Page 2 of Celtic Love and Legends (Lords of Eire)

CHAPTER TWO

E mllyn awoke to a surprisingly bright room. After the storm and madness of the night before, all she could feel was a sense of hollowness.

So much had happened since last night.

She lay there for quite some time before realizing she was alone. Facing the wall as she was, she hadn’t been sure. Slowly, she sat up in the big rope bed with the dirty straw mattress. Inevitably, her thoughts turned to de Bermingham. He was such a big man, powerful and overwhelming, that he could have easily taken what he wanted last night. For some reason, he hadn’t.

But she was certain that would not last.

Reconciling herself to her inevitable fate, the fact remained that she was here and, clearly, here to stay. It wasn’t as if de Bermingham would release her. He had a prize in her and he knew it. The only thing she could do was try to survive her situation, one that she had willingly put herself in. That was the truth. De Bermingham hadn’t been wrong when he said it was foolish and stupid.

It had been.

Perhaps she deserved everything that was coming to her.

Gingerly, Emllyn climbed out of bed and tried to assess the damage to the tunic she was wearing, the one de Bermingham had torn. As she struggled to pull the tear together with freezing fingers, she lifted her head to the sounds of noisy gulls, screaming outside of her window. They were riding the sea breezes outside and for a moment, she was no longer the trembling captive of a brutish Irish lord. She watched the birds and their graceful flight, taking simple pleasure in it. There was something innately soothing about their cry, comforting even. It was something familiar in this horrid alien land. But her comfort was swiftly dashed as the door to the chamber suddenly jolted open.

Emllyn shrieked with fright, arms around her body protectively as she stumbled back against the cold stone wall behind her. Her eyes widened at the sight of Devlin standing in the doorway.

He looked every inch the conquering hero; her impression of him the previous night had been that of darkness and cruelty, but even as she pondered that impression, she also remembered his warm, powerful body against hers. God, he had been so overwhelming and powerful, everything about the man filling her brittle senses.

Now, in the light of a new day, she could see just how large the man truly was; he was wearing leather breeches and a tunic that strained against his broad chest and muscled arms. His hands, those warm and rough things, were as big as her head. His red hair had brilliant golden highlights in the sunlight and the deep blue eyes regarded her carefully.

Emllyn stared back. She had no idea what to say to him but she was fearful he was going to throw her on the bed again and do more than he did to her last night. All things considered, it had been shockingly tame. But perhaps this time, he wouldn’t stop at a hand on her hip. For a moment, they did nothing more than stare at each other as each one reappraised the other. There was re-evaluation in the air.

There was curiosity.

Devlin finally broke the spell.

“So you are awake,” he said with his rolling Irish brogue. “I would assume you are hungry.”

He started to motion to someone standing outside of the door but she stopped him. “I would rather have dry clothing,” she said. “Mayhap it is much to ask, but I would be… grateful. I am cold and my clothing is still wet from last night.”

He looked at her, and at her state of dress, as a big, ugly Irishman entered the room with a hunk of bread in one hand and a rough wooden cup of something in the other. Emllyn eyed the man fearfully and backed away, ending up over near the lancet window as the Irishman set the bread and cup down on the end of the bed. When the man quit the room, Devlin finally spoke.

“I will see what I can find for you,” he said.

He was starting to close the door but she stopped him. “Wait,” she said, coming away from the wall. Her manner was anxious, uncertain, but there was boldness there. “And… and I would like a bath if it is not too much trouble. I have sand everywhere and I would like to clean it off.”

His gaze moved over her; in fact, it seemed that all he could do was stare at her as if remembering the night before and the delectable taste of her upon his tongue. Something about the woman was addicting, infiltrating his senses like a fog. Since the moment he’d touched her last night he’d not been able to shake her. This morning, the sensation had only grown worse and it threatened his control where she was concerned. He could have simply taken her and he still didn’t understand why he hadn’t. It unnerved and distracted him, translating into a brusque manner.

“We have no bath here,” he told her, watching her face fall. He realized he didn’t like that expression on her face, not one bit. “But… I will see what I can do. Mayhap there is something you can use for bathing.”

“Thank you,” Emllyn said. She meant it. He turned to leave but she stopped him once more with a rushed and breathless question. “What… what do you intend to do with me?”

