The Irish Warrior (32 page)

Finian wrenched Senna away by her wrist just as Rardove's blade came whizzing by in a horizontal swipe that would have severed her head from her shoulders. Flinging her behind him so she fell and sprawled on the floor, Finian turned to the baron.

Rardove stared at him with red-rimmed eyes. Finian bent at the knees and reached behind him. Grasping Senna's arm, he yanked her to her feet. “Go. Now.”

She didn't. Instead, she reached down, felt along Finian's thigh, and yanked out a blade—the long-handled knife she and Finian had stolen from Rardove's armory, a hundred years ago.

“Had I known you were planning a visit, O'Melaghlin,” Rardove snarled, his gaze trained on Finian, “I would have arranged a more fitting welcome.”

“This will do nicely.” Finian circled the perimeter of the room, keeping Senna tucked behind him as he maneuvered her toward the door. Rardove followed their progress, turning in a slow revolution.

“But now that you are here, I shall give you a choice much like the one you offered me: you can stay and have my men slay you slowly—”

“Which men would those be,
cruim?
”

Rardove flicked a wary glance at the door. Two armored bodies were slumped one on top of the other, swords not even drawn. The edge of a third boot nudged in the doorframe. It was attached to a body bathed in blood.

“Or,” Rardove finished slowly, turning back, “you can leave now and meet the armies at my gate for a quicker death.”

Finian kept backing toward the door, Senna behind him. “I would weep for yer soul, if I thought ye had one.”

While the men taunted one another, Senna squinted an eye and lifted her arm, testing the weight of the blade versus the weight of the hilt, shifting it between her fingers.
Rardove's neck. That was the only thing not armored. No. Too narrow. Move lower.

The baron smiled thinly. “English rage will be murderous.”

“Ye're about to get a taste of Irish rage.”

Rardove glanced over Finian's shoulder. She had the blade up, her arm cocked. Their eyes met. Rardove's mad gaze didn't leave hers as he said to Finian, “Your woman is going to try to kill me.” He sounded amused.

Senna couldn't see Finian's face, but she felt him grin. “She's not going to
try.
”

Rardove lunged. Senna snapped her arm down, launching the blade. It sank into his belly. The force of her throw through his armor was not quite equal to his furious momentum, but it slowed him down. And he no longer looked amused.

Finian pushed Senna away and crashed his sword against Rardove's, smashing it aside. The baron lifted his again and their blades met in a
V
in the air, holding. Finian moved relentlessly forward, propelling his weight against the baron, then suddenly stepped to the side. Rardove went stumbling forward.

“Quickly it is,” Finian muttered and, taking his sword in two hands, he spun in a full, howling circle, sword outstretched, and swung it into Rardove's torso.

Rardove staggered back a few steps. A bubble, a wet gurgle. Gasping for air, he dropped to his knees. His hands clutched to his belly. He stared down in amazement, then tumbled in a heap to the ground, dead.

Senna looked to Finian, who stood watching Rardove and slowly fell to her knees. It was dark in the room; the candles had all blown out. All she could see was his gleaming eyes. Just as in the prison, when she'd first truly met him.

His gaze shifted to her. Slowly the haunting gleam dimmed and he went down on a knee. One wide hand reached out to her, stretching across the shadows. She reached for it.

“Well, you have, in truth, rescued me,” she announced in a wobbly voice, then gestured to the shattered door frame. “But that was purely showing off. I could have managed better.”

Finian knelt on his other knee and folded her into his arms. He rested his chin on the top of her head for a brief second. “I know, lass. Ye do everything better.”

Then, because it was needful, he pulled her to her feet, placed a hard, swift kiss on her lips, and led them away from the dead bodies and blood.

They crept through the dim castle. At times he jerked on her hand sharply, and they would both halt and press their backs against the wall, their eyes wide, breath stilled, as from another corridor they heard fragments of rough conversation, heavy boots pounding, frenzied cursing. The search was on.

Shouts and the sound of hurrying feet bounced and echoed throughout the stone and wood castle, making Senna feel crazed. They rounded another corner. Finian threw his head into the air and froze.

At the end of the corridor stood Balffe. Armored, sword in his grip, and he stared directly at them.

