Chapter Nine
A Son
Würger, October 3, 1564, Ulster, Ireland
Würger rode at a steadytrot—not so fast as to dare a mishap and not so slow as to risk delay. How splendidly it had all worked out, and no need even for a plant. The O’Neal’s visit to the English court was all the talk; his journey discussed in minute detail. And his noble lady, distressed by her husband’s departure, was to leave Benburb with her brood—to stay with her kin. Würger sniggered—to flee the memories of him. Whores never knew what was good for them.
To hinder pursuit, he had devised a trip back to the Pale full of twists and turns. After paying his men a generous sum of ten pounds each, he had them disperse outright. The boy in the saddle before him was light and kept silent, so naught slowed him. And none.
Würger rode until his mount stumbled with fatigue. Not to worry—he had crossed into the Pale. He swung off the panting steed and put his ear to the ground. If there had been pursuit, he had lost it by now.
He lifted the child down from the horse. “Let me have a look at you, boy.”
The notion of a son struck him two years back, when he laid eyes on the fine offspring of the venerated commander Eburwin von Frundsberg. The lad, no older than eighteen, stood obedient and capable at his father’s side—a strong, young soldier. That was when Würger remembered he, too, had a son—the “O’Neal’s” firstborn, born nine months after his riveting visit to Eden-Duff-Carrick.
And now, Würger eyed the small child before him with bittersweet wistfulness. All the sons he could have sired—all laid to waste. How fortunate then, that he had let that lying whore live. He licked his lip, studying the boy. The child did not have his look, but no matter. Although he had only seen the O’Neal’s likeness on a canvas and not the man, the boy did not resemble him either. He was all his whore mother. Red-yellow hair and blue eyes with that same insolent expression she had lost only in the end. Still, he was a large child—thick-boned arms, big hands, strength that could be seen and felt. Like his. The boy would grow into a fine landsknecht one day. He could even resemble him. But not too much. He would fare better if he grew up handsome.
“I’m hungry,” said the boy. He had good English for such a puny child and good sense, too. Würger’s own stomach rumbled with hunger pangs.
He surveyed the wood. It was teeming with game—he would catch their dinner fast.
“Stay here and do not try anything foolish, boy. You will not get far, and you do not want to anger me.”
The boy did not answer, only stared. Würger knew next to naught about children, so he left it be.
After catching a fat rabbit and checking and rechecking for pursuit, he started a small fire. The boy had eyed the rabbit with hungry eyes yet ate slowly and with measure. Such composure for a small child. Würger curled his lip. Regrettably, he himself never had any composure. That must have been from his whore mother, then. A queen of composure she was—until she was not. He scratched between his legs. The memory still stirred him.
The boy did not ask any questions. Should he talk to him? Get to know him over their first humble meal together?
“I wish to get to know you, boy.” He nudged closer. “What is your name?”
The boy made no reply.
Würger tapped his foot on a tree root. He would not tolerate this perfect mimicking of his whore mother’s conduct. But he did not want to make enemies with his own son. He would be a good father to him, so the lad would respect and admire him.
“You must answer when I question you, boy. What is your name?”
“Lord Ronan.” The boy’s blue gaze met his.
“Good.” Würger would do away with the Irish name once they got to Germania, but he would have to think of it later. Mayhap this was a good time to impart some wisdom on his son, teach him the ways of the world.
“Do you fancy girls, Ronan?”
The boy shrugged.
“One you fancy more than others?”
The boy shook his head.
“Good. Never fall for a girl. All women are filthy whores.”
The boy considered this, then put down his rabbit leg and straightened.
“My mama is not a filthy whore.”
Würger peered past the boy at the gray Irish sky. His own mother had been an actual whore. Born in a brothel, he was passed from one prostitute to another to keep an eye on him. It happened so often, he sometimes forgot which was his mother. It mattered not. She never loved him. She called him names and told him how she abhorred him for being born, how she had wanted to get rid of him, but failed. He loathed her after that. He loathed them all. The filthy whores.
Although Würger never knew his sire, he liked to think of the big, strong patron as one. He had been a quiet child, ever watching, ever observing. He used to creep along the hallway and peek through the keyholes of doors. He did not understand much of what he saw at first but was drawn to it like a fly to honey, all the same. Eventually, he made sense of it. The men who took their harlots the way starving, pathetic squirrels consumed their acorns filled him with revulsion. The women did not even hide their disdain. They yawned, stared at the ceiling, and cleaned their fingernails while the men labored and whimpered. Such flagrant disrespect angered him. Those men were weak, despicable. They always finished too fast, and the whores always laughed at them later amongst themselves.
