Lords of Ireland II

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  He turned for the door but Shain stopped him. “Dev?” he called softly.

  Devlin paused and turned. “Aye?”

  “What will you do?” Shain asked. “If they want you in exchange for the lady, what will you do?”

  Devlin sighed heavily and averted his gaze. “I will not let her suffer,” he muttered. “I could not live knowing she was imprisoned, or worse.”

  Shain felt genuine apprehension at Devlin’s apparent intentions. “Don’t do it,” he begged quietly. “There can be another way, but if they get their hands on you… everything will be lost. We have told you that before, Devlin. You are the heart of this rebellion and if you are removed, then everything dies. Ireland dies.”

  Devlin lifted his head and looked at him. “Ireland will not die,” he said. “There will be others to take my place. As for me… mayhap I have done all I can do. Mayhap it is time for this rebellion, and for me, to evolve.”

  He left the hall after that, lumbering out into the early morning. He was a man of deep feeling, of deep intelligence, and now of deep pain. So much had changed. It would probably never be the same again.

  Shain lay there with tears in his eyes.

  The vault smelled worse than Devlin had remembered. As he headed down the dark, narrow stairs that led to the pit of despair, the pure stench from the urine nearly burned holes through his eyes. They were watering profusely by the time he hit the bottom and he nearly tripped because he was rubbing at them.

  There were no longer any guards at this level because of the stench. A single torch burned, barely illuminating the darkness, but it was enough light for Devlin to see many weary and distraught faces. They were all gazing back at him as he stepped from the stairs and headed towards the iron cages. The first face he came to was Sir Victor’s.

  The man had a growth of beard and the hazel eyes were dull with defeat and disillusionment. Devlin looked around at the others, seeing Trevor buried back in the group. The young knight looked haggard. Dirty, feces-covered straw covered the cells but men were sitting on it, anyway. They had no choice. It was a horrific sight and the longer Devlin gazed at it, the more disgusted he became. Turning around, he hunted for the key that was always kept on a peg upon the wall. They often kept it there to completely discourage the prisoners, who had no way of retrieving the key that would see them to freedom. Collecting the old iron key, he turned to Sir Victor on the other side of the iron grate.

  “This is no way for men to live,” he said quietly. “I will release your men and they will follow me to the next destination without resistance. They will obey me implicitly, for the first man that tries to run or refuses my orders will be killed on the spot. Is that clear?”

  Sir Victor drew in a long, deep breath and looked around to the men, all of whom were slowly dying. He was willing to agree to anything at that point and the prospect of being released, by Black Sword no less, was almost more than he could bear. Up until a few moments ago, he surely thought they were all going to die here, alone and forgotten. Hearing Black Sword’s proposal was a distinct shock. After a moment, he nodded.

  “Aye,” he said, his voice hoarse and raspy. “I understand. No one will run or disobey.”

  Devlin nodded shortly. “Then I will trust you.”

  With that, he unlocked the first cell, Sir Victor’s cell, and swung open the door. Then he unlocked the second door and forced that one open as well. Men began to move slowly, groaning, as some held on to others for support. As the men were rousing, Devlin went to the stairwell and whistled sharply, producing several of his men who gathered at the top of the steps. No one dared come down into that stench. Devlin called up orders and a couple of the men began to move while the others remained in order to both assist the prisoners and guard them. Slowly, very slowly, men began to come out of the cells. Devlin directed them up the stairs.

  It was a slow and laborious process, moving injured and weak men up that skinny flight of stairs. It was like moving a herd of animals. Devlin remained at the bottom, directing men up and steadying a few that wobbled as they moved. But gradually, they all moved up except for three of them who were directing the others. They had remained down in that horrific vault alongside Devlin, allowing the others to go first.

  Devlin realized that Sir Victor along with Sir Trevor and another man were still with him, the remaining three knights from Kildare’s stable of twenty-seven that had come over on the battle armada. Even in defeat, they were still following protocol, still thinking of their men first. Their attitude impressed Devlin. He finally directed them up the stairs and followed on their rear.

