Chapter Eighteen

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

T he countryside of Ireland away from the towns was something overgrown, green, rocky, and wild. It was true that England was extraordinarily green for the most part, except up in the north and into Scotland where things became rocky and brown with peat and heather, but the green of Ireland was a color he'd never seen before. Pale and glistening, with a hint of yellow to it.

Cort could very well imagine that this was the land of little people, of fae and spirits, because it seemed to him that they were all around them, living on the fringes and waiting to stick their heads out at any moment.

He could feel the magic.

And he could feel… peace. He wasn't sure why he felt that, but he did. The landscape was so incredibly quiet it appeared the entire land was sleeping. He'd been to Ireland before, but always in battle. Never like this, simply traveling a road with no armies around him. He found it quite pleasant.

The village of Lisnadara wasn't far from Dundalk. Within an hour, they had sighted the little town, and the green that had surrounded them began to disappear as they entered the realm of farm fields. Rich, brown earth was turned up and, at this time of year, crops were in the early stages. As they passed through the outskirts and into the village proper, they were greeted by sturdy stone cottages in neat rows and a main road that was surprisingly busy.

This was where Cort started to feel some trepidation. He was wearing his armor, or half of it, and he was armed with a big broadsword that hung down his leg. If this village was a nest of rebels, they would spot his English dress in a heartbeat and there could be trouble, but Dera didn't seem concerned. She directed him to the other end of the village where a stone church rose up out of the ground.

The Parish of St. Brendan wasn't a large church, but it had a massive graveyard. Cort couldn't help but note its size. As soon as they reached the wall that surrounded the church, she slithered off the horse.

"Bring Vulcan inside the wall and tie him off," she told Cort. "Father Finbar should be inside."

Cort dismounted and did as he was instructed, leading the horse inside the chest-high stone wall and tying him off on a tree that was growing next to the church. He looked around, an edginess to his manner.

"You said that this is a hive of rebels," he said. "I confess I am not particularly comfortable that we rode in, out in the open for everyone to see. Surely word is spreading about the English knight who has entered the village."

Dera reached out and took him by the hand. "Even if that is true, there is probably no one who will do anything about it," she said quietly. "It is my suspicion that all of the men in the village, at least the fighting men, are at Mount Wrath."

He looked at her. "You believe it was men from the village who sacked the castle?"

She nodded. "It is very possible," she said. "And the village is close to the castle, so it would make sense to me. But let us go in and speak with Father Finbar. He will know."

Leaving Vulcan under the tree, munching hungrily on the fat, green grass beneath it, Cort permitted Dera to lead him into the church. It was dark inside, with the smell of incense heavy in the air because of the recent lauds mass. A few acolytes were moving about, sweeping the floor up near the altar while others were performing other tasks.

It wasn't as empty as it looked outside. Cort let Dera pull him in about halfway when he came to a halt and disengaged his hand from hers. When she looked at him curiously, he gestured towards the front of the church.

"Find Father Finbar," he said. "I will wait here."

She nodded. "I will," she said. "I will hurry."

She rushed off. Cort watched her go, heading to the front of the church and speaking to an acolyte. When the lad pointed to a door on the north side of the church, Dera quickly disappeared through it.

Feeling increasingly nervous, Cort made his way to the edge of the church, remaining in the shadows. He could watch the situation much better from here without feeling exposed. He watched men and boys move around the church, going about their duties, and he also watched Irish peasants coming in and out, saying a brief prayer. They looked completely normal to him, not like the mindless animals he'd always painted in his mind.

In fact, standing there had been an interesting experience.

It gave him a chance to view the Irish in their natural state, as people and not as enemies. Mothers who tugged on the ears of lads who wanted to run wild through the church, or old couples who lovingly gripped each other as they prayed.

But the truth was that they were enemies.

As Cort stood there and observed life going on around him, it began to occur to him that the deliriously warm emotions from last night were wearing off and the reality of being in Ireland was hitting hard. The reality of a pending battle was hanging over his head, reminding him of why he'd really come. It wasn't to languish the night away in a little inn by the sea with a woman he'd fallen heavily for.

It was to regain a castle in a land of men who wanted to kill him.

He was a man torn.

