Lords of Darkness and Shadow (44 page)

“Aye,
mo tiarna
.”

“She is a valuable prisoner. Treat her as such.”

“Aye,
mo tiarna
.”

“And you will not let anyone in that room other than me. Make sure you bolt the door from the inside.”

“Aye,
mo tiarna
,” she said obediently. “But… mightn’t the vault be a better place for the prisoner than your chamber? It is better guarded.”

Devlin’s gaze lingered on the old woman. “Not
this
prisoner,” he said after a moment. “She must be kept safe and the vault would not be a safe place for her.”

Enda nodded obediently and Devlin lowered his gaze, fearful that she might read something more into his statement. It bordered on concern rather than cold indifference. He quit the room without another word but Old Enda understood, or at least she thought she did; a damaged prisoner was of no use to anyone and the way the men about Black Castle felt for the English, it wouldn’t be a difficult stretch for any one of them to slip in to the room and kill the wench. Sir Devlin wanted her undamaged by others so he could damage her personally. He would use her as his own personal victory over the English.

Moreover, it wasn’t any of Enda’s business what he did to the woman. He wanted her safe and safe she would be. She watched the massive Irish knight quit the hall before scurrying about her duties; she had a prisoner to attend to.

∾

CHAPTER THREE

After Devlin had left her that morning after his second act of domination and punishment upon her, Emllyn spent the rest of the day huddled in the corner of the chamber, as miserable as she could possibly be. The day that had dawned somewhat clear had turned cloudy by the nooning hour and by sunset, the rain and wind had begun. 

Water lashed in through the lancet window as lightning lit up the darkening sky. Other than the bread and cup of stale ale that had been brought to her that morning, she’d had nothing else to eat. There wasn’t even a fire in the dark and sooty hearth. Cold and hungry, Emllyn sat in the dark corner clad in the tatters of her sandy and damp surcoat, the remains of her shredded shift strewn about her arms and shoulders to try to give her some measure of feeble warmth.

She had dozed on and off during the day with dreams of Trevor, her tall and dark love, but then she had awoken to the reality of her situation. Worse yet, her nether regions were chaffed and irritated because of Devlin’s forced sexual attentions and she spent a good deal of time shifting around on the floor because of the discomfort. She very much needed to use the chamber pot but there was none so, without any choice, she had pissed in the corner over near the window where there was a drain built into the floor. She thought it might be the garderobe but she could not be certain; everything about the room was so old and run down and dirty. She felt like an animal.

Emllyn was dozing once again when the door to her chamber shook. Instantly awake and instantly fearful, she remained huddled in the darkness as the door opened. In the dim light, she could see a pair of women, entering with their arms laden with items, and behind the women came a couple of men bearing a big, dented copper pot between them.  

Eye contact was made between Emllyn and the intruders. She remained coiled against the wall as the women, an older one with missing teeth and a younger one that was very pale and plain, timidly approached the bed. The men with the pot moved to the hearth and set it down, quickly vacating the room only to return with peat and kindling. The men were old, dressed in rags, and evidently servants or slaves. They deftly piled the peat and lit it before they vacated the room again and returned a third time bearing great buckets of sloshing water. The water was dumped into the pot and the pot scooted against the peat as the flame began to gain in strength.

Meanwhile, the women had been busy near the bed with its stiff and smelly straw mattress. Now, Emllyn was more curious than fearful as she watched them cover the mattress with the hides they had carried with them. Great sheep hides covered up the old mattress now as they turned to another bundle they’d brought with them and began to pull out some manner of textiles.

Several types of garments were strewn neatly across the hides. Emllyn was very curious about them but didn’t move from her position against the wall; she was still too afraid to. The younger woman had a hide sack with her from which she pulled out a lumpy white bar of soap and a few other things including a comb. As Emllyn focused on the soap and combs that were being brought forth, the older woman finally spoke.

“I’m Enda, m’lady,” she said politely but with a very heavy Irish accent. “This is me daughter, Nessa. Sir Devlin has asked us to help ye dress.”

Emllyn eyed them a moment before very slowly, and very stiffly, rising to her feet. “I am hungry,” she said. “Did you bring me something to eat?”

Enda nudged Nessa and the young girl fled. “Me daughter will bring ye something,” she said, trying not to stare at the torn and ripped clothing on Emllyn’s body, evidence of Devlin’s punishment. She indicated the now-steaming water in the pot against the fire. “Can I help ye bathe?”

