Читать книгу Devlin - Erin Yorke - Страница 10

The morning was young, and remnants of last night’s struggle were still visible in the bailey below Alyssa’s window. Though the inhabitants of the castle sought to return things to normal, a sense of upset hung heavily in the air. Nowhere was it more pervasive than in Alyssa’s bedchamber, where the distraught girl fought to blink back tears.

Though she had troubles aplenty of her own the fate of the Irishman who had saved her life touched her heart. And now, because of her, the brave, comely gallowglass was confined in the tower. Devlin Fitzhugh was his name…or so the charges read.

Remorse plagued the girl’s heart. Who knew what awaited him? ‘Twas not meet that so fine a man should have to endure suffering as a result of her defiance against her father, a defiance that now appeared childish and shallow when she considered the consequences it had wrought.

The point had been brought home when she had seen her Irish savior dragged away. His thick, coppery hair and his proud, sullen face had captured the early light of dawn so that he was aglow with fierceness, despite the wounds he had sustained. The sight of him had caused Alyssa’s breath to catch in her throat. He appeared a magnificent rebel, a man who should be free roaming the green hills of his homeland, not destined for an English jail or worse.

Alyssa shuddered. By comparison, her own future suddenly seemed not so bleak. The look of horror on her father’s face when she had been in danger, the tears of joy he had shed when he had clasped her to him after she had reached safety, surely indicated that he felt at least some fondness for her, that he was not the complete ogre she had imagined him to be. Still, how could such a sentiment be reconciled with the unalterable fact that he had abandoned her following her mother’s death in childbirth? That he had sent her off to Ireland with his sister and never once come to see her?

The relationship with her father, life in England, the fate of the man in the tower—there were so many emotions swirling around in Alyssa’s troubled heart. Mindlessly brushing back a blond tendril that had escaped to nestle in the hollow of her cheek, she began to pace her quarters, but dozens of repetitions did nothing to soothe her. Instead, her upset and bafflement only increased with each step.

Finally, a frustrated Alyssa threw herself down onto a straight-backed wooden chair beside a small table. Wearily, she propped her elbows on its worn surface, closed her eyes and leaned her head against her folded hands. Life had been so simple a few months ago. Nay, even last night, before she had visited the cells, her situation had not been as complex. How could it have worsened so much within so little time? Things had been bad enough without more trouble finding her. Once again, the image of shackles on the strong arms that had defended her wrenched Alyssa’s heart. Oh, trouble hadn’t found her, she thought with self-disgust, she had gone looking for it. If only she could do something to gain the Irishman’s liberty, or at the very least ease his plight. Perhaps if she spoke to her father…

Alyssa’s thoughts were interrupted by the squeak of a hinge and the sound of her door slowly swinging inward. A masculine footfall stopped beside her, and then warm, compassionate fingers swept a strand of hair back from her forehead before coming to rest atop the crown of her head.

“Your mother had hair as beautiful yet unruly as yours,” her father said quietly. Heartened that the girl had not batted his hand away as she would have a few days ago, Cecil patted her shoulder awkwardly before settling himself in the chair on the opposite side of the table. He was finding it exceedingly difficult to shoulder the day-to-day responsibilities of fatherhood so late in life.

When she raised her head and regarded him somberly, Cecil was concerned that Alyssa’s arresting violet eyes were made more vivid by the pale lavender smudges staining the delicate skin beneath them. Like her mother, she had the look of a fragile female, he mused, and the girl had endured much of late. Then he reminded himself that there was a fire beneath Alyssa’s surface with which he had become all too well acquainted these past few days. It was a blaze that tempered her spirit and gave her a strength her mother, God have mercy on her, had never possessed. Even now, there was the look of protest etched upon the lass’s pretty features, and Cecil chided himself for thinking that the comfort she had accepted from him immediately after her near tragedy had forever changed things between them.

“Do not compare me to my mother, sirrah. You’ve sworn to me how very precious she was to you. Speaking of the two of us in the same breath only emphasizes my own inconsequential standing in your eyes.”

“Daughter, what must I do to make you believe that you are just as dear to me?” Howett asked, reaching out to capture one of Alyssa’s restless hands in his own.

“If that were true, Father, then you reward those who preserve my life quite oddly.”

“The Irishman…” Cecil muttered with a sigh. “Try to understand, Alyssa.”

“What is there for me to comprehend other than that you have helped punish the man who saved me from falling victim to a sword?”