  Once up in the bright morning, Devlin could see that his men had held the prisoners at the mouth of the gatehouse until further orders. The entire group was sagging, dragging, and otherwise shielding themselves from the muted sunlight. To men who hadn’t seen the sun in weeks, it would take some time for their eyes to adjust. Devlin intended to take them all over to the great hall where they would be fed a decent meal and be tended to, but he soon realized that the stench from the vault had followed them into the daylight. The entire group smelled like hell. He wasn’t about to bring that kind of smell into the great hall.

  So he set about cleaning them off. In the bright morning, oddly void of the clouds that were so prevalent this time of year, he had his men heat up vast iron kettles of water, and in the stable yards, they forced the English prisoners to wash themselves down. Clothes were taken from them and boiled, laid out in the sun to dry, and the English used lumpy bars of white soap to wash weeks of filth and despair from their bodies. Moods and manners soon perked up as the English scrubbed away.

  But they were heavily guarded by Devlin’s men. The Irish lined the stable yard, armed with spears and swords, as the English washed themselves and each other. Razors were produced, only a pair of them so they could not be used as weapons, and the English were permitted to shave their faces. Since the sun was out, and vaguely warm at that, hair and bodies and clothes dried quickly. It was a perfect day for it.

  Devlin stood and watched everything with a critical eye. He was mostly watching Sir Trevor as the man washed his tall, sinewy body and his dark hair. He was rather handsome, as Devlin was coming to discover, and he could feel the pangs of jealousy clutch at him. It was little wonder that Emllyn had fallen for the man. But as he continued to watch, he noticed that Sir Trevor and another man seemed particularly close, washing each other, laughing together, or passing what could have been interpreted as rather meaningful glances. It was rather odd. As Devlin pondered the behavior, he was approached by Sir Victor.

  Shaven and clean, Sir Victor remained in his damp breeches and bare feet as he respectfully acknowledged Devlin. Massive arms folded across his chest in a somewhat intimidating stance, Devlin bobbed his head slightly.

  “St. John,” he said. “I must say that you look rather different.”

  Sir Victor smiled weakly. “I suppose that I do,” he acknowledged. Then, his smile faded. “I wanted to thank you, de Bermingham. What you are doing for us… you did not have to do this. I have never heard of any man treating prisoners this way and I am genuinely humbled. On behalf of my men, I thank you deeply.”

  Devlin eyed the man. “I am not the beast that everyone thinks I am,” he muttered, looking out over the gang of washing men. “And your men are not animals. The vault you were in was not meant to hold so many men. It is only humane that I remove you and tend you. But know this; I have done this for a purpose. If I did not have a purpose, I could have very well left you down in that hole to rot.”

  Sir Victor held an expression between curiosity and wariness. “What purpose would that be, my lord?”

  Devlin looked at him, sizing him up. “I will tell you when you’ve had food in your belly, but for now, I must ask you something.”

  He motioned the man over and Sir Victor went willingly. When he drew close to the big Irishman, Devlin spoke.

  “That young knight,” he said, pointing over at Sir Trevor
as he spilled water over his head. “That is Trevor le Mon?”

  Sir Victor nodded. “He is,” he replied. “Why? Do you know of him or his family?”

  Devlin shook his head. “Who is his family?”

  “The le Mons of Chateroy Castle, descended from the kings of Anglecynn,” he replied. “He comes from a fairly important family. I am sure they would pay a hefty ransom for his return.”

  Devlin cocked an eyebrow at him. “And you would willingly divulge this information to me?”

  Sir Victor shrugged. “You will want to know it eventually, and we wish to return to our families. I see no reason to withhold truths if it will get us home faster.”

  It was the logical thought process from a seasoned veteran. “I take it that you have been ransomed before, then?” Devlin asked.

  Sir Victor smiled ironically. “Twice,” he said. “My family is fairly wealthy as well. Name your price and I am sure they will pay it. I have a wife and five daughters waiting for me at home.”

  Devlin grunted his disapproval. “Then I must send you home if for no other reason than to give your wife a son,” he said. “No man should be publicly thrilled with five daughters.”