The man he’d believed his sire was different. He was a big, strong soldier, bearing a long sword and a heavy axe. He never labored and whimpered. He made the harlots labor and whimper. They were all very frightened of him, but he paid the madame thrice the amount, so she never refused him. It took the women weeks to recover from his visits. A few never did, and he recompensed the madame handsomely for each of their worthless lives. He treated them suitably, those useless, gossiping, filthy strumpets, never tolerating disrespect or disobedience. He owned them from beginning to end.
“My mama is not a filthy whore,” repeated the boy.
Würger scoffed. She may have not started out one, but she would always be a whore now. His whore. It would not do to tell his son this, however. He shall have a higher opinion of his mother than he himself had. Würger did not know why—only that it was better.
“Your mama is not a whore,” he agreed, feeling noble and magnanimous. “But all other women are, and from them, you take what you wish.”
The day grew late, and it was time to put up a tent. At dawn, they would set sail to Germania on a small ship awaiting them in harbor. He smirked. Ja, that whoreson Rykeworth had paid him well for doing what he loved best. Well enough to acquire a ship.
When Würger went to a nearby tree to relieve himself, he came upon a feral cat and her litter—an opportunity to teach the boy another lesson. He wrung the neck of the mother cat and dropped the kittens into the pockets of his stolen Irish tunic. They were like small rats, warm and nasty.
He dumped them on the ground before the boy, mewling and squirming.
“I will make a good landsknecht out of you. The best one.” He rubbed at his chin. It would be sensible to share his designs with the boy. “Take your axe and hack one of these useless creatures in half. You must learn to abide the sight of blood to be a good soldier.”
The boy glared and shook his head. “I’ll not do it.”
Würger licked his lip, contemplating. The child did not fear him. That would have to change if he were to respect him. On the other hand, he did not want his son to loathe him. Patience. The boy would learn soon enough. It could even prove useful for his son to not be afraid of him. If there were going to be two of them henceforth, they needed to trust each other.
He brought his large axe down on one of the kittens, and its blood splattered about its mates.
“You see, it is not hard.” Würger turned to the boy who watched him closely. Good, he was learning already. “They are useless vermin,” he instructed with unexpected sangfroid. He made a good father! “Ja, all creatures are useless vermin, save you and me. You will understand this soon, my son.” It felt queer to call this boy thus, but he was his son, and they both needed to get used to the notion.
The boy raised his chin. “I’m not your son. I’m the son of the Prince of Ulster.”
Würger spat, then laughed. He could not stop. The way the boy said it—with such aplomb, such confidence—it was truly funny.
“Who told you this?” He stopped laughing.
The boy hesitated. “The O’Neal is my father, just as mama is my mother.”
“The O’Neal is not your father, boy. I am.”
The boy looked away. It was hard to gauge what he was thinking. Composure again. If only he himself could be this composed in the face of uncertainty.
“How can you be my father?” The boy trained his gaze on him. “I’ve never met you in my life.”
Würger took a sharp intake of breath, his patience wearing thin. “Five years past, I met your mother and gave her you.”
The boy said nothing.
“I want you to call me Vater when you address me.” Würger surprised himself. “Our Germanic word for father. Ja, go on, son, say it—Vater.” He peered at the boy, waiting.
The child lifted one brow. “I’ll not call you so.”
“You will not?” Würger’s heart pounded a furious drumbeat. “You think you are better than me? Do you? You think you have the precious O’Neal blood flowing in your veins, ja? You have my blood in your veins, son. You are me and your whore mother. You would do well to mind that!” He sat on his haunches in front of the lad and glowered at him.
“My mother is not a whore,” said the boy. “And you are not my father.”
Würger grabbed his axe and hacked all the remaining kittens, but one, to bits.
He straightened, panting, hands covered in the vermin’s blood. “Take your axe.” His voice brimmed with menace he could no longer control.
The boy lifted his small axe.
“Show me you are a man. Show me you will make a good, strong landsknecht.”
The boy stepped to the blood bath in which the last kitten squealed like a pathetic rat. Slowly, he raised his axe—the first of Würger’s many gifts—and hurled it into the brush. Then, he picked up the kitten and stuffed it in his tunic.
“You’re a very bad man,” said the boy. “I don’t like you one bit.”
Würger stared, mute, in the face of such astounding impudence.
“You will check your tongue with me, boy!” He bellowed at this audacious child.