"Cort?"

Dera's voice came from behind him, off to his right, and he turned to see her approaching him in the shadows, followed by a tiny man in brown woolen robes. He didn't smile at her, but he nodded his head to acknowledge her, and she turned to indicate the man behind her.

"This is Father Finbar," Dera said. "Father, this is… well, he's English and I want you to speak to him about the plight of the Irish against the English. He's come to understand our perspective. Will you help him?"

Father Finbar came closer, studying Cort in the darkness. The man was not only short, but he had little hands, stringy white hair, and was blind in one eye. But evidently, he could see clearly enough.

He could see the enormous English knight.

"Did you come with the army that arrived yesterday?" he asked warily.

Cort couldn't deny the obvious. "Aye," Cort said without hesitation. "And my name is Cort de Russe. I am an English knight, but I am also going to marry Dera, so you may as well know."

The priest's eyebrows rose. "Is that so?"

"It is."

The priest looked at Dera in surprise, who nodded her head to confirm what the man had been told. The priest returned his wide-eyed gaze to Cort. "Then what comes first?" he asked. "The marriage or the reclamation of the castle?"

Cort thought there was an ironic twist of humor to that, but he couldn't be sure. He remained serious.

"The castle, of course," he said. "It is a de Winter castle and I have come to take it back. I want to know about the men who are holding it. Will you tell me?"

The priest continued to stare at him a moment before taking another step towards him and lowering his voice.

"I will not tell you about them so you can kill them," he said. "I will not help you do that."

Cort remembered what Dera had told him about the priest, how the man didn't advocate violence. But he was a man loyal to his people, to his religion, and to his country. That recollection forced him to change his tactic.

"I do not want to kill them if I can help it," he said. "I would prefer to talk to them and find out what their terms are. I want to… understand their side of the situation, Father, because Dera has asked me to. If you will help me understand, then mayhap we can end this situation… peacefully."

He spoke the last word as if he weren't at all sure it was possible. Father Finbar didn't seem convinced, either, but he didn't call him out on it. There was enough hesitation between them that Dera felt the need to speak up.

"Father, you speak to us of freedom and living in peace with one another," she said. "Cort wishes to understand how the Irish think and that is why I brought him. You know I would not have brought him so he can discover a way of killing our lads, but they killed my father and brother when they captured Mount Wrath. I want to know why."

Father Finbar looked at her. "I know, lass," he said quietly. "And I am very sorry for that. But sometimes, men do things in the heat of passion that is above what they would normally do. In Mount Wrath, the lads saw a beacon of the English and without you within her walls to give them hope that MacRohan had some semblance of Irish loyalty, all they saw was oppression. When you left, it took away their hope. Can you not understand that?"

Dera was starting to tear up, something she hadn't done in a while when discussing her dead father and brother. "But Finn and Ardie… they fought with the Irish."

"But they don't have your strength, lass. You are a natural leader."

"And my mother? Do you know where she is?"

Father Finbar shook his head. "I don't," he said. "I've not heard. If it gives you any comfort, I don't think they've moved your mother or remaining brothers out of Mount Wrath. I believe they're still there."

Dera shook her head, quickly wiping away her tears. "But why?" she asked. "Why would they keep them there? I simply don't understand any of this."

Father Finbar watched her struggle before glancing at Cort. "Let's not stand here in the open," he muttered. "Come with me."

They did.

Cort took Dera by the arm as they followed the old priest from the nave of the small church and into the cloister outside. It was a square cloister, with dormitories and kitchens around it, but there was also a small refectory, or dining room, for the priests. Father Finbar headed into the small chamber with its scrubbed tables and simple chairs. He had Cort and Dera sit down as he sent a pledge for drink. As the man ran off, Father Finbar sat at the end of the table with his guests.

"Dera, as I told you, the lads look at you as the sole beacon of Irish civility at Mount Wrath," he said. "Ardie and Finn were patriots, 'tis true, but not like you. They did as they were told and they advocated death to all who opposed them. But you… you were the voice of reason, lass. You were an inspiration for what was right and good. You lifted men with your words and actions. And when your father sent you away… there was great resentment. And there was also no restraint."

Dera was listening closely. "Who was it, Father? Do you know?"

