The Irish Warrior (29 page)

She was half dragged, half carried, for about five minutes, then dumped in a small clearing where ten equines and an equal number of armed men milled about. In the center of the gathering was a fire, a circle of soldiers, and block-shouldered Balffe.

Senna's heart crashed into the pit of her chest. She kept her eyes down as she was shoved in front of him. She could see his boots and the stained breeches he wore. The tip of his sword dangled down beside these things.

“Mistress Senna,” he said, his voice guttural. “Are you unharmed?”

Just keep your mouth shut,
she counseled herself.

Clad in mail and as solid as a brick, Balffe's hand suddenly appeared before her downturned eyes. He lifted it to her face, pressing the links of metal against her jaw. The river of fear moved lower, pushing against her groin.

“Perhaps you did not hear my query, lady. Are you unharmed, happy and well?”

She gave a curt nod.

Pressing his fingers deeper into her skin, Balffe jerked her chin up and examined her face as if he were inspecting a horse. “Your eye is not so blackened as 'twas a few days ago. That is too bad. Do not give me cause to bring it back to life, woman,” he murmured, his words drawn out slowly, like a dagger being pulled from its sheath.

She nodded again, staring at the tarnished hook on the shoulder of his hauberk, bleak terror foaming on the shores of her heart. Another gust of odious breath gusted by her face. “You look well enough to ride.”

“I am fine,” she snapped. “Now unhand me.”

He went still. “What?”

“You have captured me. There is nowhere I can go. Unhand me.”

His hand slid farther along her face, until her chin was forced into the webbing between his thumb and forefinger and the flat of his mailed hand pressed against her throat. She tried to swallow but the heel of his hand was pressing hard. Any more and it would be difficult to breathe. He bent near her face.

“Say please.”

Senna stared over his shoulder. Balffe tightened his hold.

“Please,” she whispered. She had no idea how she'd accomplished it, but likely it was because pride was no longer an issue. Everything had narrowed to a small, bright band of purpose: retrieve the pages and save Finian.

Seconds ticked by, extending into a grim silence. “Do you know what my lord bade me do when I found you?”

At this scant distance, Senna could see the blotches of discoloration pockmarking his skin; huge, craterlike pores clotted with dirt and grime. Close-set eyes huddled together beside a misshapen nose. A score of old scars were seared across his face, shallow gutters of white-fleshed skin no sun could darken.

“I know nothing of what your lord bids or disallows.”

He gave his hand a shove, pushing her against the tree. “Know this, lady: you are
mine.
” Then he released her and stepped back, turning to his men, shouting.

“Mount up, sluggards. We're for Rardove Keep.
Now!
”

 

Finian and Alane caught up just as Senna was carried into the clearing. They watched helplessly from their hiding place under a bush as she was dragged into the circle of the twenty men-at-arms bearing the Rardove device. Exchanging one swift glance, they knew they would succeed only in getting all of them killed if they charged in.

Finian crept from beneath the bush to his horse, motioning to Alane. With a swift kick, he lifted the horse into a ground-eating gallop, whisking him toward the only hope close enough and sympathetic enough to offer succor.

“Are we going where I think we're going?” Alane asked in a voice only loud enough to lift above the rhythmic hoof-beats hammering on the grassy earth.

“Very likely.”

“This is a bit dangerous.”

“A bit.”

“Her brother's?”

“Aye.”

“I counsel against.”

“Do ye now?”

“Seeing as de Valery has probably learned his sister is no' with the baron anymore, aye. 'Tis passin' likely Rardove mentioned she was kidnapped. By you.”

“Aye, I doubt he'll have liked hearing that.”

Their horses were loping easy now, side by side. “Your family's lands were taken by King Edward himself, Finian. Which means de Valery holds them direct of the king of England, who is now marching north to make war with us. And his justiciar's army.”

“Aye, it's going to be a regular party. Have ye any other obstacles to throw in our path?”

“Oh, aye. I'm the one throwing obstacles.” They slowed to navigate up a winding path. “Will we have enough time?”

“De Valery's manor is less than an hour's ride from here.” Finian reined his horse up a low hillock. Alane kept his mount so close that muzzle touched rump as they climbed the small rise of land.

“I was no' worried so much about how long it would take us to get there,” Alane replied dryly. “I was thinking more of how long it would take to convince him. Or to get killed.”

“That shouldn't take long at all.”

They galloped down the other side, into the dawning sunrise. It was so glittering bright it was hard to see any way ahead of them at all.