With great effort, he stilled himself. Something in the child’s face was not of his mother. Was it the stubborn set of his jaw, or the dark shade of steel his eyes had turned in disobedience, or the proud groove between his brows? This was not Neave O’Neal’s face glowering back at him, and neither was it his own. A disturbing thought cut through Würger’s designs like a sharp Irish blade. What if he was not his son? Würger had not considered this hitherto, but he could have been the O’Neal’s. The libertine may have gotten his wife with him before he left for the Pale.
Würger licked his lip and spat. No, this child could not be his son. His son would not be so squeamish as to kill a rat of a kitten. His son would admire his resolve and strength and would want to emulate it. This was an Irish child through and through, and naught whatsoever to do with him. He was not his son.
Jaw clenched, Würger flexed his thick fingers. He could teach the little shit what came of those who disrespected him. He would do that. Hack him to bits like the vermin he was.
Breathing hard, Würger grabbed his axe, the handle cool to the touch. He could end the child with one blow, but would that serve him? All the time and expense he’d gone to—all for naught. He went to hack at a tree to clear his head. Would his strong, bold sire have left empty-handed? What would he have done? Ransom. The notion calmed him—a sure sign of its rightness. If he could not have a son, he would have coin. The O’Neal, with his gallowglasses, could not have gone far and would likely halt his journey and return home upon learning his boy was taken. And what could be sweeter than taking from the entitled bastard twice?
A twinge of doubt needled at the edge of Würger’s consciousness. He ought’ve contrived an alternate design and asked his men to lie in wait—they would come handy now with their swords. But he brushed this away. The boy’s life would be sword enough.
***
October 6, 1564, Ulster, Ireland
Dusk cast about a hazy, eldritch light when Würger rode to the designated exchange spot—the wood’s edge bordering Ulster and the Pale. Two days past, he sent an Irishman in service of Rykeworth to Benburb. His message was plain: if you want your son alive, come alone and bring five thousand English pounds; if you bring men, the boy will die.
Würger sat atop his mount, the O’Neal’s spawn before him, when he spied a rider in the distance.
“Is that your father?” He pressed his blade to the boy’s throat.
The little shit showed no sign of fear. “Too far to tell.”
Würger cursed and eased the blade. He did not need the vermin’s blood, but what he could do with five thousand English pounds! The thought warmed him better than fire on a cold winter night.
But what did he see? His heart picked up the pace; his hands grew cold and stiff. The rider was not alone! Dozens of men followed behind. A small army of gallowglasses.
“The bargain is off!” Würger shouted, turning round. “You were to come alone! I will slit his throat if you follow us!”
He scanned the wood, seeking escape, and sweat, icy and copious, trickled down his back. He was surrounded from every side, the O’Neal himself mere yards away. Würger pulled in his breath. The Irish chieftain looked different in the flesh: taller, broader, and possessing of looks women gave their maidenhoods for without a moment’s thought. A true king on his bay stallion—strong as Hercules, handsome as Adonis, wealthy as Croesus, and commanding an army of the deadliest gallowglasses in all of Ireland.
A familiar ill fever engulfed Würger. If only he could touch this great man, to absorb a fraction of his splendor. He swallowed, pushing the feeling away. It was always so with men like the O’Neal who had everything while he had nothing, not even a son. They made him lose his mind. They made him contrive strange, fevered thoughts he dreaded more than the most vicious battle.
“Release my son.” The O’Neal did not sound an Irishman. His tongue was English through and through, his voice beautiful and strong like the rest of him.
Würger shook himself from his stupor, dug his cold fingers into his steed’s mane. He had overplayed his hand. There would be no coin now. The payment, if there was to be one, would be his life. And his bargaining chip was the little vermin, sitting before him, unconcerned of his sharp blade. He would have to take great care—the O’Neal was famed for his cunning mind. His life was to be won in a battle of wills, not given in exchange for the little arrogant shit.
“You believed the fable?” Würger emitted a scratchy laughter, painfully aware of his clumsiness and ugliness. “But naught can trump taking all the pleasure, siring a son into a noble family, and clearing five thousand pounds into the bargain. I would wager you never fancied a lowly mercenary could fleece you so, Prince of Ulster!”
The O’Neal’s face grew white as a sheet. The man would hack him to bits with his long Irish sword were he not holding a blade to his boy’s throat. Good.
“Release. My. Son.” A command, low and calm, to be obeyed.
“Where is my payment?” Würger pressed on the dagger, making the boy gasp at last.
The O’Neal appeared before him, fast as a lightning bolt. He looked larger and more magnificent so near. Würger steeled himself against a wild urge to touch him. A demented longing flooded his veins—a fistfight. Any pain would be worth it.