He lifted his hands in an uncertain gesture. "Cillian O'Brien and Fallon MacDuffy," he said. "At least, that is what I've been told. I've not seen them around since it happened, so I am certain they are at Mount Wrath, unwilling to leave their prize. They were always the leaders of whatever went on in these parts."

Dera shook her head in disgust. "They were friends of Ardie and Finn," she said. "They had their trust. Did they betray that trust to attack my home?"

Father Finbar averted his gaze a moment, pondering his answer. He truthfully didn't have one. When he finally spoke again, it was to Cort.

"You want to learn about the men who have taken Mount Wrath," he said. "These aren't bloodthirsty lads. They are men who love their country as you love yours. If a great army was to invade England, you would do everything in your power to stop it, would you not?"

It was the same argument Dera had used on him and Cort glanced at her before answering. "I would."

"And it is not because you are a rebel."

"It is not."

"It is because you love the land of your birth and you want to be free to govern it as it was meant to be."

"I would agree with that."

"And there are ways for men to live peacefully. They can coexist and not kill each other."

"How?"

Father Finbar lifted his skinny shoulders. "It seems to me that men of power are greedy," he said. "It's not a new story. The ancient Celts were greedy, as were the ancient Romans. So were the Northmen. Greed drove them to distant shores. Then the Normans came and they spread out over Ireland, but their power has waned. Now, 'tis only The Pale that exists for the English, but even that is too much for some Irish brethren. The time has come that they want their country back and to coexist peacefully is something we must explore, for if we do not, men will continue dying on both sides."

Cort sighed as he sat back, assessing the situation. He could see that Dera and Father Finbar shared the same opinions because he'd heard the exact same things coming from her.

But he wasn't convinced.

"That is a pretty speech, but you still have not told me how the English and Irish can peacefully coexist in Ireland," he said. "There must be order. There must be laws. Ireland has historically proven that it cannot govern itself. You have different tribes running all over Ireland, fighting and dying against each other. Ireland has not been united under one king since the time of the Duke of Normandy."

Father Finbar smiled, revealing mostly missing teeth. "And England has suffered its share of incivility, too," he said. "Brothers fighting brothers for the throne of England, brothers fighting fathers. Even your own king, Henry, had a father who stole the crown from another. Who knows what your King Henry will do in his lifetime to disrupt England? And you believe such a monarchy can effectively rule Ireland? Nay, lad. Henry will treat Ireland as your King Richard once treated England. He will use it for money and nothing more. There will be no love for it. Mayhap the Irish fight each other, but they all share one thing– they love their country more than England does."

Cort had to admit that the priest had a very good argument. "But it does not change the way of things," he said. "It does not change the fact that English lords have held lands in Ireland for hundreds of years. They want to keep their lands. Their families have toiled and died over their lands, too. There is plenty of English blood in Ireland."

The priest nodded, conceding the point. "That is true," he said. "I understand that the English have fought and bled for their lands, but the legacy of Irish loyalty runs deep. The men of this land feel that the Lords of de Winter only use them for taxes and conscript."

Cort shrugged. "But that is how the nobility builds their armies, even in England," he said. "That is nothing new and it certainly is not limited to the Irish."

Father Finbar knew that, but he was trying to explain it from the Irish perspective that Cort, so far, hadn't seemed to understand.

"All the Irish want is to be free to rule their own lands," he said. "But hundreds of years of battles has not helped the situation. The English have been driven into The Pale and that is where they remain."

Cort shrugged. "Then short of England leaving Ireland, which is not going to happen, what would you suggest? Men hold Mount Wrath and there is a three-thousand-man army waiting to wrest it from them. What should I tell the army? Because de Winter wants his property back and he will get it, even if we have to kill every Irish rebel in the castle."

Father Finbar stroked his chin. "Those lads aren't bad men, you know."

"I understand that, but we cannot simply leave the castle to them. It is certainly not a decision I can make. My brother commands the English army, so I can advise him on the matter, but what else can we do?"

Father Finbar scratched his head thoughtfully. "Would you be willing to negotiate?"

"Gladly. With what?"

