Page 19 of Lord of the Lost

Chapter Seven

Devlin walked down the lane toward Grimstoke Village, his mind filled with memories he wished he could destroy. Around him, the afternoon faded into evening, the sky beginning to darken. The darkness only gave the ghosts more power, the warmth of the day drained away by their chill. He had not meant to be so abrupt, so harsh in his words to Mona, yet memory had cast him into darkness, and the bitterness that came with it had surged forth. He knew that no person who had not been there could understand, truly, what it had been like, and he was glad that Mona had never had to see such things. Would she forgive him for his outburst? He could only hope that she might.

He saw a thousand horrors and heard the voices of a thousand dead men, and felt as if, once again, the ghosts surrounded him, clamouring for the life they had lost. As he walked, he flinched at every passer-by on the road, though they were polite and took their hats off and hailed him with, ‘Your Grace!’. He could not help but imagine that there were Frenchmen behind every rock and tree, ready to ambush him, intent on killing him, or these good people who passed him, all unknowing. He wondered how he would react if some boy, as a lark, decided to leap out from behind a tree at an inopportune moment. He did not like what he saw, did not like what he thought he might do, simply by reflex.

When he came to the village, he ignored everybody and walked directly to the tavern. He marched in and sat at a table in the corner. The tavern owner’s wife, a stout old woman, rushed to his table.

“Your Grace, what can I get for you?”

“Ale, and ale, and ale, and don’t stop bringing it until I tell you.”

He threw a coin onto the table, and waited. Men watched him furtively and whispered to each other. He heard the phrase ‘war hero’ and cringed. Yes, he was a war hero because he had stabbed more Frenchmen than other soldiers had. It was not a designation he appreciated, nor one he felt he deserved – too many of his own men had died on the battlefields, and he had been unable to save them.

He drank with the determination of a man who wants to become intoxicated – he needed the distance that the ale could grant him, even if only for a few short hours. Devlin hardly tasted the ale - he just drank, drank, drank. Throwing his head back, he let the ale slide down his throat and settle in his belly, felt the gentle numbness infuse him.

Soon, the room began to shimmer in his vision. He felt his arms and legs become less distinct, less controllable, and the texture of his clothes against his skin became a distant, faraway sensation. He smiled at nothing, laughed at nothing. An old man walked across the room, leaning heavily on a stick as twisted as his back.

“My friend!” Devlin called. “What are you having?”

“Ale, Your Grace.”

The man’s voice was a murmur, and his eyes were on the floor.

“Barmaid! Ale for my friend here! No, ignore my hasty words. Ale for every fine fellow in this fine establishment!”

A cheer rose up at that. Devlin threw coin after coin on the table – not, he distantly realised, that he needed to – if he commanded it, they would do it, and send him the bill later – such was the power of being a Duke.

Soon the whole tavern was drinking courtesy of their Duke.

“Old man!” Devlin shouted, louder than he intended. “I implore you, sit with me.” Devlin kicked the chair opposite him so that it slid out. The old man, with a visible effort, lowered himself onto the chair. “You’re a fine old man.”

The words were pointless, and he hardly cared what these sounds which left his lips meant, only caring that he might interact with another man, kindly, not in battle, and that he might have conversation to keep his mind empty of thoughts and memories, empty of the demands of the lost.

“I thank you, Your Grace.” The man sipped his ale with great difficulty. “That means a great deal coming from you. It surely does.”

Devlin wanted to feel warmed by the man’s appreciation, but he did not. He did not feel much except for the tingly heating effects of the ale - but that was only of the body - it would pass, and once again he would be cold. And then, no doubt, mean and unfair to his wife, as he had been this afternoon, as he regretted being, now that it was too late.

My wife, he thought, suddenly wishing that he could hold her, but knowing that he was unworthy of that pleasure.

~~~~~

They, all three, had sat there, frozen, after Devlin left the room. The silence seemed to hold the echo of his words, of the slam of the door. When it became impossible to bear, before the others could say anything, Mona rose, nodded her head to Devlin’s mother, and spoke, annoyed to discover that her voice sounded shaky.

“Pray excuse me, I feel a megrim coming on.”

With that, she turned and left the parlour, near running up to her rooms, where she flung herself onto the bed with a sob rising in her throat. She refused to let it out, refused to allow despair to grip her. He might push the memories away, might deny himself hope – but she would not give up on him, or on what they might have, on what had once been between them.

She pushed herself up, and went to sit in the chair by her window, staring out across the Castle gardens, and across the valley, where the small glimmers of light from the village began to appear, as the sky darkened into evening.

It was beautiful, and peaceful. Peace. That was something, she was beginning to realise, that Devlin might never find again.

That possibility saddened her, but she would not simply accept it as inevitable – instead, she turned her mind to what she might do, to how she might break through the cold wall he kept erecting between them. It was a wall which she suspected was crumbling, just a little, for he had shown her those fleeting moments of tenderness. Yet her attempts to deepen that connection were failing – perhaps she needed a way to challenge him? Or a way to make him see that duty and love could exist together?

She shook her head, frustrated by the fact that she could not imagine how she might reach him, truly, but quite certain that she must – for she loved him – painfully, and irredeemably, no matter how he might behave towards her. She had waited eleven years for his return – she would not allow a few months of failing to reconnect with him to defeat her!

Down in the valley, the cluster of lights looked brighter, as the sky above darkened. Those lights were centred around the tavern, she knew, where the townsfolk gathered to talk and drink. That was, she suspected, where Devlin had gone, for she knew that at times he sought the effects of ale, or something stronger, to dull his senses. As she stared at those lights, fleetingly, there came the thought that perhaps he might seek something else to distract him – a woman, perhaps… But she pushed that thought aside, shaking her head – she could not, truly, imagine it of him, especially now that she was his wife. He would not dishonour her so.

Would he?