“I have spoken to Governor Newcomb and done all I can for Fitzhugh. Isn’t it enough that he’s alive at the moment?” Cecil demanded. “In truth, the rebel should have been immediately beheaded, if not garroted, for his crimes against the queen.”

“The queen! Your duty to Elizabeth always provides you with an adequate excuse whenever your actions are questionable,” Alyssa shot back heatedly, withdrawing her hand from her father’s grasp.

“Her Majesty is not a sovereign to be thwarted, Alyssa. ‘Tis a lesson you should commit to heart before you set foot in England. To fail to do so is to court disaster,” Cecil replied, his voice stern.

“Is that why you always put your loyalty to the queen above all else? Above my mother? Above me?”

“I’ve told you I had no choice! When our sovereign commanded me to accompany her envoy to the Lowlands as his secretary, what could I do but go? Had I refused, I could have been thrown in the Tower, and both you and your mother left to live in poverty. As it is, your dam did not live to see my return home. But you were waiting for me,” Cecil said. His words were drenched in wistful nostalgia, as though he truly did wish that things might have been different.

“A scant two months later, I was informed that my service had pleased Her Majesty, and I was to be sent abroad again. I knew that such an order precipitated a career to be spent in foreign lands. Was I to take you, an infant, with me? Expose your tender, young life to the hazards of constant travel? I had just lost my wife, I would not lose you as well. Nor did I want to see you grow to womanhood among the intrigues of various royal courts. No, as much as I wanted you beside me, I could not be that selfish. Instead, I consigned you to the care of my sister, a loving woman whose own two children had died. Even though she was slated to settle in Ireland, it seemed to be in your best interests at the time. You must believe me, Alyssa. It was because I loved you that I gave you away. If I was in error, I apologize.”

“But why didn’t you visit me? Why didn’t you write?” Alyssa asked

“What excuse can I possibly offer, my dear? Elizabeth kept me too busy to travel on my own behalf. And by the time you were old enough to read, I had hardened my heart to the pain of our separation Perhaps I was simply too cowardly to open myself to the anguish again. But now, my years of service have been rewarded. I have been given a post in England, and after I see these Irish rebels safely in English jails, I can once more establish a home. I wish to have you there with me.”

Alyssa wanted to believe him In fact, she yearned to do so. But the sense of rejection she had known as a child would not permit it until her father had proved himself to her

“If you care for me as you say you do, Father, then how can you stand by and watch the Irishman who saved me be condemned to imprisonment?” Alyssa asked stubbornly.

“Don’t you think I wanted to thank your impulsive rescuer, to send him on his way laden with gold and jewels? I did. But I have neither the authority nor riches to do so, regardless of what is in my heart. The rogue led an assault on Dublin Castle, Alyssa! Soldiers of the crown were slain. Political prisoners were released, some of whom I was charged with transporting to England. And because the chaos your Irishman caused began at the cell of Eamon MacMahon’s son, we have to assume he’s in league with the MacMahon himself.”

“The MacMahon?”

“Aye, a right troublesome rebel, a traitorous Irish nobleman who has been stripped of his lands and wealth by the queen. The MacMahon and his band live as outlaws. To have kept his son in captivity would have been to curtail his lawless behavior and acts of aggression against the crown. But your gallowglass saw to that, didn’t he? Why, his association with Eamon MacMahon is, in itself, reason for execution. I had it within my power to keep him from immediate death but little else. It was beyond me to gain his liberty. As it was, it took more than an hour of heated words with Governor Newcomb to convince him to march Fitzhugh to the tower rather than the block.”

“What did you say?” Alyssa asked, curiosity overcoming her reluctance to prolong any conversation with the man who was her sire. Though Fitzhugh’s execution had been a dim possibility, it had not been one she had considered seriously. Who would take the life of so heroic a man?

“I asserted that Fitzhugh was due some clemency for saving the daughter of Her Majesty’s representative.”

“And Newcomb agreed?”

“No…not entirely. I’m afraid we arrived at a stalemate. But I managed to convince him it was unwise to act hastily. Since I am not scheduled to leave Ireland until the end of the month, when the prisoners from the outlying districts have been brought to Dublin and placed in my care, we have decided to lay the matter before the queen. A missive has been sent detailing events. The Irishman will be safe from Newcomb’s wrath at least until we receive Her Majesty’s reply.”

“But what if…if…” Alyssa faltered in her question, her eyes growing round with horror.

“There, there, daughter, you’re not to worry. The queen will show mercy. The rebel will most likely be imprisoned in England for a time, but at least he will be alive,” Cecil assured her, silently praying his words contained some truth.

“How can you be so certain?”

