The Irish Warrior (20 page)

Finian turned in shock. Senna was already on her feet. He grabbed for her arm, but she started across the room before he could make contact.

He shoved his heels into the floorboards and willed himself to keep his seat. Leaping up and clapping his hand over her mouth as he dragged her upstairs would probably draw too much attention. And if he dragged her outside, they'd be captured in seconds.

Every one of the prostitutes was staring at her as she marched across the room. They looked about two steps removed from anger, more shocked at the moment than anything.

“Sad?” snapped one of the prostitutes. What was once probably a very rosy, bright complexion appeared gray and washed out. “What the 'ell are you to be sad over? What business is this o' yours?”

“None of it.” Senna reached the bar counter. “And 'twill not be any of yours, either, given another twelvemonth.”

“What are you talking about?”

“What I am talking about is that this is no way to run a business.”

A few of the more experienced women formed a tuneless Greek chorus of shock. “What?”

From the background, the tall, regal-looking woman watched in silence.

“That is, if things keep up this way,” Senna clarified. “If they deteriorate even a dram, I give the place six months.”

“Some of us 'ave been 'ere three years,” wailed one young woman plaintively.

“Six months,” Senna said firmly, then looked at the owner, who sat regarding her with a graceful face that might have been carved from marble.

“Hush, Mary,” said the woman who'd thrown the jug at the officious debtor. She turned to Senna, interested but wary. “I suppose you know a lot about running a business?” Finian, back at the table, groaned. “What would you have us do?”

“Charge more,” Senna announced.

A dumbfounded silence swept the room.
“What?”

“Most assuredly,” Senna said, and even from this distance, Finian could tell that her gaze went a little distant, as she started figuring. He settled back in his seat. There was nothing he could do to stop this from unfolding however it was going to unfold.

And truly, he admitted, his plan had very little chance of success. He had no idea how provoking these prostitutes offered a
better
chance, but, to his own surprise, found he was content to trust to Senna in this.

“Yes,” she said more firmly. “You need to charge more.”

“They're not even paying now,” laughed one of the women. “And you'd have us charge more? As if they have more.”

“Oh, they have it,” Senna said in an ominous tone.

Finian took another sip of his drink. It wasn't bad ale; someone here knew her business.

“The rabble-shite that come 'ere?” snapped one of the prostitutes. She leaned her thin elbow on the bar and shook her blond head. “Money? Pah. They've got bollocks, that's what. Not coin.”

“They have it,” Senna demurred, “and if you demand it, they will pay. You've simply got to charge more for yourselves than you do for a mug of this ale—no offense meant, madame.” Senna sailed the apology over to an old woman who, Finian suddenly noticed, was sitting on a crate in the back room, just beyond the counter.

The old woman, face cragged, waved off Senna's words with a bony hand.

“And this business of collecting payment after the service is rendered…?” Senna shook her head sagely. “That is poor practice indeed. You collect beforehand. In your business—not that I know much of it,” she added quickly, “but I've a brother and a father, and I know them rather well. You simply cannot expect their assessment of the value of the…goods to remain as high after they have…sampled.”

Finian smiled in the shadows.

“Och, well, then they won't be sampling at all,” protested one of the women. Irish. This group was a mix of Irish and Saxon, he realized, and a few Scottish flowers as well.

“I wager they will,” Senna countered. “You're the only…establishment…in the town, is that so?” A few affirmative nods. “Then they'll be back. But if you make it harder to get, they'll want it even more.”

“And I want food to eat every day,” muttered one of the more heavily painted women. A cobwebbing around the edges of her eyes bespoke an age older than most of the others. “The less I have, the more I want it. And if they don't come in, I won't have it a'tall.”

The tall, willowy owner spoke then, her voice like smoke, low and sultry and just a little hoarse. “They always come back.”

Finian watched Senna smile at her with the full force of her accountant's mind, which was quite a shining thing, even here in this dingy tavern.

“Of course they'll be back,” she agreed.

The owner extended a long, elegant arm and lifted a cup to her lips. Wine. Finian knew it without seeing inside. The way she lifted the cup, the way she swallowed, everything about the woman said she was drinking very good wine.

Senna leaned her side against the counter, totally absorbed in the impromptu business meeting. Finian put his boots up on the bench across from him, crossed his arms over his chest, and leaned the back of his head against the wall.

She met their eyes, one by one. “Your customers know exactly what they're asking you to sell. And they'll pay for it, if you make them.”

