Chapter Two #3
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.”