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Chapter three

A/N: Quick history detail: The Kilkenny castle still belonged to William Marshal, Earl of Pembroke at this current time. The Butler family bought the castle in 1391 and continued to rule over the populace for 500 years. Due to the Butler family being Norman, I really want to use them as an early piece in the story so if everyone’s okay with this, I’ll write as though the Butler’s already had control of Kilkenny castle.

Now to a more important matter. From the summary, I am hoping that everyone knows there will be rape in this FF. There’s no way of getting around it, nor do I want to. This element of non con is essential to the plot moving and being realistic. I know some people have a problem with this and so this is your warning. If you are uncomfortable reading about rape and scenes of a non con nature then do NOT READ THIS STORY. My subject matter is very much NC17 in nature and as a result can reflect the nature of that time period.

Any flames declaring that I haven’t warned you will be laughed at and promptly deleted.

Updates will be a weekly matter, due to a number of factors. I’m in law school at the moment, have managed like an idiot to break my finger and general RL. I’m really sorry about the long wait for this chapter but everything is now organised. Thank you to everyone who emailed me, especially Jolynn and Im_bloody_english.

Now that that’s out of the way…

Gaelic words and phrases:
Cill Chainnigh : Church of Canice (the Gaelic name for Kilkenny)

earlier that day…

William dropped Willy’s lax body to the ground with distaste, lips curling as the man spluttered. One kick to the ribs and the man was already babbling about Hank, even as his lungs burned for air. William lifted his eyes to the other villagers, noting their accepting expressions with satisfaction. Their cowardice saved him the effort of making some poor oaf an example.

William didn’t really care to hear the shrieks of a man losing his hand so early in the morning.

Grinding his heel into the small of Willy’s back, William wondered if he should simply kill the sod. His life was worth nothing if the rumors of Hank were anything to go by. The upstart would have Willy’s throat cut by noon at the latest. He had no misgivings about word reaching Hank already.

Let the blighter come.

Dark eyes met his for a moment, the unspoken plea evident in their inky blackness. William held back a sigh, taking one last glance down at Willy, as though to memorize the fleeting life that still filled his lungs. His hand waved down a second later and William steadily moved further out into the street. For once he didn’t have the heart to dispatch the man himself.

It didn’t take long for the soldiers to lumber towards him, yet his curt nod never reached their eyes. William didn’t need to look at his men’s hands to know that blood covered them.

He’d first heard of the town in an English court, though the reference was barely worth mentioning. Kilkenny was considered so worthless in terms of political tensions that further investigation of Ireland’s towns had led him to be ridiculed. More than a few heads had turned in surprise when William had formerly asked permission to serve the king abroad and in Ireland specifically. Drusilla, in her usual fashion had begun screaming in outrage that only the guards could silence. Her long thick midnight hair had fallen into tangles within seconds of hearing the words as she raked her hands through it.

The King had stared at her for a moment, as though surprised at her behaviour, before nodding his head.

It was all the acceptance William needed.

Even without the King’s permission, he still would have left. England held nothing for him except a slow death filled with boredom. The bent form of a beggar scuttled amongst one of the barren pathways as he passed. A mangled face, most likely created at birth twisted the lips and cheek, leaving an ever jeering smile. William held the man’s gaze until the shadows swallowed him whole.

At just twenty three years of age, he had seen more than Drusilla ever would with all her potions and drugs. William didn’t know whether that could be considered a successful attribute or merely enlightening. For the most part he chose not to ponder it. His step quickened as Drusilla’s pale face flashed through his memories.

Amongst the royals and courtiers she was known for being either physic or raving mad. William thought it had much more to do with the tonics and various powders she injected than any thing worthy of heresy, though he held his tongue when the king discussed his ‘beautiful niece’s visions.’ It was better not to disagree and instead mutter along approvingly of Drusilla’s actions. Other courtiers had found themselves in very unfortunate positions for daring to speak badly of the royal.

And they had never been as privy to Drusilla’s antics as he was.

He could remember watching her in the parlor room, the back of her hand pressed against her lips and nose as she inhaled madly. She had often invited him into her chambers, one pale hand bending in mimicry of the other ladies as she asked him to ‘sit like the cherubs.’ William had been too surprised, and later far too enthralled to deny her requests. Even as his vision blurred he never complained. Thinking back on it now, William could only berate himself. Whatever mystical quality Drusilla had, was only based on strange chemicals and powder. He wondered how he could ever have thought of her as some enchantress. The very room, in which she danced, had seemed stale with the thick smoke that curled onto the ceiling in great coils. The image of Drusilla weaving madly about in it, dress unfastened and the maid grinning dazedly in the background, half heartedly trying to protect her lady’s ‘honor’, reared again. A smile tugged at his lips, before being suppressed. He could never recall the poor maid gaining any control at all. Drusilla was too wild of a girl to conform to the standards of the upper class. Her life up until the time he’d left had been one induced state and then another.

Drusilla could not handle reality.

William was desperate to.

He had actively sought out the poverty in Ireland. It fascinated him in the way a child would stare at a fly caught in spider’s web. The pain, the misery which was inflicted onto the peasants was both horrifying and one of enthrallment. Never before had he seen the strained cries of a child in hunger, nor heard the widows lament their dead husband’s.

William fancied himself stronger for witnessing it.

In his mind, and indeed amongst all the lords, the strength of a man was decided not by their compassion but by their apathy. The less he reacted, the better he became. After all, the peasants were beneath him. Who really cared about their position in society or about them at all?