Devlin paused at the door, his gaze penetrating. “Are you certain you want an answer to that question?”

That was a terrifying response and her fear returned. “What I mean to ask is if you intend to send me home or if you intend to keep me here… with you.”

He came back into the room and shut the door. “I am not sending you home,” he said with finality. “You stowed away on a fleet you had no business sailing upon. You knew that. You knew there were risks. Now you belong to me. You, lady, are the spoils of war.”

She had to make a conscious effort not to gasp. “But I am of no real use to you,” she said. “I am not a knight with money or a rich lord. I have nothing of value.”

“I beg to differ.”

She knew what he meant. Everything in his expression suggested it and he’d intimated the same thing last night as he’d laid on top of her and threatened her with his body. She could see, in that instance, what he intended for her.

He’d intended it all along.

God, it was horrifying.

“So you intend to damage me beyond repair,” she said, her voice trembling. “I fail to see who, exactly, you are punishing by humiliating and degrading me. I have already told you that my brother does not care what you do.”

Devlin had to admit that he rather liked it when she stood up to him. She had spirit for an Englishwoman, which was surprising to him. He’d always thought the English female to be a weak and foolish thing. But her spirit gave him an unintended response– it fed his lust, a flaming thing that apparently ignited at the slightest provocation where she was concerned, and he was upon her in three big strides, his big hands digging into the tender flesh of her upper arms. She gasped as he pulled her against his broad chest.

“It is not humiliation and degradation,” he breathed. “It is the way of things, woman. You evidently do not understand the concept of being a captive.”

Emllyn tried to push away from him, but it was difficult. She’d never been held like this in her life, or even touched like this by a man in her entire life, so the feel of his taut, warm body against hers wasn’t a sensation of disgust. Not exactly. With horror, she realized that she rather liked it.

“I understand,” she said, struggling. “I know you can do as you wish and you probably will.”

He didn’t let her go. “Mayhap I will,” he said. “I’ve not yet decided. Shall I tell you what I should do to you?”

That frightened her and she yanked one arm away. “Tell me not,” she hissed. “I do not wish to hear your vile scheme.”

“It is no scheme, I assure you,” he said. “What I would do to you is domination, pure and simple. It would be my punishment to your brother and to every damnable English who has ever set foot upon the green fields of Eire. I would dominate you day and night, and any other time that strikes my fancy, and I would pump you full of my seed until I beget you with child. Even then, I would continue to join my body with yours until the child is born and when I gaze upon my Irish son of an English mother, I would bed you again until you deliver unto me another son and still another. I would breed an army of sons from your body, sons that will sail upon England and wreak havoc. You, my lady, would be the mother of an army of Irish rebels that will kill your countrymen just as they have killed mine. You would be my brood mare.”

Horrified, Emllyn wrenched herself from his grip and slapped him across the face, as hard as she could. But for a man that size, it hardly moved him. She would have done better striking a mountain. Realizing that her rage had no effect, she tried to bolt away, to run, but he caught her from behind and threw his arms around her so that she was facing away from him. Her sweet, soft body was pressed back against his and Devlin could feel himself growing hard for the want of her. It was purely a physical reaction from his body to hers, as a man to a woman.

And what a woman she was.

“You do not like to hear that, do you?” he whispered, his lips by her ear. “Then I will tell you more. I would kiss you so forcefully that you could barely breathe. I would strip away your clothing until your tender, white body was nude for my pleasure. I would suckle your breasts, where you would nourish our children, and your want for me would match my own. Heat would bloom between your legs as your body prepared for mine. Then, I would push your legs apart and I would join with you, my manhood finding save haven within the folds of your womanhood. And you would love me.”

Enraged, but also more aroused than she was willing to admit by what she considered his filthy description, Emllyn let out a scream of pure frustration as she tried to pull away from him.

“Stop!” she demanded. “I will hear no more!”