All the breath left Senna's lungs. The world slowed, each moment ticking by like an eternity. Colors were surprisingly bright; the fiery glow of torchlight, the black of Balffe's scuffed boots, forest green breeches, the dull, sand-colored tunic under the red Rardove surcoat. Balffe's belt buckle and sword gleamed dimly, and the vein on his neck pulsed.

It was silent. Someone held their breath, someone let theirs out in a long, slow hiss. There was a single intersecting place in the corridor, a point where the lines of their sights crossed. Invisible vectors ran at odd angles across the stony space.

A scuffle came from behind Balffe on the curving stairwell.

“Balffe?” a hoarse voice called up.

“Aye?” He threw the word over his shoulder.

“Any sign?”

His eyes held Finian's. “Nay.” A series of curses floated up. “Search the stables.”

Senna squeezed her eyes shut. Finian nodded once and turned her away, guiding her down the stairs behind them.

“My sister,” Balffe called out quietly.

Finian craned his neck to look over Senna's head. “Is well.”

Balffe nodded.

Finian turned and guided Senna away. Balffe watched from the shadows. A gleam of reddish light from a torch shone on the side of his face, then he turned away.

Out on the fields, the grass was a bloody mattress where dead men lay. Brian O'Conhalaigh, locked in a death struggle with an English soldier, gripped the hilt of his sword tighter with a sweaty hand and swung. The blade met bone and the man fell over, his last words an unintelligible groan.

Brian was pulling his sword free of the body when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a mace being lifted, hurtling toward his head.

With a shout, he threw himself to the side. He fell across the body of the man he had just killed, and found himself staring into the sightless eyes of another dead man. Beyond him lay another, and another.

He rolled to his feet. The iron ball was coming again and he couldn't move away fast enough. It barreled toward him.

Something changed its trajectory. Instead of smashing into his skull, it blew by, an inch from his nose. Its owner dropped to the ground in an openmouthed scream that never made it out. Above stood Alane.

Grim-faced, he stuck out a hand.

“Jesus,” Brian muttered, grasping it to rise. “I owe ye my life.”

“I'm no' worried of that debt. Stick close and you'll repay me soon enough.” He turned back to the chaos raging around them.

Brian looked around in stupefied amazement. The carnage seemed to stretch for miles. The stench filled his nostrils, his feet walked on blood-sodden ground. His arms, his legs, were leaden weights, dragging on him, as if he'd been dropped into an ocean fully clothed. The muscles were cramping and shuddering, but he couldn't stop lifting his blade. He couldn't stop killing them or they would kill him.

A horse galloped by, jarring him. He stumbled and dropped to a knee.

“'Tis only de Valery,” Alane's voice said from behind.

“Oh,” Brian replied dumbly, stumbling back to his feet. He was so thirsty his throat crackled when he inhaled. When he exhaled, it was like hot wind blowing over a burn.

“We're outnumbered,” he muttered.

“Aye,” Alane agreed. “Let's go,” he said, and plunged down the small hill back into battle.

Weary hotness filled Brian's eyes as he followed him down, but Alane was only approaching a small group of Irishmen who stood in an area the fighting had passed by. Brian followed. In the distance, he could see the de Valery knight urging his horse up a hill, straight for the justiciar's standard.

“He'll get himself killed,” he croaked.

The Irishmen turned.

 

A small band of horsemen appeared on the far hilltop. At its head rode Will, flying through the butchery, seeking Wogan.

His one-eyed captain looked over as they galloped up the hill. “Sir? Is this the wisest thing to do?”

“No.”

He kicked his horse into one last gallop. At his side rode his squire Peter, the king's crest prominently displayed. The pennant snapped in the morning breeze. Hands were raised, pointing at them. The justiciar's guard turned their horses and unsheathed their swords. Two men wearing Rardove's livery lifted longbows and aimed them at William's head.

The justiciar threw out his arm and shouted something. The bows hovered a moment, then lowered.

“Wogan!” Will shouted, hauling on his horse's reins as they crested the hill. The stallion slid in on his haunches, tossing his head.

“Who the hell are you, and what the hell is going on?” the justiciar demanded.