"Mayhap promise the lads that they will have some say in what happens on de Winter lands," he said. "That's all they want; the opportunity for fairness. Form a local council to advise de Winter. The Earls of Kildare have alliances with local lords, but de Winter does not. They never have. Form alliances that will strengthen both sides of The Pale."

Cort was listening with some interest. "Is that what you mean by coexisting in peace?"

Father Finbar nodded firmly. "Indeed," he said. "The lads in this land are angry because de Winter does not listen to them. MacRohan holds the line at Mount Wrath and will not listen at all."

"That is because my family is treated like traitors," Dera spoke up. "You know this, Father. Because Clan MacRohan holds a legacy debt to de Winter, we are viewed as a family who betrays our very country, but that is not true. We have had to walk the razor's edge between our oath of honor and our heritage. The more we are treated poorly, the more I have seen my father withdraw until this contention finally killed him."

Father Finbar couldn't deny that. He nodded, acknowledging her point. "De Russe, if you are willing to talk to your armies so they will not attack Mount Wrath right away, then mayhap we can negotiate with those who hold the castle."

Cort shrugged. "I cannot make any promises," he said. "De Winter is here and they want their property returned."

"Will you at least try?"

"I will speak to them, but that is all I can do."

"Then that is all I can ask."

It seemed the situation was settled, at least for now. It was far more complex than their brief conversation, centuries of turmoil and conquest and, as Father Finbar said, greed. It almost always boiled down to greed. But one tiny step towards peace was better than more sieges and more death.

Cort thought it was worth trying, anyway, but he wasn't sure how Dillon was going to respond. The man was going on his father's orders and could not disobey them. But as the discussion of Mount Wrath came to a conclusion, something else came to mind.

There was a little matter of a marriage.

"Now, there is something I must ask of you," Cort said. "I told you I plan to marry the lady. I would like to do it now and I would like you to perform the ceremony. I realize this request may seem very strange considering the fact that we are potentially facing a battle of her people against mine, but I do not see an Irish woman when I look at her. I simply see a woman that I love. We would like to be married and I will pay you well to perform the ceremony."

The old priest didn't seem so shocked by the request considering he'd been forewarned of Cort's intentions, but he did look at Dera to see what her reaction was to all of this.

"Is that what you want, lass?" he asked her.

Dera was looking at Cort with utter adoration in her eyes, a smile playing on her lips. "It is."

The priest sighed in resignation. "You know a marriage between you and an English knight… the lads who hold Mount Wrath will not be pleased by it. They may view you as a traitor, which will only feed their anger against MacRohan."

Dera knew that, but gazing up at Cort, she didn't care. It was a defining moment for her, because she had been the voice of reason in the matter of their marriage. She had been concerned about the consequences for Cort even when he hadn't been. She'd been afraid of the man ruining his life for her. She'd tried to be unselfish about it.

But she could no longer be unselfish.

She loved him and she wanted him.

"I cannot help what they feel, Father," she said. "I cannot help what I feel for Cort. I don't see a Béarla when I look at him. I only see a man of strength, of wit, and of conviction. But you must not tell anyone about the marriage. Until Cort is able to speak with his king, no one must know. Do you understand?"

The priest looked at Cort strangely. "You would speak to the king about your marriage?"

Cort nodded. "Henry and I grew up together. He is a personal friend as well as my king."

Either that terrified the old priest or it impressed him; it was difficult to tell from the look of possibly horror he had on his face. But he quickly nodded his head, motioning for the couple to remain at the table as he stood up.

"Let me make the arrangements," he said. "I will return for you in a moment."

Cort stood up. "I will go with you."

The priest frowned. "Why? That is not necessary."

Cort cocked an eyebrow. "Because it would not do for you to run to the village and inform them that you have an English knight at the church who plans to marry a MacRohan."

"Cort, he is trustworthy," Dera insisted. "Truly, you needn't worry."

He looked at her. "You told me yourself that this is a man who preaches Irish independence from the English. Are you telling me that you would trust him with my life?"

That brought Dera pause. She couldn't honestly say that Father Finbar might not turn on Cort. He had always showed great resistance to English rule, so perhaps Cort had a point. There was a rebellious streak in the priest, and he had his loyalties. Better not to take the chance. With that in mind, she stood up, too.