The group fell silent, considering this.

“There is not a great deal more to be gotten out of our current clientele,” observed Esdeline in her smoky, thoughtful voice.

“You're right,” Senna allowed after a moment's reflection. “You'll eventually need to move the operation to a larger town or a city. Where there are lords. Merchants. Soldiers of fortune. Ones who've actually experienced fortune.” The willowy owner smiled in a mysterious way but said nothing. “But in the meantime, you really should aim higher.”

Confused silence.

“There are soldiers about here?” Senna persisted. “Well, look to their captains. A shire reeve, mayhap? The bishop—”

A gasp went up and Finian opened his eyes. Three of the girls had thrown their hands over their hearts. Senna's eyebrows went up, but she obviously decided not to have that conversation. The tall owner's smile expanded. Finian half closed his eyes.

“Perhaps not the bishop. But his steward. Do I misdeem the matter? Or is this conceivable?”

“You appraise rightly.” The owner's low, sultry voice lifted like smoke. “I do believe I had forgotten it.”

Finian swept up his drink and downed the last of it.

“You'll have to pay your girls more,” Senna said.

Esdeline looked at her sharply. “They are not mine. My conscience is a reservoir for no one's soul. They do this themselves.”

“No. Indeed. That is as it should be. You are a…a business commune. What you need is money. And you must bring in pretties, hangings and the like, to enrich this place, so it's nothing they've ever encountered before, not even in their dreams. And yourselves. New dresses. Ribbons. Throws on the floor.” Someone gasped. She paused before returning to her original and most important point. “And you need to charge more. A great deal more.”

“Och, as if we can afford such things as you're speaking of,” muttered one of them.

“I've a few pennies,” said the shy one.

“Aye. Myself, I've a few, too,” said another, stepping forward.

A gnarled old hand appeared in the midst of their little group and dropped a handful of bent coins onto the wooden counter. “That's all you'll get from myself.”

Everyone looked at her in astonishment. “Grand-maman,” murmured the tall owner. “Where did you get that?”

“You don't know everything about me,” she muttered, and that cryptic phrase was the most anyone could get out of her.

“That's a good deal of money,” observed the owner, considering the pile with a knowing eye. “But 'tisn't enough.”

Senna looked up from the pile. Their eyes met.

“No,” Senna agreed slowly. “Not enough by far.”

She tromped back to the table and began rummaging through her pack. “Do we have a pressing need for money just now, Finian?” she asked, her head to the side as she peered into the bag.

“We've got to pay for these.” He tapped the rim of his mug.

“Aye. The drinks. But other than that, do we need money for anything?”

His eyes swept across her dirty face, her ripped leggings. He pictured her in a green dress, with ribbons in her hair. And a jewel around her curving neck. On a bed. With fur covers. And the dress coming off. The necklace staying on.

“A few dozen things come to mind, aye,” he said slowly. “Have ye more coin, then?”

“A little.”

His gaze slid up. “Ye're like a treasure trove, Senna. Where did you get all that?”

She slid her hand from her pack, clutching a small pouch in her palm. “I brought some with me from England.”

“Ye did?”

She shrugged. “Some. The rest is from Rardove's coffers. 'Tis recompense for my physic expenses.” She paused. “What is your rate of pay?”

He gave a slow smile. “A powerful lot.”

She smiled back.

“Ye've the makings of a very fine thief, Senna. How much coin did ye take?”

“Just one scoop.” She cupped her hand and swept it through the air, like she was scooping a handful of water.

“Just one little scoop, is it?”

“Just one. Out of each coffer.”

He laughed.

She held up the purse. “So, do we need this?”

“Aye, lass.”

“As much as they do?” she asked, and flung her hand out behind her.

Finian followed the invisible trajectory drawn by the toss of her hand, to the small cluster of women, some barefooted, watching them in silence.

“No,” he said slowly. “Not nearly so much.”

Her bright smile nearly blinded him. If she'd been within reach, he might have swept her up in his arms for a kiss. But she turned and walked back to the cluster.

“We have to pay for our drinks, and we'd like two more,” she said. “This should settle for those, and mayhap just one more thing.”

They stared at the lumpy purse like a cat had just delivered kittens on their counter. The owner reached out and swept it up. She peered inside, then lifted her head.

“What do you want?” she asked slowly. Suspicion filled her already guarded eyes.

“More drink,” Senna said. “And a way out of town, without being discovered.”