A lick of a smile creased Devlin’s lips. He was rather enjoying her anger. “You will hear all of it, my fine lady,” he murmured, his hot breath in her ear causing her to shudder. “My strokes within you would be long and powerful as your body begged for my seed. Your legs would open wider to me, your body would ache for me, and I would answer the call. The warmth in you loins would become a raging fire and my mouth… you would learn to love my tongue, lass… would feast upon you. When the fire in your loins became a raging inferno, it would erupt into a burst of sparks and your entire body would convulse with pleasure along with mine. My seed would go deep into your womb to find its mark. Here .”

He suddenly put his hand on her lower belly, pressing hard, and she gasped and bucked at his touch. She wanted him away from her, but after what he’d just whispered into her ear, perhaps she didn’t want him so far away. His words, hissed in rage and lust, had done something to her. There was a fire in her now, one that made her heart race and her palms sweat. He must have known that because he began to suckle on a tender earlobe.

“Do you feel me?” he whispered, teeth gently tugging at her ear as he gripped her belly. “Do you already feel my seed as it settles into your womb? I will be all around you, and within you, and you will belong to me. Never ask me again what I intend to do with you, lass. Now you know. And you will like it.”

Stunned into an erotic daze as he suckled her earlobe, Emllyn heard his words but she couldn’t seem to do anything about it. She should have been fighting him, biting and kicking, but she couldn’t manage it. He’d used nothing more than words and his touch to convey his intentions, but he might as well have burned them into her flesh. He was stirring things within her that she’d never felt before. When he suckled on her earlobe firmly and she shuddered with delight, he laughed low in his throat.

“So you like that, you English vixen?” he murmured. “Mayhap you are a whore, after all.”

Emllyn’s eyes flew open. Quick as a flash, she balled a fist and hit him in the forehead so hard that his head snapped back. That caused him to loosen his grip and she made a break for the lancet window but Devlin was right behind her, grabbing her as she tried to throw herself from the ledge, three stories above the jagged rocks and crashing sea below. Perhaps she wasn’t truly trying to kill herself more than she was simply trying to get away from him, but the result would have been the same. Now, he had her around the waist, her arms pinned, as she fought against him.

It was a vicious fight.

The mood, rather warm and sensual only moments before, was now brittle and fierce. Although Emllyn’s arms were pinned, her legs were quite free and she ended up kicking him in the groin. Grunting with pain, Devlin staggered to the bed and fell upon it with Emllyn sandwiched beneath him and the mattress. He listened to her snarl and weep, so much fight in her soft little body that it surprised him. For an Englishwoman, she was tough.

And he was impressed.

“I hate you, do you hear?” she sobbed. “I will hate you until I die!”

Devlin lay atop her, his face pressed into her back between her shoulder blades. She couldn’t get to him here but he knew what had triggered her rage– whore . He had called her the lowliest form of female life, reminding her of what her foolish actions and bad fortune had brought her. She was to be the whore for an Irish warlord who intended to use her for nothing more than breeding stock. It was a shameful and bleak existence. In that sense, he understood her reaction.

Torn between remorse and the reality of the situation, unless he wanted to physically restrain her for the rest of their lives, he had to say something to calm her. He was afraid if he left the chamber, she might try to escape in desperation and end up falling from the window. He didn’t want to think of that sweet, soft body broken and bleeding on the rocks below.

It would have been a damnable waste.

“I will have a bath brought up to you,” he said, his voice calm and steady. “I will send up more than bread for you to eat and clothes to wear. You will feel better after you have had a chance to eat and dress warmly.”

Beneath him, Emllyn’s hysteria had dissolved into tears of shame and anger. “Why?” she sobbed. “Why give me comfort? Simply kill me now and be done with it.”

His cheek was against the warmth of her back. “I am not going to kill you,” he said. “You are my captive and I intend to take very good care of you. You are worth something.”

Emllyn’s weeping lessened at his odd statement and her eyes opened. She appeared somewhat bewildered.

“I have already told you,” she sniffled. “My brother will not care if you hold me captive. He will not pay your ransom demand. I am worth nothing.”

Devlin could feel that her struggles had weakened. In fact, she wasn’t struggling much at all. She was simply lying beneath him, trembling. Warm and soft, he resisted the urge to brush his lips on the soft skin against his cheek.

A most strange reaction to a woman who was his captive.

“I will not ransom you,” he said, his voice low. “I told you– I will keep you for myself. You will bear my sons.”