  Sir Victor laughed softly, surprised by Black Sword’s sense of humor. Or, at least de Bermingham’s sense of humor. Somehow, the two entities were becoming separate as a result of de Bermingham’s humane treatment. There was the legend… and then there was the man.

  “They are good girls,” he said. “But I must find husbands for them eventually, so do not ransom me for too much. I will need that money for dowries.”

  Devlin’s lips twitched with a smile. “You will need to kidnap men in your own right to hold them for ransom so that you may pay for that brood,” he said, but le Mon caught his attention again. “Le Mon… he and that man he is with seem like good friends. Is it his brother?”

  Sir Victor glanced over at the pair as le Mon ran his fingers over his companion’s wet hair. He shook his head. “Nay,” he replied, the humor gone from his tone. “That is his lover.”

  Devlin tried not to look too shocked. “Lover?” he repeated. “He is not… that is to say, he prefers men?”

  Sir Victor nodded and looked away from the affectionate pair, rolling his eyes. “Pity,” he said. “The man is a fine knight, a good commander, and comes from an excellent family. He could command a very fine wife, but he has no interest in women. In fact, my eldest daughter has made no secret of her interest in him but he repeatedly rebuffed her.”

  Devlin had to make a conscious effort to hide his shock. “Your daughter?” he said, confused and astonished. “Your daughter is interested in him?”

  “Aye.”

  “But… what of the Lady Emllyn?”

  Sir Victor looked at him. “So you have heard of her?” he asked. Then he shook his head. “As far as I know, the Lady Emllyn showed no such interest in him. She and my daughter are great friends, you know, or at least they were until the Lady Emllyn died of a fever last winter. Cate still has not recovered. She and Emllyn were friends since birth, practically. They grew up together, fostered together. They had all of the same friends and essentially the same life experiences. It was a terrible blow to her to lose her very best friend.”

  Devlin was reeling. In fact, the world was rocking unsteadily and he struggled to gain control over his equilibrium. “Cate? She is your daughter?”

  Sir Victor nodded. “Her name is Catherine but we call her Cate,” he said. “She is my eldest. You’ve never seen a more beautiful woman; refined, talented, intelligent. She is a good girl with excellent common sense except when it comes to Trevor le Mon. She is mad over him and I do believe she would do anything for him.”

  Devlin felt sick; literally sick. He couldn’t seem to wrap his mind around the fact that from what St. John was describing, it was his daughter who had been in love with le Mon and not Emllyn. Emllyn Fitzgerald was dead. Was it possible, then, that his beloved Emllyn wasn’t Emllyn at all? Was it possible that she was, in truth, someone else?

  It didn’t make any sense. The sickness swept him and he began to sweat profusely. He remembered back to when he had told Emllyn that Sir Victor had been in the vault and how she had begged for the knight’s life. Of course she would have! He is her father! There were more questions than answers, questions that hammered away at him like a drum. She lied to me about her identity! Did she also lie when she told me she loved me? He couldn’t seem to grasp his thoughts, his mind swirling with bewilderment. He just didn’t understand any of it. God, it’s just not possible!

  Body quivering, mind clouded with confusion, he looked at the man who had delivered such revelations. Truth be told, he didn’t know Sir Victor at all and it was quite possible the man was lying to him, too, mayhap to throw him off somehow. But why? What would be his purpose? One thing was certain, however; until he could get to the bottom of things, and until he could talk to Emllyn, she was still Emllyn to him and not the Lady Catherine St. John as Sir Victor had suggested.

  She was still his Emllyn!

  Yet, as his mind reeled about Emllyn, it also reeled about Sir Trevor. Two incredulous bits of information in as many minutes. If what Sir Victor said was true, then it made perfect sense as to why Sir Trevor had rebuffed Emllyn. The man preferred men in his bed but rather than tell Emllyn outright, as he would not have so boldly announced such a thing, he had led her to believe that he simply wasn’t interested in her. And Emllyn, determined, gave chase.