Silence reigned. No one asked how she came by such a rich bag of coin, out of the nighttime, and yet had no horse of her own. A handful of causes would certainly have already come to mind. But they did not ask a single question. They did look at Finian, though.

“Who's he?” asked the owner, hooking her head his direction.

Senna glanced over briefly. “He's my…”

Finian waited to see how on earth she would describe him.

“My Irishman.”

He grinned.

The group of women giggled, sounding genuinely, playfully feminine for the first time since they'd entered the tavern. “Where can I get one of them?” one of the girls whispered, and the group broke into tinkling laughter again.

Senna bent closer. “We're in Ireland,” she murmured. “They're
everywhere.
”

“Not like that,” one said.

The owner was holding Finian's eye. He nodded, acknowledging her silent regard. For a moment she didn't move, then a slim, elegant fingertip lifted briefly off the counter. She turned back to Senna.

“The guards change their posts in about an hour,” she said, her voice like plush felt. “Ofttimes, we have need to escort guests home after the gates are shut for the night.”

Senna looked shocked at the extravagance. “How much do you charge for
that?
”

Esdeline smiled her mysterious smile. “Indeed, they pay.”

Senna harrumphed. “I should hope so.”

“My wagon coming through the gate should not draw any undue attention. Tonight, you”—she pointed to Senna—“will escort him.” She gestured to Finian.

When Senna came back to the table, he reached for her hand. She slid it into his, and he stroked his thumb over the center of her palm slowly.

“That was a kindness,” he said quietly.

She shrugged, but shifted her eyes away. “'Twas only coin.” Her voice hardly caught at all. “And truly, Finian, it hardly seems likely that—”

She stopped. They all heard it at the same time.

A low rumble, coming closer. The clatter of hooves into the stable yard, the sound of men, drawing nearer.

One of the women hurried to the door and pulled it open an inch. She slammed it shut at once and spun around, her face frightened. “'Tis the whole bleedin' regiment!”

“Quick, get the bag,” snapped the owner, and the women went into motion, hurrying the pouch of money off the counter. One woman beckoned to Senna and Finian, by the back door. Senna hurried over while Finian strode deliberately to Esdeline.

“Lady,” he said in a low, swift voice, “all those things ye spoke of, if Senna says ye need them, then so ye do. But I'm telling ye, ye also need a protector. Send word to The O'Fáil. Mention my name. Say I told ye I owe a debt, and to send a guard. One of my personal guard. Ask for Tiergnan—he's a monstrous hulk of a beast, but gentle inside.”

“I will,” she said in her throaty voice. “And what name shall I mention, Irishman?”

He lifted her hand to his mouth, his eyes on hers. “I think ye know that.”

He pressed a kiss to the back of her hand, then followed Senna out the door.

Their dour-faced wagon driver took them much farther than they'd have hoped, in a straw-filled, two-wheeled contraption that clattered and clumped and drew less attention than a bat. Then he dumped them on the side of the track and drove off without a backward glance.

Finian hurried them deep into the woods, where no Plantagenet soldier would dare to go. For an hour they walked, then Finian let them stop beside a river, where they rested and allowed Senna to wash off the mud he'd streaked over her face earlier in the day. He sat down as she knelt beside the bubbling creek.

“Tell me about yer wool, Senna.”

She looked up quickly. Her face gleamed with wetness. “My little bleaters?”

He smiled a little. “Is that what ye call them?”

“I call them hope.” She dried her face on her tunic. It left a smudge, visible even through moonlight. Beckoning with curled fingers, he had her bend low so he could wipe the dirt away with the bottom of his tunic.

“They are a very certain kind of wool?” he asked.

She sat back. “Very certain.”

He felt colder than the air around them should warrant. He lowered his tunic and sat back. “And why did yer particular wool matter so much?”

She looked affronted. “I created it. I spent years breeding for this strain. Its softness, its ability to absorb dyes, the way it melts apart for weaving. There is nothing like it in all the world.”

“Nothing in all the world,” Finian echoed. “That's just what I thought.”

Rardove knew.

He forced himself to breathe slowly. Rardove could know as many truths as his cunning, corrupted mind could withstand. Without the means to create, he was as helpless as a lamb. Finian now possessed the last remaining dye manual. And…did he have a dye-witch, too?

“And you, Senna? Ye said Rardove wanted to dye yer wools.” She nodded. “Did he just want the wool, or did he want yerself to do the dyeing?”