She didn’t say anything for a moment. He felt her sigh; the tears were gone and now there was despair in the very air she breathed. It was a hollow and bitter mood, all settled in about her. He could feel it.

“I do not want to be your whore,” she muttered. “Why could you not have simply killed me last night as you did all the other English? It would seem that you have shown mercy to the dead. I would like the same mercy shown to me.”

Devlin lay there a moment before taking the chance and letting her go. He sat up, watching her stiffly push herself up off the mattress. She recoiled from him but she didn’t try to run again. She was also quivering, with cold and emotion, and he gazed at her steadily a moment before standing up.

“If I ask you a question, will you give me the courtesy of an honest answer?” he asked.

Arms wrapped around her slender body, Emllyn turned to him. “Why?” she asked.

“Because I ask it. I would not lie to you so I do not expect you, as an honorable lady, to lie to me.”

She was tired. Too tired to fight with him anymore. All of the fighting they’d done, the wrestling and struggling, had sapped her strength. She simply didn’t have the will to fight in her at the moment.

“What is it, then?” she asked, averting her gaze.

“Will you answer honestly?”

“Aye.”

Devlin eyed her lowered head. “When you stowed away on your brother’s vessels, where did you think they were going?” he asked. “You knew his armies were sailing for Ireland. You knew it was a battle fleet. Did you not think they would find resistance the moment they arrived?”

Emllyn shrugged, her gaze still averted. “To be entirely truthful, I did not,” she said. “I knew they were going to battle… that Trevor was going to battle… but I did not think it would be so immediate. I thought mayhap a battle march once they reached shore… and there would be time for me to reveal myself to him.”

She was starting to tear up. He could see it. She sniffled and wiped at her eyes but he felt no pity for her.

“And then what?” he asked.

Her head came up, looking at him. “What do you mean?”

He lifted his eyebrows expectantly. “What did you intend to do once you revealed yourself to this man?” he wanted to know. “They have names for camp followers like you. They are, in fact, called whores, so mayhap I was not too far wrong when I called you one.”

Her features flushed red. “I am not a whore,” she snapped. “I love Trevor and he loves me. I want to be his wife.”

“ Loved, ” he emphasized, past-tense. “Your lover is dead. Did you not think that would be a possibility?”

Her tears came faster and she looked away again. She didn’t reply for a moment, shaking her head and wiping at her eyes as if thinking all manner of terrible things about him. “I suppose I did not think on it,” she finally murmured, her voice hoarse. Then, she turned to look at him again. “Did you really kill all of the English soldiers or were you simply gloating?”

He gazed steadily at her. “Those who were not put to the sword drowned in the churning waters,” he said. “There are no more than twenty or thirty still alive, and those men are to be killed or sold for ransom.”

She looked at him, shocked. “But…,” she gasped, “but there were at least a thousand men, mayhap more. They are all gone?”

“I told you they are. Do you not believe me?”

Emllyn averted her eyes, unable to hold his gaze. She did indeed believe him and the knowledge sickened her. All those men… and Trevor!

“Trevor was a knight,” she said softly. “He comes from a fine family. May I… may I see the men you have captive to see if he is still alive?”

His jaw ticked. “Nay,” he said flatly, surprised at the ferocity of his reply. She belonged to him and he wasn’t about to let her even think of another man. He thought it was only possessiveness but was startled to realize there was perhaps jealousy there as well. “Your lover is dead and you will put him out of your mind. He no longer exists to you.”

His words had emotion to them, as if there was anger there. Emllyn’s fury surged. “You cannot erase someone I love so easily,” she snapped at him. “You cannot wipe a memory clear of my mind as the sea washes away the sand. I cannot forget deep and abiding memories just because you command me to.”

Devlin was starting to grow angry for reasons he did not understand. All he knew was that he didn’t want her thinking about another man. Even in this short time he had known her, not even a full day, something about her had infiltrated him, getting under his skin. She was English, that was true, and worse yet she was his captive… but there was something about the girl that went beyond all of that. He wasn’t sure what it was yet, but until he did, she would come to understand that she belonged to him and he wouldn’t tolerate her thinking of anyone else.

“I told you he is dead,” he muttered. “It would therefore stand to reason that your love for him is dead, too. Why would you waste such effort on a memory?”