  The entire situation was convoluted with lies and truths, things he couldn’t easily discern as they rolled over and over in his brain. But one thing was increasingly clear to him; he had to get to Emllyn because he had to discover the truth and then, and only then, would he be able to settle down.

  With strained composure, he turned to Sir Victor. God’s Blood… he and the man had much to discuss, now more than ever.

  “If you are finished grooming, then finish dressing and I will order food,” he said in an oddly strained tone. “You and I have much to confer.”

  Sir Victor did as he was told. Very quickly, he had his clothes on although the armor had been taken from him because it was so badly rusted that there was no way he could wear it. In fact, there was a pile of mail and another smaller pile of plate armor at the corner of the kitchen yard. As he finished securing his tunic and approached Devlin once again, he pointed off to the pile of expensive protection.

  “I believe that is salvageable, my lord,” he said to Devlin. “I hope you aren’t intending to melt it down.”

  Devlin, who had managed to regain most of his composure whilst Sir Victor dressed, turned to look at the pile the man was addressing. He grunted in response.

  “I am not going to melt it down,” he said, leading Sir Victor over to where several long tables from the great hall had been brought outside and were now assembled near the stable yard entry. Servants were setting out all manner of food for the Englishmen who were winding down their bath and beginning to dress in clean, stiff clothing. “I am going to return it to you and your men and you will have the unhappy task of cleaning the rust from it. You’re going to need it again, and fairly soon by my estimation.”

  Sir Victor was mildly confused by the statement. “Why is that?”

  Devlin took a seat at the end of the table and indicated for Sir Victor to sit on the bench next to him. He silently indicated for Victor to partake of the bread and wine that had been laid out and Victor did eagerly. As Victor ate, Devlin spoke.

  “First, I will dispense with the formality of titles,” he said, his voice low. “I see no need to address you as ‘sir’ and surely you see no need to address me as anything other than de Bermingham.”

  Victor, his mouth full, nodded in agreement. “As you wish.”

  Devlin continued. “What I am about to tell you is the gist of the situation since Kildare’s ships crashed upon my shore,” he said, his gaze intense. “Much has occurred since you were locked up in the vault and I will swear you
to secrecy on this. If you divulge this information to anyone I do not approve of, you will never see your wife and five daughters again. Are we clear?”

  Victor wasn’t intimidated but he took the threat seriously. “Of course. I will not speak a word without your approval.”

  Devlin eyed the man before moving on; he knew he had to tell him of the situation involving Emllyn because he had no choice. The entire purpose of releasing the English prisoners was, in fact, to use them as a bargaining chip to regain Emllyn should Frederick have gone to Glenteige to betray Devlin. But now, there was so much more to it if, in fact, Emllyn was in reality the Lady Catherine St. John.

  Devlin’s head was still swirling with the possibility and it was a terrible struggle not to feel anger or betrayal or utter grief about it. So he took a deep breath and pushed on.

  “As I mentioned, much has occurred since you were locked up in my vault,” he said. “The most important occurrence has to do with the Lady Emllyn Fitzgerald. I am not quite sure how to address this so I will simply come out with it; a woman declaring that she was the Lady Emllyn Fitzgerald stowed away on Kildare’s armada.”

  Victor stopped chewing and his eyes widened. “What’s this you say?” he repeated, shocked. “Lady Emllyn? But… but that is impossible. The woman died last winter.”

  Devlin could see how astonished the man was and he understood the feeling well. “Be that as it may, a woman declaring she was the sister of Kildare was captured when the fleet foundered,” he said quietly. “She was brought to me and became my property. I need not explain what that entails, do I?”

  Victor pushed aside his bread, his face pale with shock and horror. “You do not,” he said, his tone hoarse. “But since the Lady Emllyn is dead, I am curious as to who this woman is and why she said she was the Lady Emllyn.”

  Devlin sighed heavily; there was a pitcher of wine off to his right and he collected it, drinking straight from the pitcher. He found he desperately needed it.

  “She said she was following her lover, a Sir Trevor, into battle because she wanted to prove to him what a good and fearless wife she would be,” he said. He took another drink before looking St. John in the eye. “Does that sound like anyone you know?”