsmen.”

  Emllyn was gazing up at him quite steadily. The giddy feeling in her chest was very strong but she found she did not want to turn away from him. Something about the man, in spite of everything he’d put her through, kept her interest. The confusion she had felt that morning, the bewilderment and guilt, was turning into something else. She wasn’t sure what it was yet; all she knew was that, at the moment, she had no desire to fight it.

  “Why do they call you Black Sword?” she asked softly.

  He could hear the nearly-gentle quality in her voice and it captured his full attention. He’d never heard that tone come from her before and he rather thought he liked it. It made him strongly inclined to answer whatever question she had for him, speaking in such a tone. He grinned modestly as he answered.

  “Because when I was newly knighted, I fought a very nasty battle against the Normans,” he said quietly. “It was against the Earl of Ormond’s armies, in fact, and it was for your father at a time when I still served Kildare. I had killed many men that day, so many that I was covered in blood and so was my broadsword. When I returned to camp after the battle, the blood had dried to a sticky black. It covered my blade and the older knights began calling me Black Sword. It was a sign of respect. It implies fierceness in battle.”

  Emllyn nodded thoughtfully, imagining the man in the heat of battle. As big as he was, and he was enormous, she could only imagine that his formidable skills matched his reputation. She’d been hearing the name Black Sword for many years. Now, not only was she coming to understand the legend, she was coming to understand the man behind it.

  Before they could continue their conversation, Eefha emerged from her hut with her arms full of items. Puffing furiously on her shite pipe, she approached Emllyn and began extending things to her; scarves of glorious colors, a belt or two, a pair of beautiful shoes, a fine white garment that might have been a shift, and at least two surcoats or other manner of dress. It was difficult to tell. Emllyn ended up with a big pile in her arms, looking rather stunned at all of the items.

  “What is all of this?” she asked Devlin. “Where did she get this?”

  Devlin picked up the garment on the top of the pile, a yellow linen that was embroidered with fine silver thread. “As I said, she is a scavenger,” he said. “There is no telling where she found this.”

  Emllyn could tell that it was very fine; she’d seen enough finery to know. “This is something a great noblewoman would wear,” she told him. “She did not… did she steal it somehow?”

  Devlin began taking the pile from her. “I doubt it,” he said. “She barters for things, as well.”

  “With the way she speaks?” Emllyn said, dubious. “How would anyone know what she wanted?”

  Devlin took the remaining items from her and shifted them to one big arm. “She will find a way,” he said, reaching out to grasp Emllyn by the arm. “Let us return to the keep now. You can try on your finery and see what fits.”

  He had her by the elbow as he turned around but the moment he did, something in his line of sight had his full attention and he handed the garments back over to Emllyn, piling them on so she could barely see over the top. He had to clear his arms quickly because he didn’t want to be caught in a compromising position. He needed to be free to move and to protect both himself and Emllyn if necessary.

  Approaching rather swiftly from the northeast corner of the bailey were Frederick and several of his men.

  Chapter Six

  “I had heard you let her out of her cage,” Frederick said, nearly yelling because he was still several feet away as he drew near. “I hope I didn’t miss anything.”

  He meant something undoubtedly humiliating or painful. Devlin tightened up one of his leather gloves, trying to remain casual about the entire thing. However, whenever Frederick was involved, the situation was anything but casual. The mood of the conversation could go from light to deadly in a fraction of a second. Devlin wondered if the man was going to bring up the subject of Emllyn paying for his brother’s death again; he hoped not. Still, he was tightening up his gloves in case he had to throw a punch if the man made a swipe for her.

  “You did not miss anything,” he said evenly. “We were just returning to the keep.”

  “Why?” Frederick put out his hands to stop them, his gaze riveted to Emllyn as she was nearly buried with the garments in her arms. “She looks better than she did the night I captured her. In fact, she looks rather pleasing. I had no idea English women were anything other than slovenly hags.”

  The men who had accompanied Frederick tittered rudely. Devlin’s expression was impassive. “We came to find some clothing that would fit her,” he said evenly. “Eefha has all manner of goods.”

  Frederick didn’t take his eyes from her as he moved towards her, inspecting her as one would inspect a prized mare. He walked a slow circle around her, scrutinizing her from the front and from the rear.

  “Eefha has everything one could possibly want and a few things one does not,” he said, a leering glint in his tone. “I would say that Kildare’s sister doesn’t want for anything. She is quite fine.”

  Throughout the exchange, Emllyn stood
stock still, terrified by the big Irish warrior’s attention. All of the fear and terror she had felt the night she had been captured came roaring back, causing her knees to weaken and her palms to sweat. She looks better than she did the night I captured her. So it was this big, beefy knight who had chased her down and carried her off like so much baggage. He had been very rough and very rude. She was absolutely terrified.

  “Shain has an English knight in the gatehouse for questioning,” Devlin said, trying to distract Frederick. “You will go and help him. Do not lay a hand on the prisoner, however, at least not until I get there. I do not want him beaten and dazed when I arrive, so much so that I will not be able to get anything intelligent out of him. We need answers, Freddy. See to it.”

  Frederick nodded lazily, still inspecting Emllyn. In fact, he was standing directly behind her, looking at her backside. The man was oozing lust; it was evident in everything about him and Devlin struggled to keep a rein on his anger. If Frederick sensed anything other than indifference in his attitude towards Emllyn, there would be trouble. Frederick would make it so.

  “Aye,” he said, his focus on her bum. “She will breed you a host of strong Irish rebels and mayhap a daughter or two for the rest of us. I should have kept her for myself, Dev. Had I gotten a better look at her that night, I would have.”

  “Go, now,” Devlin told him, ignoring his statement.

  Frederick looked up at him, his eyes twinkling. “Can I have a go at her?”

  Devlin simply pointed to the gatehouse as Frederick’s men laughed lewdly. Emllyn lowered her head and struggled not to cry. Devlin didn’t say a word as the men wandered away. He watched them as they moved towards the gate house and saw clearly when Eefha moved towards the group; the old woman had her hands up at them, claws bared, as the shite pipe smoked furiously in her mouth. Frederick’s men instinctively shied away from the woman as she began to hiss.

  “Blood in thy breast, rageth and boils,” she said. “Oft didst thou wrest Victory’s spoils.”