Emllyn stared at him, shocked by his callous words. But as she pondered them, a thought occurred to her. “Have you never been in love?” she asked, almost beseechingly. “Do you not know what it means to hold such feelings for someone that the glory of the moon and the sun pale by comparison?”

By this time, Devlin was thoroughly agitated but failed to understand why. That only made him more frustrated. He headed for the chamber door, confused and off-balance by the conversation. As his big hand held the iron latch, he turned to her one last time.

“We are three stories above the rocks and probably more than six stories above the sea,” he said. “A fall from this height will not kill you but it would greatly injure you. I would suggest you consider that before throwing yourself from the window. I have no physic so the best I could do would be to stand by while your broken bones healed in terrible positions, or your useless legs caused you unimaginable agony. Mayhap we would have to cut off a mangled arm or bind up your guts and cause you such anguish that you would pray for death. If you truly wish to live out your days dying a slow and agonizing death, then that is your choice, but I strongly suggest you reconsider. It would be better for you to remain whole and sound.”

Emllyn looked at him with horror, her gaze moving to the lancet window she had so recently tried to fling herself from. Well, mayhap she did not truly intend it, but in her haze of anguish she had made all indication that she was serious. Now that she was calm, the thought of broken legs or bleeding guts made her shudder with disgust.

Nay, she wasn’t going to try that again so soon.

“Do not fear,” she said, defeat in her tone. “I will not try and jump again. But I would like something dry to wear if you can manage it.”

Devlin eyed her lowered head, thinking a great many things at that moment. Mostly, he was thinking that he had been inordinately cruel to her. But as his English captive, didn’t she deserve all that and more? He refused to entertain any thoughts otherwise.

He left the chamber without another word.

*

The feasting hall of the castle was silent for the most part. The men who had occupied it the night before, drinking and sleeping all about the chamber, were now up and going about their duties, which left the hall vacated.

The fire in the hearth was low, a great pile of peat and wood with ashes scattered about and dog paw prints through them. It smelled of sewage and smoke, of that radiating aura of human stench that mingled with rebellion and victory. For now, the victory belonged to the Irish and the three great commanders of Devlin’s army sat with him on the corner of the chipped and stained feasting table, each man contemplating the previous night’s events, each man contemplating the future. There was much on their mind.

No one was contemplating more than Devlin. He sat in his customary chair, the one that had been part of the spoils of war when they had raided, and stripped, one of the English settlements to the south of Wicklow last year. It had a crest carved on it, a great preying beast attributed to the House of de Cleveley, one of the many English houses who possessed lands in Ireland. Devlin had taken great delight in scratching out most of de Cleveley’s crest, slashing holes through the face of the enemy. He put his mark on it, and now the chair was his.

As he picked at the remains of his meal, a very large falcon sat on the back of the chair and every so often he would extend a piece of meat or a crust of bread to the bird, which gobbled it down. The bird was a pet, a friend, and a mascot; it was all things, the de Bermingham bird of prey that was treated better than most men. Named Neart, which meant ‘strength,’ the big black and gray bird hovered over his master.

“We’re taking the dead to St. Mantan’s church,” a large man with kinky dark hair spoke. He was seated, his big leg propped upon the table. “The priests want the English brought to them but they haven’t enough room in the graveyard to bury them, and we don’t want them buried with good Irish folk anyway, so they’re making room outside of the churchyard for the English dead.”

Devlin turned to the man, a friend from childhood who had seen much life and death with him. Shain Mac Rohan was his closest, but most fiery, advisor. The man’s official title was Keeper of the Blade, as Devlin’s second-in-command. He would trust his blade to no other.

“I do not want my men digging graves for the English,” he said flatly. “How many English prisoners do we have?”

“Thirty-three,” said another man with long blond hair. Iver Blaineroe was a distant cousin, calm and wise in a land of passionate men. His official title was Master of Men because he was the man the troops were most apt to listen to. “We counted eleven hundred and seventy two dead this morning but there’s more that were drown and washed away by the sea. Mayhap we’ll never truly know how many Englishmen there were but for now, we have thirty-three living prisoners and piles of dead. If you want the prisoners to start burying their comrades, then we had better get started for it will take weeks to accomplish this. If we could use more manpower, however, we could finish the task in a day.”