“Do you have to ask? My dealings with Elizabeth over the years have given me some insight into her character. I promise, the Irishman’s life will be spared,” Cecil contended. Receiving the queen’s decision in the matter was a few weeks away, but the moment to soothe his daughter was now, to make her see he was not the monster she had painted him and that life with him would not be so unhappy as she anticipated.

“And if your recommendation holds no sway with the queen, what will we do?” Alyssa whispered, her fair face paler than usual.

“I beg that you trust me, daughter,” Cecil Howett implored with an intensity that oddly enough tugged at Alyssa’s heart. “Your Irishman will be spared. I give you my word.”

“Then I thank you, Father,” Alyssa said stiffly, still uncertain as to whether or not she could believe his promises.

“Your gratitude may be misplaced, sweetling,” Cecil Howett said with a weary shake of his gray head, glad the discussion seemed to be drawing to an end. “With conditions being what they are in English jails, it could well have been more merciful to have permitted your Irishman’s execution.”

“Nay, Father! You did the right thing, and I pray you will continue to do all within your power to keep him safe,” Alyssa replied fervently. She thought about placing a tentative kiss on Cecil’s cheek to seal their bargain, but hastily decided against it. She was not yet willing to chance allowing this stranger into her heart. It was a further complication she didn’t need when she had more pressing things to tend to. While her father saw to it that Fitzhugh remained alive, it would be up to her to bring Devlin solace as best she could. Surely she owed him that much, and never had debt seemed such a light burden.

Though Devlin had been confined for nearly eighteen hours, his violent rage at his predicament had yet to leave him, and he savagely yanked at his confining chains. Strong as he was, his efforts were to no avail. But he could not stop himself from trying to pull the links free of the large iron ring embedded in the wall through which his shackles had been laced. He knew he would not cease his attempts until he fell victim to exhaustion. Then, perhaps, sleep would overcome him and in sweet oblivion he would find peace of sorts, transitory though it would be.

Once more he tugged at his chains, gritting his teeth and silently cursing the impulsiveness that had landed him where he was. A score of thoughts raced through his head. He wondered whether Niall had escaped safely, and pondered his own fate, but mostly he thought of Muirne and what would become of her in his absence. Oh, he knew the MacMahon would see the child fed and sheltered as best he could. But food was not always plentiful in the rebel camp and starvation was certainly no stranger to Ireland since a handful of English had stolen lands that had once fed thousands. Besides, a girl could not grow up roughand-tumble in a camp as he had done, without proper guardians to see to her welfare. If she managed to survive at all, she would likely end up as her mother had, bearing someone’s bastard and succumbing to an early death.

The idea of it ate at Devlin’s very soul, though he barely knew his daughter, and he almost groaned his grief aloud when he considered the life the child would be forced to live.

He had been nothing more than a softhearted fool not to have turned Maeve away when she had crept beneath his blanket one dark, moonlit night. He had never decided whether it had been the frost on the ground or the ice surrounding his own heart that had seen him shivering with cold that evening. The only thing of which he was certain was that it had seemed natural to accept the warmth Maeve had offered. But he should have resisted temptation. Then there would have been no child to suffer because he had been captured.

More enraged with himself than before, Devlin had never looked so fierce. He was about to begin his futile pulling at the iron ring once again when he heard a scurrying in the darkness, much too loud to be that of one of the rats with whom he shared the tower. Quickly, he got to his feet. He’d not appear cowed before his English captors.

Taking a proud stance, Devlin wondered what fresh torture was about to befall him. So far, he had not answered any of the questions he had been asked about the MacMahon or the location of his camp. Would the English employ the lash or the hot iron to bend him to their will? The method mattered not. He would fight submission until he lost consciousness, or at least, he prayed he would.

Suddenly, out of the darkness, stepped a willowy female form. Devlin muttered a curse. The sight of the girl he had saved was more painful to him than any physical punishment. He could not bear to look at her without silently railing against his unfathomable behavior in the courtyard of Dublin Castle, the behavior that had cost him his freedom and decreed Muirne would not have the life he wished for her.

“Hello.” The voice was soft and delicate as the English lass dropped her hand away from the candle she had been shielding.

Looking at her, Devlin could see now that she was not the child he had at first supposed her to be. Her soft curves proclaimed that she was more woman than girl, but the youthful beauty of her face hinted that childhood was not all that far behind her. Why, she was probably no more than sixteen, Devlin thought, until he realized what he was doing and began to silently berate himself. What difference did it make? What was the wench to him, anyway?