Emllyn wasn’t about to deny her. She was so miserable that, at the moment, she would have let the Devil himself help her if it meant warmth and cleanliness. With a short nod, she moved for the pot as Enda grabbed one of the long stretches of fabric on the bed and spread it down on the ground in front of the pot. She also brought forth a small, three-legged stool that she had brought with her and she set the stool upon the fabric on the floor. She indicated for Emllyn to sit, and sit she did.

Emllyn had no sooner sat down than the woman began to pull the tattered remnants of the surcoat from her body. Emllyn felt somewhat exposed, and embarrassed, but the woman was firm yet gentle in the removal. When Emllyn was completely nude the woman began throwing bowls of steaming water on her, which splashed down onto the fabric spread on the floor. It was a mat of sorts, absorbing the water off of the stone floor. The very warm water felt wonderful and as the woman put a bowl on the floor in front of Emllyn and told her to put her feet in it, she simultaneously grabbed the lumpy white bar of soap and began to scrub Emllyn from the feet upwards.

The sand, the dirt, and the chill came off of Emllyn quickly as the skinny old woman washed her vigorously. True, she was sitting naked on a stool in the middle of the room, but the fire in the hearth was burning strongly now so she felt no chill. Enda, like any good mother, Irish or English or otherwise, used a rag and the soap to wash every nook and cranny on her body, including between her buttocks, which actually had Emllyn giggling at one point. 

But the old woman took her job seriously and she cleaned the sand and dirt away, and perhaps she was even intent to clean the man-smell off of the young captive considering what the lord had done to her. Perhaps it was the mother in her that made her sympathetic to the frightened young woman, English or no. At the moment there were no countries or enemies, simply one woman to help another.

The bar of soap smelled like grass and herbs. It was a very clean smell and one Emllyn liked very much. The old woman had lathered her up in it, rinsing as she went along, and she used the soap to lather up her hair. There was a good deal of sand in her scalp and it took several rinses to get it all out, but it eventually ran clean. When Emllyn was finally scrubbed clean, the old woman used another one of the lengths of fabric strewn across the bed and vigorously dried her off.

In the heat of the room, it didn’t take long to dry her skin. Enda handed her yet another pile of fabric from the bed which turned out to be a shift made of linen that was surprisingly soft but far too large. Over that, she donned a heavy garment of green wool that was more like a giant tunic than a surcoat. It had long sleeves, a tie about the waist, and dragged along the floor when she walked, but it was very warm and that was all Emllyn truly cared about. As she sat on the stool while Enda ran a bone comb through her hair to dry it, the door to the chamber opened.

Enda’s daughter appeared with a tray in hand. Upon the tray was a bowl with something steaming in it, a big hunk of bread, a wedge of white cheese, and a warped wooden cup.  There were also a pair of well-used leather slippers, which Enda promptly slipped on Emllyn’s feet. They were a bit too small but still comfortable. As Emllyn slurped down a barley and bean stew, she felt better than she had in days.

As she ate her meal, Enda got down on her hands and knees and mopped the floor up with the wet mat. She swept the water in the direction of the corner drain, sweeping it out until there were no longer puddles on the floor. Nessa, meanwhile, had taken over her mother’s hair-combing duty and when Emllyn’s hair was nearly dry, she braided it tightly and wound the braid into a bun at the nape of Emllyn’s neck. Pinning it with several big iron pins, Emllyn made quite a presentable picture.

Bathed, dressed, and combed, Emllyn swallowed down the last of her meal. She was so full she could hardly move, but still, she licked the bowl. Food had never tasted as good to her as it did at that moment. As she handed the bowl back to Nessa, hovering next to her, the rainstorm outside worsened.

It had beat steadily most of the evening but now grew stronger. Sitting near the fire on the three-legged stool, Emllyn watched the rain beat against the windowsill and splash inside onto the floor. It was near the drain in the floor and she began to see why there was a drain there; water coming in through the window flooded to the drain and was sent back outside again. As she pondered the clever Irish engineering, Enda cleared her throat and spoke.

“Will there be anything else, my lady?” she asked.

Emllyn looked over at the old woman and her daughter. After a moment, she shook her head. “Nay,” she said. “You have been very kind to me. Thank you.”