Devlin could sense a mild rebuke in the statement and he didn’t like it. He didn’t want his own men burying the English and would not be chided for it. Before he could speak, however, the third commander at the table spoke.

“What of the woman we captured?” Frederick ?g Branach made it sound like a simple question, but it was not simple in the least. Frederick was a bloodthirsty bastard, known as the trodaí fola , or Blood Warrior, who had a particular hatred for the English. He had been the one who had captured Emllyn the night before and brought her to Devlin, and he had taken the greatest delight in her fear and humiliation. “What do you intend to do with her?”

Devlin was steady as he faced the man. Last night when Emllyn had been brought to him as a prize, his attitude towards her was as it should have been– she was the spoils of war and nothing more. However, after coming to know her a little, that opinion was in danger of changing. As much as he pretended that it wasn’t the truth, he knew deep down that the situation was increasingly unstable. He hoped the confusion didn’t reflect in his eyes.

“What would you have me do with her?” he asked.

Frederick cocked a dark eyebrow, his broad features stained with hatred. “You’ve already done plenty to her, so I’ve heard,” he said, a lascivious gleam in his eye. “I approve.”

“I do not care if you approve or not,” Devlin said. He wouldn’t warm to the man’s bloodlust. “Answer my question– what would you have me do with her?”

Frederick shrugged his big shoulders and reached for a cup of stale ale with dirty, blood-stained hands. “I suppose you could give her to the rest of us when you’ve had your fill of her,” he said, taking a long swallow of the bitter brew. “Or you could ransom her. Did you find out who she is?”

Devlin nodded, slowly reaching for his own cup of ale. “I did,” he said, putting the cup to his lips. “You will never believe it.”

That peaked their interest. “Who?” Shain demanded.

Devlin deliberately made them wait as he downed the contents of the cup. He set it down against the rough-hewn table.

“The Earl of Kildare’s sister,” he announced. “Evidently, she stowed away on one of the vessels to follow a lover. Her brother does not know we have her, as he does not know she stowed away. At least, that is what she told me. She is a foolish lass, that one. Foolish and young.”

His commanders were holding various expressions of delight and surprise at the news. Iver even laughed softly.

“Kildare’s sister,” he repeated, incredulous. “Are you sure of this? She could be lying.”

Devlin shrugged casually. “She is as fine and untouched as any woman I have ever seen,” he said. “Now she belongs to me and I am not entirely sure I want to give her up or ransom her. I will tell you what I told her– that I shall breed a host of bastard Irish sons from her, lads who will grow up and rebel against their English brethren. Mayhap I will simply keep her as a concubine and nothing more and use the woman as a personal victory against Kildare. ’Twould be humiliating for the man if his sister was the personal whore of his most hated enemy.”

Even Frederick was pleased at Devlin’s statement. “Grand,” he agreed. “Then our victory last night will have implications long into the future. Think on the bastards you could breed with the wench; fine stock, to be sure.”

Devlin agreed and went to pour himself a second cup of alcohol; it was a brew that was produced locally of barley and rye, very strong and heavy in flavor. It was easy to get drunk off of it as he had many a time. He sipped the drink as he fed the falcon another piece of old mutton.

“Indeed,” he said, eyeing the men who were like brothers to him. They had all seen much life and death together, bonded by the plague of war that enveloped their land. “But I will make this clear– Kildare’s sister is my prisoner and my prize. She will be untouched and unmolested by anyone. If I hear that someone has moved against her, my retribution shall be swift and deadly. Do you comprehend?”

Two out of the three men nodded seriously, but no one else seemed to be willing to agree. They seemed perplexed. But Devlin had stated his rules and didn’t wish to discuss them, mostly because the little English witch had him puzzled as to what, exactly, he felt about her and her presence. He didn’t want to have to explain that confusion to anyone else. Therefore, he hoped to move past the subject quickly.

“That is all I have to say about it,” he said quietly. “Now, tell me of my own wounded. How many and what is the current state of my army?”