Will swung off the horse, ignoring the battle behind them and the swords angled at his neck. “I've a story to tell, my lord.”

 

When Finian walked out of Rardove Keep with Senna, Wogan, the king's governor, stood atop the hill, his pennants blowing in the breeze. He was not on his horse. Senna's brother Liam and The O'Fáil stood beside him, talking. There was no fighting. Everything was quiet. Even the birds flew away when battle came.

Finian stopped, stared at the sight of the men talking on the hill, then simply dropped to the ground where he stood, holding Senna's hand. She sat down beside him. It was a long time before anyone spotted them.

 

Senna dragged Finian to Wogan's tent, not so much because she wanted Finian to meet the governor, but because he would not let her out of his sight. And when it became clear Senna was going to speak to the justiciar come a plague of locusts, it became evident Finian would be meeting the king's governor, too.

“There is no such thing as Wishmé dyes,” she insisted, after every moment of her time with Rardove had been explored and exhausted in excruciating detail. “Lord Rardove was mad, I am sorry to say. The Wishmés are mollusks, not some mythical dyes. And certainly”—she gave a tinkling laugh—“not
weapons.
”

Wogan did not have a hard time believing her report. But after an hour of nonstop conversation and a few cups of wine, he did see fit to say, “You're not quite what I expected from a wool merchant.”

Finian, sitting in the governor's tent beside The O'Fáil, replied with feeling, “Ye've no idea.”

Wogan nodded at Finian, a slight smile lightening his somber visage. “I've found some women can hide many layers.”

“Have you found that to be a problem?” Senna interjected brightly.

“I have found it,” he said, shifting his gaze her direction, “to be invigorating.”

She smiled even more brightly. “The highway back to Baile Átha Cliath is a long one, my lord governor. If I may, I would suggest a small detour. To the town of Hutton's Leap.”

Wogan lifted a cup of wine to his mouth. “And what might I find in Hutton's Leap?”

“Oh, anything the lord king's governor wants, I should imagine.” She smiled. “Jugglers, fine embroidery needles, and the most delicious ham pasties. And a…shop”—she stumbled very slightly over the word—“called Thistle, I believe, with a proprietress from the south of France who I suspect has
many
layers. Tell her I sent you.”

Over the rim of his cup, Wogan watched her a moment, then smiled.

Within half an hour, the English army was wheeling out of the valley, leaving only bird calls behind them as the sun set.

Winter, Scotland, 1295 A.D.

Will de Valery stood before Robert the Bruce. A pithy Scottish winter sunset had come and gone before they finished the wine in their wooden cups.

“I think we're safe from the threat for now,” Will said.

The Bruce looked at him thoughtfully. “No secret weapons for Longshanks, then?”

A fireplace roared in the far wall, but most of the heat went sailing up the chimney or into the stone walls. Both men wore fur pelts, even inside.

Will shook his head. “Legends. That is all the Wishmés are.”

And, really, Will had decided, that was all anyone needed to know. Senna was the only person on earth who could craft the deadly dyes, and she insisted she had no interest in doing so.

“Perhaps the children,” she allowed when he'd demanded to know her plans. “But I will neither insist nor deny, Will. All I will do is explain. Never fear,” she'd added when he'd opened his mouth to protest that his concern was neither of those things, “I will always be here, so nothing, ever, will go unseen.”

And that, he decided, was perhaps better than a spy network. Senna being watchful could bring down a kingdom, if she wished it. Or save one.

And even so, Will thought, what benefit could come from a king of Scotland knowing about the thing?

The Wishmés had been lost for centuries, until their mother and father had resurrected them. For good cause, perhaps, but all that could come of them was evil. Scotland had enough perils facing her, without the dubious advantage of the Wishmés added to her strain.

“You told King Edward they were more than rumors,” The Bruce said, watching Will closely. “You told him Rardove had the dyes, that they were real, that they were weapons, and that he'd better hie himself over there right quick.”

Will gave one of his calculated shrugs. “I tell King Edward many things. 'Twas necessary to bring him hammering on Rardove's door.”

Being a double agent for Scotland's cause required saying many things to many people for many different purposes. The trouble came only in trying to remember it all.