Devlin shot her a fierce look meant to send her scampering on her way in terror. But she stood her ground, overlooking the fury on his face just as she ignored her malodorous surroundings. Instead, she saw only a magnificent warrior, one with a heart so big that he had risked his life for hers though the world had declared her his enemy.

Alyssa gave a tiny sigh as she studied Devlin Fitzhugh. Her aunt and uncle might have pampered her, but no one had ever been willing to hazard his life for her before this rugged gallowglass had done so. She was as much impressed by his gallantry as she was by his physique. Surely the world had never known such a hero.

“My name is Alyssa Howett,” she began. “I am the…woman you saved last night.”

“As if I could forget you!” Devlin growled. “But it matters not to me what you are called, girl. Get you hence before I do you harm.”

“Oh, I know you’re angry, and I can find no fault with that, but I also know that you would never hurt me,” Alyssa continued. “Such evil could never be in your nature.”

“Step a few inches closer so that I can wrap my chains about your slender young neck, and I’ll show you how very wicked a desperate man can be.”

“I had to speak with you, to tell you how badly I feel that I played a part in your capture.”

A part? This whole thing is your fault, Devlin wanted to bellow. But he held his tongue because he knew such an outburst would be a lie. From his viewpoint, no one but he was responsible for his dilemma, and that grated on him more than if someone else had actually been to blame. Still, the sight of the girl was almost more than he could bear, reminding him as it did of his foolish gallantry during Niall’s rescue.

“Please, you must believe me,” Alyssa persisted in the face of Devlin’s stony silence. “I truly am sorry.”

“No sorrier than I am,” Devlin ground out bitterly. If the girl felt guilty, it was an emotion that might be used to his advantage. “What were you doing flitting about the cells in the middle of the night? Can’t your father control you, or is it a habit of yours to visit imprisoned men under cover of darkness?”

“No!” she exclaimed, her face blazing crimson. “No to both questions. I don’t know my father very well. We’ve just been reunited after many years apart, and when we first became reacquainted, I hated him and refused to obey him in even the smallest matters. He had abandoned me, you see.”

The simple, innocent confession tore at Devlin’s being. How long would it be before he saw Muirne again—if ever he did? And, how would she feel about him if he came back into her life? Would she, too, feel her father had deserted her?

“I want you to know that I begged my father to arrange your release, but it was futile.”

“A man of great honor, your sire,” Devlin commented in derision, “and I suppose you are much like him.”

“Don’t you think I would help you if I could?”

“Prove it,” he demanded. “Get me the key that will unlock my chains.”

“I can’t,” the girl admitted shamefully. “The guard carries them.”

“Then what good are you? Leave me in peace.”

Despite the fact that she would have granted the Irishman his freedom if it were within her power, the thought of never seeing him again filled Alyssa with melancholy. She attributed the feeling to silly, girlish fancies and tried to concentrate on the matter at hand, easing Devlin Fitzhugh’s plight in whatever small way she could.

“I’ve brought you something,” she said, fishing in a deep side pocket of her gown.

“A weapon, a chisel?” Devlin asked anxiously.

“Nay, ‘tis but an apple,” Alyssa replied apologetically. “But I thought it might give you some comfort.”

“Think you I have any stomach for food?” Devlin asked in disgust. “Go away and don’t return unless you want to place your life in jeopardy.”

The only response he received was the dull thump of the apple as it dropped to the floor inside his cell and rolled towards him. Then there was silence followed by the sound of light, hurried footsteps marking the girl’s retreat.

The quiet did not last long. It was interrupted by the gravelly voice of one of the guards. Carrying a bucket and a stack of trenchers, he was walking in the company of two of his fellows. It was obvious they were delivering the day’s meal.

“We got here in time to hear that softhearted wench offer you an apple,” the Englishman said derisively. Unlocking Devlin’s door, he padded forward, followed by the other two, who stood with pikes pointed in Devlin’s direction. “Sort of makes this your own private Eden, doesn’t it?” The guard laughed cruelly, retrieving the fruit and holding it aloft before he crunched it between his few remaining teeth.

“I didn’t know the serpent ate the apple as well,” Devlin drawled, his voice drenched with condescension in spite of his circumstances.

“Seems to me we should give you something other than your supper, laddie. You need instruction in how to talk to your betters…the girl and me.” The jailer took a small club dangling from his waist and began to wield it. Sickening thuds echoed in the darkness as the weapon found its target again and again. That Devlin bore the cruelty without pleading for clemency incensed the Englishman further, increasing his efforts. Finally, however, he tired of his sport.