He’d hoped to shift the subject easily but Frederick wasn’t so keen to let it go. He waved off Iver when the man started to speak on the status of the Irish rebels. “She is not just your personal prize, something to be hoarded and kept,” he insisted. “Although I respect your plans to use her to breed fine sons, now that we know who she is, surely the terms of her captivity have changed. She belongs to us all, Dev. She is a symbol of Kildare, the man responsible for all we hate and all we have lost.”

Devlin cocked a dark red eyebrow at him. “I told you that she will not be touched by anyone but me,” he repeated, feeling the tension rise. “I meant it.”

Frederick didn’t like the response. He slammed his cup down and ale splashed from it, spotting the old wooden table. “Did you know I lost my brother last night?” he said angrily, bracing his arms on the table as he nearly yelled at his liege. When Devlin looked rather startled, Frederick simply nodded his head. “Henry was killed by the English. I found him floating in the surf early this morning. That… that wench you have been taking to sport is responsible for it! Is there nothing else you plan to do to make her pay?”

Devlin could see he was going to have trouble with Frederick. He remained cool as his commander postured furiously. “I am sorry to hear about Henry,” he said softly. “He was a good warrior.”

“Sorrow does not bring him back!”

“Nay, it does not, but I am sorry nonetheless.”

Frederick wasn’t satisfied. He pointed to the ceiling above, to the floor that contained the English prisoner. “Tell me what more you intend to do to make her pay.”

“Pay for what? I asked you before what you wanted me to do and you gave me your answer.”

“That was before I knew she was Kildare!”

“It changes nothing.”

Frederick roared with anger, sweeping his arm at the cluttered table and sending food, ale, and cups flying. Iver moved out of the way so he would not be struck while Shain moved closer to Devlin in case Frederick physically attacked the man. That had been known to happen.

“My brother is dead!” Frederick bellowed. “Are you telling me that no one will pay for that?”

Devlin stood up. If Frederick charged, he didn’t want to be caught sitting down. Moreover, the man was known to veer out of control and now was the time to start showing some strength or the situation could turn bad.

He fixed Frederick in the eye.

“Over a thousand English already paid last night with their lives,” he said in a firm, growling tone. “There are thirty-three English prisoners in our custody. If you want to go and kill each of those prisoners, I will not stop you. Let them pay the final price. But you will not touch the lady. She belongs to me. If you touch her, I will view it as stealing my property and I will punish you accordingly. Is that clear?”

Frederick’s mouth worked furiously. He was prepared to come back with a sharp retort but he had better sense than to speak without thinking. Devlin de Bermingham commanded nearly five thousand men. He had the money and power of the House of de Bermingham behind him but more than that, he was a true patriot for Ireland and men followed him for that very reason. He had fought and bled for Ireland, and his charisma and power had garnered him more followers out of respect than out of fear.

Frederick both admired and feared Devlin. He’d seen what de Bermingham was capable of and had no desire to provoke him. Therefore, he struggled to calm himself. There was more anger than grief in him at the moment, but he wasn’t a fool. He wouldn’t test Devlin. He took a deep breath and pushed down the rise of his rage.

“De réir do ordú, sinsear feasta,” he said with forced calm. By your command, sire.

Devlin eyed the man, wondering if he meant it. With Frederick, one could never tell. “Téigh i síocháin,” he said quietly. “Beidh mé páirt a ghlacadh leat níos déanaí.”

Go in peace and I will join you later . Frederick nodded faintly and quit the room, fatigue in his movements. Devlin, Shain and Iver watched the man go before turning to one another.

“He hated his brother,” Iver said in a low voice. “He is only seeking revenge for revenge’s sake. It is not as if he is wallowing in sorrow. He is simply hungry for English blood and will seek any excuse to bleed it.”

Devlin nodded, sighing wearily as he reclaimed his seat. “He is an excellent warrior and a trusted advisor, but sometimes he worries me,” he muttered, moving to collect a piece of stale bread. “You two will watch him when I am not about. If he acts strangely or is not himself, you will tell me.”

The two men nodded. Iver sat back down at the table but Shain remained on his feet. He scratched his dirty head.

“When do you plan to make the rounds, mo tiarna ?” he asked. “We have the men breaking down the English cogs and going about their usual duties, but they will expect to see you.”

Devlin nodded as he chewed his bread. “I will come shortly,” he said. “Meanwhile, send Enda to me. I have a task for her.”