"Then I am going with you both," she said. "Come along, now. There is no time to waste."

Father Finbar saw there was no way they were going to let him out of their sight. Not that he'd intended to do anything underhanded, but he could see it from their perspective. The Irish and the English did not naturally trust one another, so he went about gathering his things with his armed escort.

He did get strange glances from the other priests as he went about his business, followed around by a small, lovely lady whom they knew to be Dera MacRohan and an enormous knight with shoulder-length hair who moved with the stealth of a panther.

It made for an odd little group.

About an hour after their arrival at St. Brendan's, Cort de Russe married Dera MacRohan at the door that led from the cloister to the nave so that no one from the village would see them. The ceremony was witnessed by two other priests who were sworn to secrecy as well, valuing God's calling for man and woman over the conflict between the Irish and the English. At least, that's what they told Father Finbar, who trusted the pair enough to ask them to participate.

But Cort was suspicious of them all. At heart, they were still Irish.

Still enemies, even if they were men of God.

When the prayers had finally subsided, Cort had himself a wife. He looked at Lady de Russe and started to laugh, hardly believing he was actually married. It didn't seem real. He had no idea why he was laughing, only that he was happier than he'd ever been in his life. He'd just entered into an illegal marriage with an enemy bride and he couldn't be happier about it.

Perhaps he was losing his mind.

He simply couldn't stop laughing.

Because he was laughing, Dera was laughing. She had no idea why, but it seemed like the thing to do. It was a moment of joy that was free of thoughts of impending battles or illegal marriages. A brief and shining moment where their joy was unrestrained and she threw her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly as he picked her up and swung her around.

For a brief and shining moment, it was just the two of them, celebrating.

In that moment, Cort found himself thinking of his father and wishing the man could celebrate with them. Gaston had never expressed any great desire for Cort to marry like his mother had, and although he knew his mother would overlook the fact that he'd married an Irish woman considering she was of Irish ancestry herself, he knew his father would not be happy about it. It would have nothing to do with Dera and everything to do with the illegality of the marriage. Gaston would worry for his son, as he should.

Cort missed his father very much at that moment, but he deeply wished his father could have witnessed his joy.

"I have something to confess," he told Dera as he set her to her feet. "When Henry first wanted me to charm you, I was convinced you were a dog. I even barked at him."

"You didn't!"

He was properly contrite. "I did," he said. "I must apologize for that even though you did not know about it."

Dera was grinning. "I appreciate that you had the courage to tell me now that you have married me and I cannot turn you away," she said, watching him chuckle. "When I first met you and realized you could give me information about Henry's intentions towards Ireland, Brend defended you. He was very protective of you and I was… cruel to him. I must apologize to him for being so cruel."

"At least you did not call me a dog."

She was trying to be serious and he was jesting. "Never," she said. "But Brend… I never understood him and he is more of a stranger to me than a brother, but I can see now that he is very much like you. He is noble and duty-driven. I think that I should not have been so hard on him. Do you think we can tell him about our marriage?"

Cort's smile faded. "If you wish," he said. "I think the less people who know, the better, but if you wish that he should know… I will tell him. But I will swear him to secrecy first."

She nodded, smiling up at him, but it was a timid smile. As if she were trying very hard not to think about what they'd done and how Brend would react.

How anyone would react.

Cort kissed her gently before turning to Father Finbar, who was still standing there, watching the pair come to terms with their marriage.

"Now," he said to the old priest. "I intend to consummate this marriage immediately, so is there a place you can suggest we should go? A local inn, mayhap?"

Dera blushed deeply at a personal subject being so freely spoken of, but Father Finbar didn't flinch. To him, there was no reason a part of the marital process should not be openly discussed. But he shook his head to Cort's question.

"No inn, at least not around here," he said. "There is always the forest."

"I will not take my bride into the trees."

"You must do it now?"

"I do not know when we will next have an opportunity."

Father Finbar cocked his head thoughtfully. "Then there is a chamber here that you can use," he said. "If you don't mind being next to the kitchen."

Cort looked at Dera, who rolled her eyes in utter embarrassment of the entire conversation. He fought off a grin as he returned his attention to the priest.

"Show us."