“Someone comes, my lord.”

Will de Valery turned to the sentry. Around him raged a cacophony of sound. Knights strode between horses, checking saddlebags and lance holders, soldiers in knee-high boots shouted to one another, leather creaked, and the dull clang of steel and iron sounded through the air. Even the hens were out, squawking and strutting. “Who?”

“Irishmen.”

Will took the stairs two at a time and entered the guard tower. One of his soldiers gestured with an index finger. “You can see them over the rise just now, sir. It looks to be just the two of them.”

“Irishmen? Coming here?” He glanced at the disorganized melee in the inner bailey; they were to be gone by Terce to join the Rardove muster. “Find out their names and show them to me in the hall. At blade point.”

He disappeared into the firelit yard and strode through the shouting men and restive horses.

 

Finian and Alane were guided none too gently into the hall, on the point of four guards' blades. Their escort had originally consisted of two burly soldiers, but when Finian's name was known, the guard increased by half again, and only after sending word to de Valery, wondering if they ought not to escort their guests direct to the cellars.

Alane was considering taking the guards on bare-fisted when they were shoved in front of de Valery. Flames from a roaring fire leapt up behind his leather-clad figure, orange and blue behind a black silhouette. Men-at-arms lined up on either side and behind them. One stepped forward.

“These were taken from the prisoners, my lord.” He dumped two broadswords and three daggers onto the floor. The light tinkle of the wickedly sharp misericorde clattered last.

De Valery's gaze lifted from the mound. “Finian O'Melaghlin.”

Finian nodded briefly. Alane stood as still as a boulder beside him.

“I admit to being surprised to see you here.”

Finian glanced around the room where more soldiers had grouped themselves. “But appear no worse for yer amazement.”

De Valery smiled faintly. “I am not a fool.”

“And I am not a prisoner. I came to talk, not be bound and stripped of my weapons.”

“Weapons are allowed in my castle only with my permission and good cause.”

“I have cause. Traveling over a hostile countryside to meet with ye in good faith.”

“Where is my sister?” He flung the question like a knife across the room. Alane steeled himself. This was not going well.

“She's with Rardove, or soon will be.”

Liam de Valery repeated in incredulous humor: “
Rardove?
Jesus Christ, O'Melaghlin, if she were back with Rardove, I'd have had you horsewhipped before you made it through the outer bailey.”

“Be that as it may, she is on her way back to the baron.”

De Valery let out a bark of laughter. “Indeed?”

They stared at each other. One moment ticked by. Two. Harsh, male breathing echoed against the stone walls. The Englishman stared hard, then snapped his fingers.

“Lock them up in the cellars.”

Shite,
thought Alane.

“And send word to Rardove, to see if, by some madness, what this Irishman says is true, that my sister is safely returned. If so,” he added a small, grim smile, “I'll have them swinging from the walls by morn.”

Finian shook his head. “That will be too late. Rardove's going to have yer sister back by evening, and by my reckoning, she'll be dead come morn.”

De Valery took a step forward, leaving ten feet of rush-covered stone and a wall of disbelief to separate them. “What the hell are you talking about, O'Melaghlin?”

Alane straightened his spine. His right hand flexed around air, because his sword was distressingly absent.

“Mayhap you ought to tell me what is going on,” de Valery snapped.

“Mayhap ye ought to call off yer dogs.” Finian glanced at the men still planted a few inches away, their blades even closer. “And I'll tell ye everything.”

De Valery paused, then made a gesture with his hand. The armed men reluctantly dropped back some thirty feet to line the walls of the cavernous but crumbling hall.

“Sit.”

Finian dropped onto a bench lining one side of a rough-hewn table and casually met Alane's eyes with a brief but significant glance. The message was clear: it would be best if they were not in
exactly
the same spot if all hell broke loose.

Alane inclined his head the barest inch and locked his gaze on the leader of William's household troops. Clad in scarlet and gray, he was the size of a small mountain and had one eye sealed shut, whether from royal retribution or ruthless healing, Alane did not know. Nor did he care. The mountain was the closest thing to Finian and his dagger was drawn.

Backing up a few steps, Alane positioned himself by the wall and stood, silent and vigilant, legs planted wide, arms crossed.

Darkness was the most noticeable thing about this hall; tallow candles sat at crooked angles in a series of holders along the wall, casting a dim, unwieldy light, and one off-center one graced the oaken table. It was a narrow, cold room, unlived in for a long time.