As Shain went to find the old serving woman who oversaw the keep, Devlin turned to Iver. His manner seemed to slow, his expression becoming pensive.

“I wonder how long it will take the English to hear of this victory and make plans to overwhelm us,” he muttered.

Iver toyed with an empty wooden cup. “Not long,” he said. “We destroyed a large fleet last night. Word will travel quickly. I am not as worried about Kildare as I am worried about the settlement to the south with the de Cleveley and Connaught clann. After our successful raids last year, you and I discussed plans to wipe them out entirely. Mayhap we should visit that plan again. Any English foothold on our soil can only mean danger for us; mayhap it is time to eliminate them once and for all, and send a clear message to Kildare– we do not want English on our lands. Ireland belongs to the Irish.”

Devlin thought on the rather large settlement they had severely damaged last year. It had been a costly fight, but ultimately a glorious one. He drew in a long, slow breath.

“Long have we discussed their destruction,” he agreed. “Mayhap you are correct; mayhap with Kildare’s defeat, it is time we rid Wicklow of the English once and for all. Gather my commanders this eve and after sup, we will discuss the possibilities. We must strike while fortune continues to be in our favor.”

Iver agreed. “Indeed,” he replied, eyeing Devlin. “Have you thought about asking your prisoner what she knows of the English plans? As Kildare’s sister, surely she was privy to her brother’s intentions.”

Devlin shook his head. “I have not thought to ask her,” he said. “It seems to me that she was truthful when she said she stowed away on the fleet to be near her lover.”

“It is possible that she was truthful, but it is also possible she knows more than what she is telling.”

Devlin thought on that. “I do not believe that to be the case, but I will of course interrogate her. I would be foolish not to.”

Iver nodded his head, rising to stand and clapping Devlin on the shoulder as he moved. It was a gesture of comfort, of confidence. As Devlin watched the man lumber out of the hall, he caught movement over to his left. Turning, he saw the slight figure of his chatelaine approach. When the old woman saw that he was looking at her, she bowed her head in a gesture of utter respect.

“ Mo tiarna ,” she said. “How many I be of service?”

Devlin’s thoughts immediately moved away from furious commanders and English settlements to the pale, lovely lady trapped in the chamber over his head. With a crooked finger, he motioned the old woman closer.

“I have a task for you, máthair, ” he said. “It would seem we have a… guest.”

The old woman was frail, pale, and toothless, but she was much more robust than she looked. She was also fairly unafraid to speak to Devlin, having known him since he’d been a small lad. Old Enda, the chatelaine of Black Castle’s keep, had heard the tales of the English prisoner and she had further heard what Devlin had done to her. There wasn’t much she didn’t know about the place, and she’d heard terrible stories. She simply nodded her head to his statement.

“I have heard, mo tiarna ,” she said evenly. “Shall I tend to her?”

Devlin nodded. “Clothing, food, and a bath,” he said, rising from his chair. “Tend her well and do not let her leave that room. I shall be with the men but will return before sundown.”

“Aye, mo tiarna .”

“She is a valuable prisoner. Treat her as such.”

“Aye, mo tiarna .”

“And you will not let anyone in that room other than me. Make sure you bolt the door from the inside.”

“Aye, mo tiarna ,” she said obediently. “But… mightn’t the vault be a better place for the prisoner than your chamber? It is better guarded.”

Devlin’s gaze lingered on the old woman. “Not this prisoner,” he said after a moment. “She must be kept safe and the vault would not be a safe place for her.”

Enda nodded obediently and Devlin lowered his gaze, fearful that she might read something more into his statement. It bordered on concern rather than cold indifference. He quit the room without another word but Old Enda understood, or at least she thought she did; a damaged prisoner was of no use to anyone and the way the men about Black Castle felt for the English, it wouldn’t be a difficult stretch for any one of them to slip into the room and kill the wench. Sir Devlin wanted her undamaged by others so he could damage her personally. He would use her as his own personal victory over the English.

Moreover, it wasn’t any of Enda’s business what he did to the woman. He wanted her safe and safe she would be. She watched the massive Irish knight quit the hall before scurrying about her duties; she had a prisoner to attend to.