*

"I suppose it could be worse."

Cort was standing in the doorway of a tiny chamber directly off the cluttered kitchen. As Father Finbar had explained, it had been used by an old man who had cooked for the priests, but he had died recently so his chamber had remained empty and unused.

It was tiny, dirty, and cold.

Dera stood near the bed, which was surprisingly big for the room. It took up most of it. There was a mattress on it but nothing else, and the canvas of the mattress was old and stained. The stuffing, of dried grass, was lumpy.

But it would serve a purpose.

Cort was coming to think this wasn't an entirely good idea. "If you wish to wait until we can find an inn, I will not argue," he said quietly. "I was not expecting anything grand at a church, but this…"

He trailed off, shaking his head at the situation, but Dera shook her head. "We must take the opportunity," she said. "As you told Father Finbar, there is no telling when we will have the opportunity to be alone again. We are returning to the encampment after this, are we not?"

"We are."

"And you and I will be separated. Who knows for how long?"

He scratched his head. "We will not be separated, but there is no way of knowing when we will be alone again."

"Then we must take this opportunity, as man and wife. Even if it is only for five minutes."

She had a point. He had been more than eager for this moment until now, but seeing her expression, he knew he could not deny her. Nor could he deny himself.

His body was craving hers.

Even the thought of her naked body in his arms was causing his loins to heat. Perhaps these weren't the best of circumstances, but nothing about this marriage was. He wanted it and now he had it.

He would have to make the best of it.

It was cold and dark but for the weak sunlight streaming in through the small window nearby as Cort began to remove his armor. Dera leapt to his aid without even being asked, already the good wife, already willing to help an English knight who, only months before, she had hated the very idea of. Odd how her opinion had changed so quickly, with the right person. Even just two months ago, she would have never imagined such a thing possible.

But it was.

Removing Cort's armor went faster this time because she was becoming accustomed with what to do. Once the pieces of plate were off, he removed his doublet and helped Dera with the ties on her dress.

In warm silence, the clothing came off, piece by piece, until there was nothing left. When Dera pulled her shift over her head, standing nude before her husband, Cort finally had the view he'd asked for the night before when she was in the bath.

His suspicions were correct.

She was perfect.

Taking Dera in his arms, Cort kissed her tenderly before picking her up and laying her carefully upon the mattress, rough though it was, and resuming his gentle kisses. He could give her five minutes, though he very much wanted to give her more. For everything they'd been through and would go through in the future, they deserved far more.

Boldly, Dera took a hand and placed it on her breast, their eyes meeting as she did so. Cort's gaze was powerful, consuming, as his hand gently tightened over the warm and fleshy mound. Then his lips descended on hers with such passion that she sucked in her breath at his lustful attack. The hand on her breast began to massage it, toying with a peaked nipple.

Already, he was coming to know what she liked, and she liked his mouth on her body. His lips left hers and he took a taut nipple in his mouth. Suckling gently, he carefully wedged his enormous body between her legs, his hands on her thighs to gently part them. He could feel her panting beneath him, small cries as he suckled harder. Her hands were in his hair, holding his head against her breast.

One hand moved to the moist core between her legs. He fingered her delicately, feeling her flinch beneath him, but it wasn't from fear. It was simply because she was sensitive to his touch. Her legs opened wide for him, silently inviting him inside, and he accepted the invitation without hesitation.

Putting his manhood at her threshold, he tried to be gentle with her since he'd taken her the night before and, undoubtedly, she must have been sore because of it. But her eager body was his undoing; the more he touched her, the more she panted and arched her pelvis into him. Holding her tightly, he carefully and firmly thrust into her.

Sweet Jesú!

Dera was calling for God again, and being that they were in a church, He might very well hear her. But she didn't want the priests to hear so she put a hand in her mouth, biting down to stay silent as Cort thrust again and again. His body was doing such wicked and wonderful things to hers that she was trying desperately not to cry out with the sheer thrill of it. Holding him tightly, she lifted her pelvis to his, feeling him move within her as a husband moved within a wife.

His wife.

Cort's thrusts were tender, firm, and measured. One hand gently fingered her breast, causing wicked sensations throughout her body. The more he moved, the more heated her loins became until her loins began to tremble in the most exquisite of tremors. Cort's mouth covered her lips, silencing her pants of pleasure as she climaxed around him.

