Chapter Eighteen
Kirk could smell Ireland before he ever saw the coast. The green, lush lands and softly rolling hills.
When the three de Cleveley ships docked with their load of one thousand men, horses, wagons and supplies, Kirk found himself frantic to reach Wicklow.
But it was a three hour march by his calculations and the army set forth at a strong pace.
Niles and Albert had charge of the advance party, sent ahead of the main army to determine the state of the Castle.
Kirk and Corwin remained with the column, Corwin still terribly ill from his day-and-night trip across the Irish Sea.
The sway of his charger only seemed to worsen his condition and Kirk ignored the man as he wretched bile over miles of rocky road.
Retching and burping that continued until they reached Wicklow.
Niles and Albert met the army a mile out, indicating that a sizable rebel force was occupying the estate.
Bringing his men to arms, Kirk lowered his visor and, with rage feeding his determination, spread his ranks into a sweeping pattern that marched on Wicklow like a plague of locusts.
The battle had been ugly from the start.
The Irish rebels were prepared for the approach of the de Cleveley army and put up a hellish fight.
Kirk lost Sir Albert in the first few hours of fighting, and Niles died in his arms just after midnight of the following day.
A far too costly war, in Kirk’s opinion. And it only grew worse.
When dawn broke the next day, Kirk threw caution to the wind and sent a suicide force of men into the keep, literally burning the place free of invaders.
He lost a good deal of seasoned men, mostly de Cleveley troops, but was rewarded with a full retreat of the enemy by noon.
Licking their wounds, the rebels skulked into the surrounding countryside as Kirk raised the gray and yellow de Cleveley standard over the keep he had been born in.
His father’s impaled body had been the first sight greeting him upon entering the large, and now devastated, inner bailey.
Ryan Connaught had been strung up by his wrists, spread between two large poles as an object of inspiration for the Irish insurgents.
Kirk had promptly vomited at the sight and then ordered his father cut down.
He himself carried the man to a resting place against the inner wall, tears falling on the corpse as he brushed away the flies and maggots.
But he had no time to spare his grief or his rage.
Corwin located his two brothers, dirty and beaten, shackled in the moldering vault.
But they were alive and unharmed for the most part, greeting Kirk with kisses and tears.
The eldest Connaught learned that his mother had been taken by the rebels, her whereabouts unknown.
A short search of the surrounding area had discovered the woman murdered, and Kirk’s rage developed into full-blow madness.
The second night after nearly two days of continuous fighting, Kirk, Steven and Drew found themselves on the battlements as six hundred English troops patrolled the grounds and Castle perimeter.
To gaze at the three men would have been to notice identical characteristics, an expression here or a gesture there.
Whereas Kirk and Drew had similar coloring and features, Steven was fair, his blue eyes and blond hair in direct contrast to his brothers’ dark countenance.
The Irish eve was amazingly mild, the smell of rain in the distance. Kirk was weary, but his murderous emotions kept him from seeking his pallet. With his mother and father killed, his thoughts lingered solely on those of revenge.
And his brothers were aware of the fact. But they were also aware that unless Kirk intended to kill every peasant in the county of Wicklow, he would never find the culprits.
“Why do not you sleep, Kirk?” Steven asked his brother quietly. “Drewie and I have the watch. You have been awake for days, lad, and it shows.”
Kirk grinned in spite of himself, rubbing his stubbled face. “So I am not my beauteous self, am I?”
Drew shook his head. “Christ, you’re an ugly man. No wonder you have never married.”
A dull twinkle came to Kirk’s eye. “A few months will see that changed, lads.”
Both Steven and Drew turned to him with surprise. “Is that so?” Steven snorted. “God’s Blood, I pity the woman. How much did you pay her, Kirk?”
Kirk chuckled. “There’s not enough money in the world to buy this woman. She’s priceless.”
His brothers grinned. “Priceless? Do tell, lad.” Drew was snickering.
Kirk sighed heavily, leaning against the parapet as he gazed into the clear night sky. “She’s a beautiful lass. Silken dark hair and the brightest blue eyes I have ever seen. Her name is Mara and if you so much as sneeze in her direction, she’ll put her fist through your nose before you can blink.”
Drew raised his eyebrows. “A fighting wench, eh?”
Kirk grinned. “Not when handled correctly.”