William certainly didn’t give a sod.

Certain of his position in relation to the Irish, William loathed them. They were suffered purely for their labour and goods. Any other aspect of the Irish was considered irrelevant and impure.

It thus came as a shock that William could be held spellbound by the very soil the Irish bled over.

Kilkenny was referred to as Cill Chainnigh in the Gaelic tongue, but it was also known as the ‘Marble City’. William himself had at first marveled it, expecting the precious stone to have been imported. Surely the Irish could not have such an asset at their disposal…

But they did. Just one mile from the outskirts of the village, lay the Black Quarry, filled to the brim with marble.

William hadn’t expected to see its colour gleam in the buildings, but in Kilkenny its rarity was unknown. The Butlers had dispensed of carelessly, letting it mould their buildings, showing their organic wealth without fear of reprisal or another’s greed.

The English would soon, if not already, take care of that.

As he walked, William noted its presence with awe. The beautiful black stone interspersed with decorative white fossils, dared him to take a closer look. It shone like a backbone in the Abbey and the more treasured buildings. The men said that the castle boasted the stone’s color inside its walls with abandon. Entranced by it, he finally stopped and moved closer, half expecting to see his reflection shine out. Cobalt eyes, so used to meeting their match, widened in surprise as the stone remained stoic. Underneath its mottled surface, his image was washed away, unnoticeable in the patterns. The comparison to the gleaming mirrors in England was monumental. Memories of him staring into the polished surface, wishing himself into someone new; someone with power, played like one of Dru’s stupors.

The lack of reflection was a sign, a blessing.

A satisfied smirk tugged at the corners of his mouth, even as his men kicked their feet idly. Here in Ireland, William could and would remake himself.

And nothing would stop him.

***

The pounding on his door woke him. And with Doyle that could never be a good thing. Having just retired from guard duty, the Irishman had hoped that he could find sleep without being disturbed. His bloodshot eyes flashed in annoyance as the door rattled again before flying open.

Cormac… I should have known.

As though knowing of his captain’s ire, Cormac offered an embarrassed grin, eyes anxious as Doyle sat fully up in his bed.

“Please forgive me for interrupting you, Captain. It was not my intention and-“

“But you drew the short straw.” Doyle sighed as Cormac nodded dumbly. It wasn’t a surprise that the men would send him in to face the captain’s wrath. Cormac was the only soldier which Doyle gave any respite, if only because he was so hopeless. Doyle’s hand grazed the stubble on his chin, flinching as the rough hair irritated a cut. He had never gone more than four days without some injury from the rebels.

Another minute passed in silence.

“Well out with it!” Doyle groaned, patience snapping as the wasted sleep he would be missing flitted away like a dream.

“Well it’s just that the Lord Denver, Captain…” Cormac halted as though hoping that his few words were enough of an explanation. His youthful face seemed to be trapped between embarrassment and fear as his captain’s fists clenched.

“What about the cold hearted bastard?”

“He’s here.” Immediately Cormac cowered, shoulders slumping as he waited for Doyle’s temper to unleash itself. He squeezed his eyes shut, not caring if his fear showed. There was no point to hiding his feelings if the trembles which coursed his body continued to rattle his sword like an army drum. If he made it out without the beating Doyle was reputed for, Cormac was certain the other soldiers would feel his hand.

This is the last time I get dragged into playing straws…

Instead the thick brogue of his captain’s voice merely demanded that he leave. Cormac took the opportunity and scurried out like a miscreant child.

Doyle could only shake his head.

Pushing himself out of bed required a slight effort. He was reluctant to leave the rough covers even as they scratched already bruised skin. Doyle was aware of the difference between his room and those of the barracks. As captain he could enjoy the rare privilege that Butler afforded him. The men were not so lucky.

Doyle didn’t spare a glance at himself, already knowing that his skin was dirty from the morning’s exertions. The men were oft to fall asleep unless he forced them to stay awake.

A dip in the river Nore in full uniform was enough for any soldier to halt the lazy drooping of eyelids.

Doyle stalked to the foot of the bed, dragging out clothes that he had dropped onto the floor. Anyone else would have charmed one of the castle maids into folding the soiled things, but he resisted. He made sure that they had little to do with him. Doyle’s temper, sometimes put on in order to gain control, was well renowned in the castle, especially amongst the younger girls. Women were dangerous creatures. It was far better to pay an old washwoman than tempt himself with a fair girl.

The soldiers didn’t seem to understand it though. Even as they felt the heavy hand of their captain’s authority, they still continued to admire him. Doyle managed to cross the line between a loyal Irishman and serving the British with ease. He was a personification of their future, not submitting completely and still surviving.

It was to Doyle’s dark eyes and raven black hair that they looked for leadership, rather than Butler’s. He commanded them utterly.

Which was why the men were unnerved over Doyle’s apparent aversion to women. His slight frame, lithe and quick was more than enough to attract the feminine side of attention. His face appeared youthful under any condition, quick wit shining through in the nuances of his lips. Unlike his back which hosted a series of scars, his face remained untouched, pure. It was only the indifference and hint of malevolence which forced a young simpering maid back.

Doyle used it to his full advantage.

Rubbing his jaw once more, he thought of her, dressed in a wedding veil, the claddagh ring alight on her finger.

In the emptiness of his room he could still hear her screams.


A/N. Im posting the next chapter tomorrow so please dont be mad that I didn't get to the meeting with Buffy.





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