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 amnota 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 youreallykill 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 areallgone?”
“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 yourchoice, 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 hallof 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 previousnight’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.”
