Devlin paused and turned. “Aye?”
“What will you do?” Shain asked. “If they want you in exchange for the lady, what will you do?”
Devlin sighed heavily and averted his gaze. “I will not let her suffer,” he muttered. “I could not live knowing she was imprisoned, or worse.”
Shain felt genuine apprehension at Devlin’s apparent intentions. “Don’t do it,” he begged quietly. “There can be another way, but if they get their hands on you… everything will be lost. We have told you that before, Devlin. You are the heart of this rebellion and if you are removed, then everything dies.Irelanddies.”
Devlin lifted his head and looked at him. “Ireland will not die,” he said. “There will be others to take my place. As for me… mayhap I have done all I can do. Mayhap it is time for this rebellion, and for me, to evolve.”
He left the hall after that, lumbering out into the early morning. He was a man of deep feeling, of deep intelligence, and now of deep pain. So much had changed. It would probably never be the same again.
Shain lay there with tears in his eyes.
*
The vault smelledworse than Devlin had remembered. As he headed down the dark, narrow stairs that led to the pit of despair, the pure stench from the urine nearly burned holes through his eyes. They were watering profusely by the time he hit the bottom and he nearly tripped because he was rubbing at them.
There were no longer any guards at this level because of the stench. A single torch burned, barely illuminating the darkness, but it was enough light for Devlin to see many weary and distraught faces. They were all gazing back at him as he stepped from the stairs and headed towards the iron cages. The first face he came to was Sir Victor’s.
The man had a growth of beard and the hazel eyes were dull with defeat and disillusionment. Devlin looked around at the others, seeing Trevor buried back in the group. The young knight looked haggard. Dirty, feces-covered straw covered the cells but men were sitting on it, anyway. They had no choice. It was a horrific sight and the longer Devlin gazed at it, the more disgusted he became. Turning around, he hunted for the key that was always kept on a peg upon the wall. They often kept it there to completely discourage the prisoners, who had no way ofretrieving the key that would see them to freedom. Collecting the old iron key, he turned to Sir Victor on the other side of the iron grate.
“This is no way for men to live,” he said quietly. “I will release your men and they will follow me to the next destination without resistance. They will obey me implicitly, for the first man that tries to run or refuses my orders will be killed on the spot. Is that clear?”
Sir Victor drew in a long, deep breath and looked around to the men, all of whom were slowly dying. He was willing to agree to anything at that point and the prospect of being released, by Black Sword no less, was almost more than he could bear. Up until a few moments ago, he surely thought they were all going to die here, alone and forgotten. Hearing Black Sword’s proposal was a distinct shock. After a moment, he nodded.
“Aye,” he said, his voice hoarse and raspy. “I understand. No one will run or disobey.”
Devlin nodded shortly. “Then I will trust you.”
With that, he unlocked the first cell, Sir Victor’s cell, and swung open the door. Then he unlocked the second door and forced that one open as well. Men began to move slowly, groaning, as some held on to others for support. As the men were rousing, Devlin went to the stairwell and whistled sharply, producing several of his men who gathered at the top of the steps. No one dared come down into that stench. Devlin called up orders and a couple of the men began to move while the others remained in order to both assist the prisoners and guard them. Slowly, very slowly, men began to come out of the cells. Devlin directed them up the stairs.
It was a slow and laborious process, moving injured and weak men up that skinny flight of stairs. It was like moving a herd of animals. Devlin remained at the bottom, directing men up and steadying a few that wobbled as they moved. Butgradually, they all moved up except for three of them who were directing the others. They had remained down in that horrific vault alongside Devlin, allowing the others to go first.
Devlin realized that Sir Victor along with Sir Trevor and another man were still with him, the remaining three knights from Kildare’s stable of twenty-seven that had come over on the battle armada. Even in defeat, they were still following protocol, still thinking of their men first. Their attitude impressed Devlin. He finally directed them up the stairs and followed on their rear.
Once up in the bright morning, Devlin could see that his men had held the prisoners at the mouth of the gatehouse until further orders. The entire group was sagging, dragging, and otherwise shielding themselves from the muted sunlight. To men who hadn’t seen the sun in weeks, it would take some time for their eyes to adjust. Devlin intended to take them all over to the great hall where they would be fed a decent meal and be tended to, but he soon realized that the stench from the vault had followed them into the daylight. The entire group smelled like hell. He wasn’t about to bring that kind of smell into the great hall.
So he set about cleaning them off. In the bright morning, oddly void of the clouds that were so prevalent this time of year, he had his men heat up vast iron kettles of water, and in the stable yards, they forced the English prisoners to wash themselves down. Clothes were taken from them and boiled, laid out in the sun to dry, and the English used lumpy bars of white soap to wash weeks of filth and despair from their bodies. Moods and manners soon perked up as the English scrubbed away.
But they were heavily guarded by Devlin’s men. The Irish lined the stable yard, armed with spears and swords, as the English washed themselves and each other. Razors were produced, only a pair of them so they could not be used as weapons, and the English were permitted to shave their faces.Since the sun was out, and vaguely warm at that, hair and bodies and clothes dried quickly. It was a perfect day for it.
Devlin stood and watched everything with a critical eye. He was mostly watching Sir Trevor as the man washed his tall, sinewy body and his dark hair. He was rather handsome, as Devlin was coming to discover, and he could feel the pangs of jealousy clutch at him. It was little wonder that Emllyn had fallen for the man. But as he continued to watch, he noticed that Sir Trevor and another man seemed particularly close, washing each other, laughing together, or passing what could have been interpreted as rather meaningful glances. It was rather odd. As Devlin pondered the behavior, he was approached by Sir Victor.
Shaven and clean, Sir Victor remained in his damp breeches and bare feet as he respectfully acknowledged Devlin. Massive arms folded across his chest in a somewhat intimidating stance, Devlin bobbed his head slightly.
“St. John,” he said. “I must say that you look rather different.”
Sir Victor smiled weakly. “I suppose that I do,” he acknowledged. Then, his smile faded. “I wanted to thank you, de Bermingham. What you are doing for us… you did not have to do this. I have never heard of any man treating prisoners this way and I am genuinely humbled. On behalf of my men, I thank you deeply.”
Devlin eyed the man. “I am not the beast that everyone thinks I am,” he muttered, looking out over the gang of washing men. “And your men are not animals. The vault you were in was not meant to hold so many men. It is only humane that I remove you and tend you. But know this; I have done this for a purpose. If I did not have a purpose, I could have very well left you down in that hole to rot.”
Sir Victor held an expression between curiosity and wariness. “What purpose would that be, my lord?”
Devlin looked at him, sizing him up. “I will tell you when you’ve had food in your belly, but for now, I must ask you something.”
He motioned the man over and Sir Victor went willingly. When he drew close to the big Irishman, Devlin spoke.
“That young knight,” he said, pointing over at Sir Trevor as he spilled water over his head. “That is Trevor le Mon?”