“A few more such lessons, Irishman, and you’ll no longer be so pretty. Then there will be no lass come to visit you and make your lot easier.”

It was perhaps the most merciful thing he had heard since his capture, Devlin thought as consciousness made ready to flee and the Englishman’s harangue began to fade in the distance.

“Niall, praise be Mary and all the saints,” yelled Eamon MacMahon two days later as he saw the small band of men approach his campfire. Hampered as he was by his crutch and broken leg, he hobbled to his feet and embraced his son warmly. “By all that’s holy, I feared I’d never see you again. But the scouts said Devlin wasn’t with you. Where’s the man to whom I owe my son’s life?”

“Right here, Uncle,” Cashel said gruffly. “Devlin was taken early on and I had to take charge and lead the fight out of the castle to save Niall. I’m proud to say we lost only one man, Kieran.”

“And Devlin.” Niall’s voice was strident, his youthful indignation barely held in check. Initially he’d refused to even accompany Cashel, arguing about not leaving Devlin behind until the older man had tied him to his horse for the journey home. “Father, we must return at once for Devlin. I can’t abandon him. In fact, if Cashel hadn’t knocked me out when I tried to head back into Dublin, I wouldn’t be here at all—”

“Then God bless the man, you young fool. If you were taken again, there would surely be no talk of ransom,” the Irish chieftain said. “Cashel, I appreciate your putting Niall first, but was there no way to help Devlin?”

“Would you have had me risk the lives of all of these for the sake of one?” Cashel demanded. “The English were swarming like bees in a flowering meadow, their weapons ready and no mercy in their eyes. I thought it meet to escape while we could.”

“Devlin told us he would try to distract pursuit from Niall,” reminded Dugal. “Perhaps he did get away. He may still come along under his own power.”

“But he’d never leave one of his men behind. We shouldn’t have left if there was any chance that he’d show,” argued Niall, repeating the words he’d echoed since escaping Dublin.

“There wasn’t any!” snapped Eamon’s nephew. Annoyed that concern for Fitzhugh overrode his own part in the heroic rescue, Cashel revealed more than he’d intended. “I was the last one through the gate. I saw him taken.”

“And you didn’t turn back to help him?” Niall was the spokesman but the murmur from the others of the clan left Cashel no doubt that the lad spoke for all. “You betrayed not only Devlin but all the MacMahons when you deserted him—”

“The devil take such nonsense. It was our lives or his and I’d do the same again if need be.”

“And what of your quarrel over who was in charge?” challenged Sean. “You didn’t like being his second.”

“I’ll not deny I’ve questioned the MacMahon’s judgment regarding Fitzhugh’s ability, but I admit when I’m wrong and I was about this. Devlin Fitzhugh planned the raid on the Castle and executed it perfectly. He fought like ten men to get us free of there, but he’d be the first to agree that Niall’s life must come before his own. Niall, lad, he told you in the tower, ‘don’t stop for anyone or anything.’ Have you forgotten?”

“No, but—”

“And Dugal, didn’t Fitzhugh insist on leading us out of the castle, knowing full well that the odds were against us once the alarm sounded? The man knew the risks and willingly accepted them.”

“You’re glad he was taken,” accused Eamon’s son.

“Use your head. Would I choose to anger your father by abandoning a man he so values if I could avoid it? My main responsibility was seeing you out of the pale and back here before the soldiers found us. Now that you’re safe, we can tend to Devlin” Though it galled him to say it, Cashel could see he had no choice but make it appear this had been his plan all along. Of course, by the time they returned to Dublin, Fitzhugh’s rotting head on a pike might be the only part of him left. The English didn’t take kindly to Irishmen who raided their jails.

“Then we’ll ready the horses for you to leave at first light,” agreed the MacMahon. He didn’t know if he trusted Cashel’s story, but he was kin, and one didn’t forsake the clan when ordered to perform a duty. “I won’t feel Niall is truly safe until you bring Fitzhugh home—and I know you’re the one man who can do it.”

“I’ll go, too, Father,” volunteered Niall.

“No. You’re too inexperienced to be helpful,” countered Eamon. “Cashel will pick the men he wants and when he returns, we’ll feast like never before. Now, Cashel, get some rest before you head out again.”

“Aye, Eamon, and you, enjoy your son. I’m thankful I could bring him home to you.” The words grated in Cashel’s ears, his hero’s welcome evaporated for worry over Devlin. Damn the blasted gallowglass! Even absent his presence was still felt. Cashel MacMahon would never risk his life for one such as he.