Cort answered immediately, finding his own release, feeling every throb with the greatest of pleasure. Even after he was spent, he continued to move. He did not want the moment to end; it made him heartsick to think about it.

But end it must. It had been around five minutes, but not much more. As his senses returned, he opened his eyes to gaze into the most beautiful face he had ever seen. Dera was looking at him, her cheeks flushed and her expression full of delight. When their eyes met, she smiled.

"Do you think God heard my cries?" she whispered, teasing him. "He might think I was praying to Him."

Cort's body shook with laughter. "It is quite possible He heard your cries and sent someone to investigate."

She looked at him curiously. "What do you mean?"

He held up a finger to silence her. Kissing her one last time, he very quietly climbed off the bed, reaching down to pick up her shift and dress. He handed it to her, silently telling her to cover herself with them, as he went to the door. With a naughty twinkle in his eyes, he yanked it open and two priests spilled forward, falling into the room.

Dera shrieked in surprise, holding her clothing up over her body so she was covered up, but it didn't matter, for the priests never looked in her directly. They were scrambling all over themselves to get to their feet and run off as Cort stood there, completely naked, and laughed until he was red in the face. As the priests ran back through the kitchen, bumping into walls in their haste, he shut the door.

"How did you know they were there?" she demanded.

Cort was laughing so hard that he had to wipe the tears from his eyes. "Because I could hear them," he said. "I could also see their shadows under the door. I am sure we gave them a thrill they will never forget."

Dera couldn't decide if she was outraged or entertained by it all. The humor of it won over because Cort was having such a good time with it and she ended up laughing even as she pulled her shift over her head.

"That's a story to tell our grandchildren someday when we are old and gray," she said with some irony. "We'll tell them how Mamo and Moree were spied upon by lusty priests on their wedding day."

She was using the Irish terms for grandmother and grandfather. But Cort didn't answer her and she looked over at him only to see that he was staring at her with a strange expression on his face. She looked at him questioningly.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

He stared at her for a moment longer before shaking his head. "What you said," he said. "You spoke of our grandchildren."

She shrugged, standing up to pull her dress on. "Assuming we have any children, of course. I hope we do."

"Do you?"

"Of course I do."

"I want our grandchildren to call me Opi. That is what our children will call my father."

"Whatever you wish."

"And I do not want them raised in Ireland."

She paused. "I told you that I do not care where we live, so long as we are together."

Cort didn't say anything more after that. He finished dressing with her help but before they left the tiny chamber, he pulled her into his arms and looked her in the eyes.

"We will be together, someplace happy," he said. "And we will have children. Ten or twenty, at least, and the lads will look like me and the lasses will look like you. I promise you when this is all over, we will find peace, Dera. I will not rest until we do."

For the first time, Dera saw fear in his eyes and it nearly undid her. She'd never seen that before with him because he'd always been so confident, in everything. But now that they'd wed, now that the reality of the situation was upon them, Cort was perhaps not feeling so confident.

But no less determined.

"I know," she said, touching his cheek. "Now, let's return to the camp and tell the army what Father Finbar told us. It wasn't much, but I think we can negotiate with Cillian and Fallon, if those are the men who indeed hold Mount Wrath. I know them. I can talk to them."

Cort didn't like the idea of her negotiating a siege, not in the least, but he had to keep reminding himself that she had been in a dozen battles and had survived. She wasn't a novice at this.

But he still didn't like it.

"Then let's head back to the camp," he said, taking her by the arm and opening the door to the empty kitchen beyond. "We'll do what needs to be done. But whatever happens… know how much I love you. I will always love you."

She smiled at him. "And I, you."

He gently touched her cheek before taking her hand, leading her out of the kitchen, through the cloister, and out of the church, where Vulcan had destroyed the grass all around him and was taking a nap in the weak sunlight.

As Cort roused his lazy horse, he couldn't help but wonder what lay ahead. Strange how it hadn't bothered him as much as it did now that he was a married man. That brief ceremony seemed to have changed his entire outlook and he struggled to rise above it. He had a job to do.

And so did Dera.