De Valery considered Alane's retreat to the wall in silence, then turned his attention back to Finian. Retreating to the far side of the table, he dropped onto the bench and crossed his arms with exaggerated leisure. “You have a tale?”

Finian considered de Valery before he spoke, as if planning an attack. When it came, it came bluntly. “She wasn't partial to the way he tried to force her into a marriage—”

De Valery half rose off his seat.
“What?”

“And I admit, I saw her reasoning. So, she left. And freed me on her way. I was in the prisons.”

“Why?” he asked sharply, keenly.

“That is a mighty long story,” Finian said wearily, “and goes back to old days. I haven't got the time to tell it to ye now. Except to say, Rardove is about to get yer sister back, and there's no worse place in all the world for her to be.”

A log exploded as the fire suddenly reached a pocket of air. Hissing red flames shot out of the monstrous fireplace opening, and the log thudded as it rolled over. De Valery's narrowed eyes never left Finian.

“That doesn't make any sense,” he muttered, then got to his feet.

Finian shrugged. “'Tis the truth.”

As de Valery paced, flames from the fire picked up glints from his armor and shot flashes of rust-white light across the room. “Ah, but so claims Rardove, which brings us full circle.”

“Ye've a long way to fall, if ye're relying on Rardove for yer truths.”

De Valery's step slowed and he looked over his shoulder. “If you have something else to say, O'Melaghlin, you'd best say it straight away.”

“Yer mother was a dye-witch?” De Valery started. “Do not deny it. 'Tis the only thing that kept yer sister alive in Rardove's care.”

The young de Valery exhaled around a curse and sat down opposite Finian, on the other side of the table. “Legend,” he said.

Finian's gaze went hard. “We haven't time for that sort of thing. We've been here ten minutes, and that's nine too long. 'Tis not legend, and yer family knows it.”

“What do you know about my family?” de Valery demanded.

“Och, I could tell ye things about yer family that would make yer head explode. But right now, I need yer help. There's going to be a war.”

“I am well aware of that,” de Valery said dryly.

“And ye're going to have to choose sides.”

De Valery pushed back in his seat and shoved splayed fingers through his hair. “Christ on the cross,” he exhaled in a stream of mutterings. “Senna has ever been trouble, and when I lay my hands on her again…” were the sorts of things they heard. Then de Valery looked across the table. “Do you know who my lord is?”

Finian nodded. “Longshanks.”

The English knight lifted a brow and smiled sardonically. “I didn't expect you to say that. Not many people know.”

“I make it a point to know about the men who are deeded my family's lands. I surely know more about ye than yer sister does,” he added.

De Valery sat back and gave him a considering look. “Do you know what I do for ‘Longshanks'?”

“Ye kill, maim, and otherwise get people out of the way whom Edward deems bothersome.”

De Valery gave a pale smile. “Do you know he is starting to consider
you
such a bother?”

Finian leaned his elbow across the table, closer to the candle flickering in the center. “Ye can tell him the feeling is mutual. I think he's a son of a bitch too.”

De Valery threw his head back and laughed. A single bark of laughter, that was all, and before it finished bouncing off the stone walls, he was looking at Finian again.

“It wouldn't be sensible to join with you, O'Melaghlin, since my fealty for these lands lies with Edward.”

“Aye. Treason it would be. Listen, English. I've need of speed just now, and ye're slowing me down. Ye'll have to look into yer own heart for the truth. Ye'll either join us, or kill us. But ye'll have to decide quick, for I'm getting up now.”

The rumor of swords and violence was ringed around the hall. Finian pushed to his feet. The bench stuttered back across the floor, knocking into one of the soldier's shins.

Every man in the room strode forward and unslung his sword. The sound of sharp steel hissed against hardened leather, then shattered the air as blades sliced across the metal clasps atop their sheaths. Alane pushed off the wall. Liam de Valery got to his feet.

He reached out his hand to Finian. “I'm in on the hunt.”

Alane shut his eyes briefly. Thank God Finian did not know how fast his heart was beating, or how icy was his blood. He'd never live it down.

De Valery turned to shout commands. Alane stepped forward. “Could you have pushed him any further, O'Melaghlin?” he asked quietly.

Finian grabbed his gauntlets off the table. “Aye. He's young though, and I felt pity.”

Alane snorted as their swords were brought over. “Your sympathy is a frightening thing, my friend.”

They started restrapping the sheaths and buckling blades around thighs and arms. “Ye're about to see my rage.”