She looked away sharply. “He is mad.”

“Aye. But can you make the Wishmés bleed blue?”

She shook her head vehemently. “No. I will never make them.”

Interesting. “No?”

“No.”

“Ye never will?”

“Never.”

“But
can
ye?”

She opened her mouth—to protest, likely—but to his surprise, she shut it again, then looked at him for a long time. Long enough for him to start feeling a kind of discomfort he was unused to. Usually he was the one questioning others, making them squirm under his suspicious gaze. Just now, he felt like he was being assessed, appraised.

“I doubt it,” she finally said in a low voice.

“But that is why Rardove brought ye here,” he pressed.

“Aye.”

“And are ye? Are ye a dye-witch?”

Her eyes narrowed. “Such names can get people killed, Finian.”

“I vow, I'll only kill ye if ye don't answer me. Are ye a dye-witch?”

Another long considering regard, then she said in a rush, “No but my mother was.”

He nodded, holding his face in a neutral way to avoid displays of amazement, hope, or any other emotion that might make her leap up and run away, because the look on her face seemed very close to panic.

Good God, he had a dye-witch.

For hundreds of years, there had been none. Bred out by invasion and the fear of discovery, caution had won over passion and the Celts let the knowledge of crafting the Wishmés die. Lost the secrets, splintered the lineage. Mothers no longer taught daughters, and somewhere in the dim past, four, maybe five hundred years ago, a branch of that tree had been allowed to wither.

But it had not died. And now he had the last fragile branch in his possession, his very own dye-witch.

Who didn't want the task at all.

What mattered that?
he thought, surprised to notice that bitterness fueled the inner query. Who had such luxury to choose against a destiny? His parents had been weak, of course, frail, unable to prevail over overwhelming desire or strong emotion, but he had been raised by The O'Fáil. Taken in by a king, lifted up. That was a rare thing. There was no cause for the taste of bitterness to be in his mouth.

No, all he had to do was consider Senna. What to do with her. Return her home as promised, or tell the Irish who she was?

It would be disloyal at best, treasonous at worst, to withhold this knowledge from his king. But Senna had no interest in dyeing. And if he told The O'Fáil about her, dye she would. Her circumstances would not be so bleak as with Rardove, not by a bow shot, but still…she would be held against her will. Made to dye. Forced. Captured. Impinged upon.

All conditions she did not prefer.

Then again, who had the choice of what their life held? He looked at her, face damp, eyebrows pinched together like they had not been since that first morning on the ridge, when they spoke of Rardove and her father and her acumen for business.

But mayhap…

“Surely, dyeing for Rardove would be a repulsive thing,” he said mildly, giving her a chance to say she'd do it for
him.

Inwardly he shook his head at the awkward gambit. Outwardly, he peered at her expectantly.

She peered back, less expectantly. “I cannot make dyes.”

“But ye can, lass. Ye don't even know what ye're capable of. Rardove was right, the first time in his accursed life, Senna. Such things are in the blood.”

She gave a small, dismissive shrug. “So says legend.”

“No, Senna.
I
say.”

The look she gave him was derisive at best. “And how do you know such things?”

“These stories have been in my family for a thousand years.”

She waved her hand. “You do but prove me true. They are
legends.
”

He squinted at her. “Aye, legends. But why do ye think that makes them untrue?”

She looked startled. “Forsooth, I assumed. Legends after all are of a legendary nature—”

“I'm telling ye, Senna, if ye want to craft the Wishmés, ye can. Nothing could stop ye.”

“Not having the knowledge might stop me.”

He fell silent, finally.

“I do not have it in me.”

“Ye can tell yerself that until hell freezes over, Senna, but ye're too scared to even try, to know what ye're capable of,” he rejoined with a hard edge in his voice. She was to have a choice no one else did? One does not wish to do a thing, and so one doesn't? Not under this sun. Only in dreams. “Just so ye know.”

Senna turned and looked at him, and he became quite sure she would not be making dyes for anyone.

“You think you can tell me something of my life, Finian? I do not need to know anything better than I do. My father made certain I was well aware what I was capable of. The same things as my mother.” She paused then, and her face paled. “Oh. Do the Irish want the dyes?”

He just looked at her.

A bitter smile crossed her face. “Of course. Of course the Irish want the Wishmés.”

“The question is, Senna, can ye make them?”

“No, Finian. The question is, are you going to tell them?”