Devlin. Erin Yorke
other guard with murder in his eyes.
“Cashel, leave him. Niall is more important—”
“Here I am, Devlin,” called a weak voice.
Devlin turned and relaxed for the first time in three days. Niall was alive—filthy, clearly frightened but thankfully upright and moving under his own power.
“Are you all right then, lad?” As the boy emerged from the darkness, Devlin wrapped Eamon’s son in a warm embrace.
“I’ll do.”
“Thanks be to God,” Devlin murmured. “Let’s go home.”
“We must take those fellows along,” Niall explained, gesturing to the other prisoners already fleeing the jail.
“As you say,” agreed Devlin, “at least until we’re outside the castle. No matter what his crimes, no Irishman deserves to stay in this English hellhole.”
Suddenly a bell tolled, echoing in the yard as Cashel and Devlin exchanged glances.
“They must have found the guards at the gate. We’ve no time to waste,” urged Devlin. “Down the stairs to the passage in the north wall. Niall, don’t stop for anyone or anything.”
Going first in order to protect Niall, Devlin descended the steps with his sword and dagger drawn. In all his life, he’d never had a presentiment of disaster as strong as this. Every nerve in his body was alert, every sense working to anticipate what might lie at the foot of the circular stair.
“Hurry,” he called over his shoulder. As shouts in the bailey resounded off the stone walls, he increased his already quick pace. “Tell the others it’s each man for himself, but all of us for the MacMahon’s son. I’ll try to distract pursuit.”
Then, unbelievably, he had reached the ground. Taking a deep breath, Devlin opened the door to the outer corridor, only to be nearly bowled over by a mound of moving fabric that hit him like a heavy blue cloud.
“Ho’ What?” His breath knocked from him, he could only motion the men to go without him while he disentangled himself from the folds of material and the squirming form beneath them.
“Devlin?” questioned Niall anxiously.
“Go quickly now. I’ll join you later,” Devlin ordered, pleased the boy hesitated only briefly before obeying.
“Get your hands off me, sir, or I’ll have you jailed,” warned a feminine voice from beneath the unwieldy draperies as she attempted to free herself from them.
It had taken Alyssa longer than she expected to leave the main part of the castle Then there had been that loud clanging noise erupting out of nowhere that startled her and made her drop the cloth earlier—where there had been no guards about to assist her. It had seemed like ages until she had been able to pick up the bed hangings, and here they were all over the floor again, no thanks to the dolt towering above her, an Irishman from the sound of him.
Raising her eyes so she could give him a piece of her mind, Alyssa stopped short. A man, a tall giant of a man, with red hair and angry blue eyes glared down at her, weapons in both of his hands.
“Sir, you might have killed me—” She gulped, her eyes wide with trepidation. Could these be escaping prisoners? Her father would turn murderer himself if she got involved with them—and she would be his victim!
Then another figure darted forward, yanked her to her feet and shoved her in front of him toward the door.
“She can be a hostage for us—just as they took Niall,” rejoiced Cashel. He needed to escape the castle immediately, before his part in the crime was discovered. No Englishman would be able to identify just which Irishman had placed the woman in jeopardy, and if he were taken, he’d say it had been Devlin’s idea.
“No, let her go. She’s hardly more than a child,” protested Devlin. He grabbed for the man, but Cashel was already through the door with the girl, leaving Devlin no choice but to follow.
“My daughter! My God, they have my daughter,” cried an anguished voice as they headed across the bailey. “Tell your men to be careful.”
“My men will do what they must in order to recapture the prisoners,” said the governor of the prison. No one, English or Irish, had ever escaped his jail alive and he’d be damned before one did tonight. “Get MacMahon, lads! There’s a healthy bounty on the boy, and there’ll be more for every Irishman you take, whatever his name.”
They swarmed from nowhere, swore Devlin, dodging right and left to avoid the onslaught until he could catch Cashel and the female. Then, they fought their way nearly across the compound, while steel clanging loudly upon steel shattered the night. Every moment brought more English soldiers to the skirmish. But Devlin knew he and the others couldn’t yield and live.
Methodically, the gallowglass worked his way toward his goal, the escape route in the north wall, engaging one after the other of Her Majesty’s troops, relishing the victory of each step that brought him closer to freedom. Hard put to follow the movements of all under his command, he was nonetheless aware of several Irishmen making their way through the gate into the safety beyond Dublin Castle.
“Please, God, let Niall be among them,” he whispered.
Cashel, however, was still within the bailey, having a difficult time of it. Maintaining his hold upon the girl, the fool was keeping her all too close to the fighting for Devlin’s taste. If she were killed, they’d have an innocent child’s murder on their heads.
“Release the lass!” Devlin roared above the din. Once she had scurried away, he and Cashel could no doubt slash their way out of the English stronghold.
“Devil the girl! I won’t give up my life for hers,” Cashel balked. “She’s our only hope of getting out.”
“I’m ordering you to let her go,” Devlin roared, fending off one attacking English sword after another as he moved forward, still monitoring Cashel’s progress.
All at once Cashel, near the open gate, obeyed, roughly casting his hostage away from him and flying toward safety.
Yet Devlin cursed him as Eamon’s foster son, in his haste to turn tail and run, sent the girl tumbling to the ground, directly into the path of numerous English soldiers, swords drawn to slash anyone between them and their quarry.
“Keep down, lass,” he ordered, eyeing his own tenuous path to freedom as the guards circled nearer.
But the trembling girl ignored his warning and scrambled to her feet, ready to flee, only to put herself directly in the way of a descending English blade.
Instinctively, and without a thought as to the consequences, Devlin moved to block the brainless female from the English weapon rather than continue in the direction of the gate. Swiftly, his muscle-laden arm reached out to thrust her behind him before the point of a sword could inadvertently end her life.
His protective action took no more than an instant, but it was an instant that Devlin did not possess. Suddenly the gallowglass found himself encircled by the enemy, and all hope of escape vanished. The girl was pulled out of range and half a dozen blades took aim.
“Take him alive,” commanded an authoritative voice. “I want to know who is responsible for this outrage.”
Devlin fought like a man possessed, hacking wildly, striking out in futile desperation, welcoming the heavy thud of his sword against others. But his feverish assault was to no avail. His route to freedom had been sealed off, Cashel the last man through. The gate was forever beyond him.
Still, the Irishman would not concede the inevitability of his capture. Eight men surrounded him, their swords slashing freely at his arms and face. Blood dripping, he defended himself more valiantly than ever. Yet even his great strength could do no more than stave off for a few moments a fate that could not be altered.
Eventually he was subdued, though it took near a score of men