His brothers let up a collective “oh”, a knowing sound that suggested they understood their brother completely.
“You have bedded her, then,” Steven said.
Kirk crossed his thick arms. “It wasn’t like that, Steven. I am in love with the girl.”
“And she loves you?”
“She does.”
“Foolish wench.”
The brothers shared a laugh. Kirk sobered, watching the great bonfires in the distance as the dead were burned.
Their parents’ burial was slated for the morning, in the graveyard where Connaught ancestors had been interred for centuries.
Still, Kirk was having a difficult time coming to terms with what had happened.
Even thoughts of Mara seemed unable to distract him.
“You cannot do anything for them, Kirk.” Steven’s voice was soft.
Kirk turned to his brother, his crippled right hand a painful reminder of the once-great knight. “What do you speak of?”
“Mother and father,” Steven clarified. “You cannot do anything for them. Those who killed them are long gone, or dead themselves. We shall never know exactly who did it.”
Kirk hardened. “We will if I interrogate every rebel in the land, or burn every village. Someone will tell me.”
“You will destroy everything if you do this,” Drew said. “The actual number of rebels are few. But through threats and intimidation, they coerced the loyal peasants to aid their cause. You cannot destroy everyone simply to capture a few.”
Kirk’s jaw ticked. “How can you say that?” he demanded. “You saw what they did to father, to mother. How can you be so willing to stand ignorant while murderers roam free?”
“I told you why,” Drew returned, with more force. “What do you plan to do, completely obliterate the county, punishing everyone for the crimes of a select few?”
Kirk cocked an eyebrow. “When we came upon Wicklow two days ago, I would say that more than a select few occupied the castle. I’d say hundreds.”
Drew shook his head. “Untrained peasants forced to comply with the few trained rebels in their midst. The men who captured Steven and I were hardly more than children. And the only reason we were captured was because of their sheer number.”
“What about the men who killed father? Or beat mother to death? Were they children, too?”
“Hard to the core, Kirk. And we shall never, ever find them. They are too clever. And too intimidating.”
Kirk sighed with frustration, wrinkling his nose to the pungent smell of the burning dead. “I simply cannot abide by all of this,” he said after a moment. “I return home to find my parents killed, the home of my birth all but destroyed. Can you not see the basis for my rage, lads?”
“Of course we do,” Drew said softly. “But we also know there is nothing you can do about it. We will rebuild and we will strengthen our ranks with more soldiers. Then we will meet with the village chieftains and see if there isn’t some peace we can come to.
There is nothing more we can do than that. ”
“I disagree.”
“What would your Mara say to your need for revenge, Kirk?”
It was Steven, always the voice of calm. Kirk looked at his younger brother with frustration when he realized what he was driving at. Pursing his lips, he turned away.
“Most likely the same as you,” he grunted. “But Mara is not a soldier. It is right for women to believe in peace and harmony. Without them, the world would know little.”
“Do you want to return to her soon, Kirk?” Steven’s tone was pointed, soft.
“Or do you want to spend the next year searching for men whose identities will never be revealed? The peasants respect the English, Kirk, but they fear the rebels more. Have you been away so long that you have forgotten that?”
Kirk did not like what he was hearing, mostly because it was the truth. Feeling frustrated and impotent, he merely shook his head.
“Nay,” his voice was hoarse. “I haven’t forgotten. But with all of the might I command, I should think I could do more to bring these men to justice.”
To the north, the sound of distant thunder could be heard, dying away just as Kirk’s determination for vengeance was. His brothers were correct and he realized he would have to resign himself to the fact. But the knowledge that vengeance would be useless did nothing to ease his anger.
“I so wanted Mara to meet father,” he said after a moment, feeling his fatigue as the night deepened. “She’s such an exquisite creature. I wanted him to see the woman I had chosen to pass along the Connaught lineage.”
“A spirited woman who throws her fists around?” Steven laughed when Kirk pretended to punch him. “I think I like her already.”
“You will fall in love with her, as I have,” he said. “But you cannot have her. I have already had to fight off one bastard and I swear I kill the next man who looks at her.”
Steven and Drew, aware that they had deterred their big brother’s taste for vengeance, gladly delved into the subject of Lady Mara once again. It was good to see Kirk smile and they realized that his mood was the direct result of Mara’s name. Any mention of her sent him grinning like a fool.