“Are you well, Ronan?” The O’Neal examined the little snot. “Has he harmed you?”
“I’m well, da, save for the blade tickling my throat.”
The O’Neal nodded and trained his gaze on Würger. His gray eyes were of a vicious alpha wolf circling its prey. Würger’s deranged fantasies dissipated into the cold Irish mist.
“Your payment.” The O’Neal’s deep voice turned soft and measured. “I will take you to my darkest dungeon, where you’ll be stripped and chained to a wall. Not long ago, there was a lad sold into serfdom for his crimes, a lad of very peculiar tastes, you see. Likes to tie up other lads nice and tight and bugger them with unusual objects—axe handles, tree branches, fire pokers—anything at hand. Quite ingenious he is when it comes to buggery.”
An icy chill filled Würger’s veins.
“I’ve a mind to buy him out and make him your mate in my dungeon. But I’d not restrict him as much as you—mayhap a long chain for freedom of movement and hearty meals to preserve his strength. I’d provide him with any such objects as he might wish for, withal. Your death would mean his death, so he’d be sure to keep you alive. For many long years.”
Würger stiffened as the hideous warmth spread about his thighs. He despised himself for it. Pissing himself as he did when he was small, when fear overtook him in the presence of men like the O’Neal. The boy shifted, feeling it, too, no doubt.
Würger’s face burned like a flame, but he lifted his head and faced the man he would loathe for the rest of eternity.
“If you want the boy back unharmed, call off your men.” He schooled his voice to confidence, yet it trembled as he spoke. “Call them off!”
“Release him, and I will,” said the O’Neal.
Würger let out a slow, shuddering breath. “How do I know you will not kill me if I do? Or do you take me for a fool?”
The O’Neal glared at him with such lofty scorn, he felt as ugly and small as a maggot.
“Release my son unharmed, and upon my word of honor, I’ll not kill you.”
Relief surged through Würger, thick and furious. He never understood this word of honor the highborn liked to toss about so much. He laughed at it. But now he was glad of this self-righteous folly. He glanced round—he was still surrounded by dozens of gallowglasses.
“Call off your men, Prince of Ulster, and I will release the boy by that copse there—” He pointed to some trees a hundred feet away, a clear path out of the wood gleaming nearby.
The O’Neal said something in Irish to his men, his voice carrying deep and rich throughout the wood. His soldiers retreated, clearing the way.
Würger drew the boy closer. “Before your men, you gave your word you will not kill me.”
The O’Neal stroked his stallion’s muscled neck. The beast pranced like a dark demon in the fires of hell. “Aye, you have my word.”
Würger rode to the copse and let the child slide down the side of his steed. He did not look back as he set off to a gallop—
The world shifted. His horse reared, eyes rolling. Before him was an impenetrable wall of mounted gallowglasses with drawn swords.
He felt for his axe with shaking hands. Futile. He could take on one, maybe two, no more. Then, the O’Neal’s dungeon with axe handles and fire pokers. His insides quivered—a mortifying, reeking loosening of the bowels. A herald of the forthcoming debasement.
One of the gallowglasses spat and cursed in Irish.
“A fine rouncey gone to ruin,” said another in broad Scots.
Würger flinched at the O’Neal’s mocking voice behind him. The little shit sat mounted before his father, their resemblance uncanny. The devil had tripped him into this madness. Why had he fancied a son? What for?
“Y-you gave your word you w-would not kill me!” His words came forth hoarse and jerky with uncontrollable tremors. “Oath breaker! Your chieftain is an oath breaker!” he screamed.
The O’Neal petted his son’s head. “Calm yourself—I’m breaking no oath. I will not kill you. But my lady, you see, she’s been nursing an insatiable and growing bloodlust. Surely, you understand I’d not refuse my lady.”
Würger dug his spurs into his steed’s sides. He would break through the wall of the gallowglasses or die trying. His horse reared again, nearly throwing him.
He had his blade, he remembered.
“She’s awaiting you, Würger, with a sharp dagger in hand. Says she wants to carve bits of you at her pleasure.” The O’Neal scrunched his nose and turned to his men. “We must clean him first. It won’t do to bring him pissed and shit-stained to my lady.”
Würger tightened a sweaty hand on his blade’s handle. He ought to have never returned to Ireland. He ought to have known better than to tempt fate. But he was here now, and shat himself or not, he was still a landsknecht.
“Your lady—” He laughed—a hideous, strained cackle of a dying beast. “Your lady is for all the time my filthy whore!”
The world turned red, then black as he drove the blade into his throat with all his might.