Enda nodded, not quite sure what to say. She had simply been doing her duty as commanded by Sir Devlin. She motioned for her daughter to begin collecting the rags and bowls they brought with them.

“I’ve brought hides for the bed so ye should be warm,” she said. “And I’ve brought ye another coat and another shift to wear if the weather worsens. It can be very cold up here.”

Emllyn looked at the garments the woman was indicating, strewn about at the bottom of the bed. She fingered the surcoat she wore. “Who does this belong to?” she asked.

Enda collected a wet cloth from the floor. “Sir Devlin’s mother,” she said. “There are several trunks with her possessions still. I will see if there are more serviceable things for ye.”

Emllyn looked up from the garment she was wearing. “Is his mother here?” she asked. “At this castle?”

Enda shook her head. “She died a few years ago,” she said. “Her sister is still here, a kin to Sir Devlin, but there is no more family here.”

Emllyn was starting to show some interest in her surroundings as it applied to the natural flow of conversation. “What is this place called?” she asked.

“Black Castle, my lady,” Enda replied, almost apologetically. “This is Black Castle.”

Emllyn thought on that a moment; she thought she might have heard the name from her brother at some point, something about a rally point for the rebellion on his Irish holdings, and it suddenly began to make a good deal of sense.
Black Castle
. True, she had known that the ship she stowed away on was headed for battle but she hadn’t known precisely where. That had been foolish on her part, she knew, but it didn’t matter now. What was done, was done. Her idiocy had landed her in the middle of the Irish rebellion, in the very stronghold that was the heart of the resistance. Realization dawned. Closing her eyes at the truth of what she had gotten herself into, she turned away.

“My thanks,” she murmured.

Enda eyed the woman’s lowered head. She felt some pity for the young woman but she couldn’t let it interfere with her duty. Grabbing Nessa by the arm, she shooed the girl out and, collecting the rest of the things she had brought with her, quietly closed the door behind her.

Emllyn heard the door shut, turning to see that she was alone in the room once more. It was much warmer, and far better furnished, than it had been earlier, lending to a somewhat comfortable feeling, but the truth was that it was still her prison no matter how it was dressed up.

Oh, God
, she thought to herself, looking around the room and feeling more despair than she ever had. The past night and day had passed in somewhat of a blur, as if she were living a nightmare, but now the nightmare had vanished and all it left in its wake was a heady sense of reality. Now, everything was real and terrible. She was in Ireland, captive in an Irish castle, and already she had been used as a whore. She knew it wouldn’t be the last time Devlin used her; he had told her he would bed her day and night until he got her with child. The prospect was absolutely frightening and sickening. Never mind that there were moments during his domination that she experienced sensations of such ecstasy that she would not have been pressed to admit she liked it;
no.
She would not think that way.  She
couldn’t
think that way. But thoughts of de Bermingham inevitably gave way to the very reason why she was here.  

Trevor.
Dear God, what had become of him? De Bermingham said that he had been killed, but how did he know? He wouldn’t let her see the prisoners for herself, so there was every chance that Trevor was alive… and every equal chance that he was dead. The thought of his demise devastated her but after all she had seen last night, the death and destruction, she realized that she was very fortunate to be alive and more inclined to think of her own safety at the moment. She couldn’t spare any more tears for Trevor, not now. She had to stay alive if there was any chance of discovering his fate. And the only person who held the power to grant her request was, in fact, de Bermingham.

Deception.
If de Bermingham was the man who had the power over life and death, then perhaps she needed to give the man all of the respect he demanded in order to gain his permission to see the English captives. Perhaps if she was to be compliant and obedient, then he might grant her wish. But to be compliant and obedient with him would mean surrendering to his will, giving way to his passion. The mere thought of it made her feel hot all over, a heat that was unfamiliar and consuming. It was not as if she had any real choice in the matter, but perhaps a willing captive might make him more apt to grant her request. Perhaps she was going to have to play his game in order to gain her wants.

Emllyn was in the process of concocting a plan when the chamber door rattled and popped open. Startled, she looked up to see Devlin in the doorway. He was dressed in black leather breeches, a faded red tunic, and a heavy black leather vest that strained against his muscular chest. He just stood there, gazing at her with that same hard and intimidating expression she had seen before, yet… there was something else there, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. His eyes, so deep and blue, seemed to have an odd glimmer to them.