“And why did we want him hammering on Rardove's door?” The Bruce asked, his regard watchful.

“We did not, my lord. I did. My sister was there, and in danger.”

The Bruce lifted a cup in a mock toast. “I did not realize my spies used their contacts for personal good.”

“Then you are not very wise, my lord.” Will poured himself a cup of wine. “But I still think you ought be king.”

Robert laughed. “As do I.”

Will drank. He only thought The Bruce should be king because he
could
be king. 'Twas possible for this nobleman to rule the beautiful, scarred land of his heart, the country his mother and father had loved so well. But it was Scotland
go braugh,
not Bruce
go braugh.
Never for a man.

They were so fallible.

“And I do believe it benefited Scotland,” Will added quietly. “Edward turned his eye elsewhere for a few months. We might have been saved an invasion before we were ready.”

“And now, we are ready,” The Bruce said. He pushed open a shutter. The sound of sleigh runners hushed into the courtyard outside. Winter had come, cold and white and bright. “So, what of your sister?” The Bruce asked.

Will waved the parchment in his hand, the latest missive from Senna. “Rardove's lands were taken back into the king's hands, of course. And, oddly, deeded to a commune.”

Robert the Bruce raised his eyebrows. “Truly? A business commune?”

“So she says. I can hardly make it out,” he added, bending over the missive for perhaps the tenth time. He walked to the window and held the parchment under the spill of cold winter sunlight pouring into the room, but still it was hard to be sure he was reading it rightly. “A commune of…
bellas?
Can that be right?”

The next king of Scotland shrugged, but he was grinning while he did it. His beard gleamed brown and red. “I do not know, de Valery, but I would surely like to visit a commune of pretties.”

“Aye,” Will said absently. “An Italian word, is it not?”

The Bruce nodded. “Or Southern France, perhaps.”

“Indeed,” Will said, as baffled as ever. “Senna reports Wogan, the Irish justiciar, put in a word to Longshanks to give it over.” He shrugged and set the letter on the table. “No mind. I will go when I can, and figure it out.”

“Good. Because right now, we have an invasion to plan.”

Will nodded as they opened the door and strode to their horses. “And I must return to the king, ere he wonders why his spy is taking so long to reconnoiter the northern borders.”

 

Finian put his arm around Senna's shoulder and pulled her closer to his side. They stood on a stone embrasure on the walls surrounding Castle O'Fáil; the day, while brilliantly sunny, was windy and chill. The O'Fáil, down in the bailey, glanced up and lifted his hand. Finian returned the gesture before bending to place a kiss on Senna's head.

After two months among the Irish, Senna had almost memorized the array of names and faces and lineages stretching back far too long.

“Sooth, Finian, why do we need to know about poets from the fourth century?” she had asked in a fit of irritation earlier that afternoon, which is why he'd finally led her out to the walls, to stare down at the sea below and calm herself. They'd done this several times since they'd returned to O'Fáil lands and realized Senna was no longer quickening.

“It happens all the time,” she'd said, smiling through her tears on the night she understood.

“Aye, it does,” he'd agreed.

She was thinking of it now, he knew, and a moment later was proven right when she said quietly, “A week along is all I was. Ofttimes, one never even knows so soon.”

“No.” He kissed the top of her head again, and rubbed his palm over her upper arms, warming her. “We will have children, Senna.”

She smiled. “You will give me children.”

He paused. “I'm fairly certain I'm supposed to say that to
ye,
lass.”

“But,” she went on, lost in thought, “if I do not quicken right away, that will do for now. I must get my sheep over to Ireland, and the king has told me of your astonishing weavers. I believe we can gain them franchise in the towns. But, before all, I must meet with the mayor of the wool staple in Dublin.”

“Och, well, the woolly mayor it is, then,” he said lightly.

She narrowed her eyes. “Therefore I do not understand why you wish me to learn the names of the poets—the
file?
” She lifted an eyebrow to question if she was pronouncing the term correctly. He shook his head. She narrowed her eyes again. “Why must I know the names of poets from so long ago?”

“Because it matters,” he said. And he said it in such a simple, calm way, she believed him.

He was including her in every aspect of his life, his heritage and his future, sharing everything with her, accepting her involvement as natural. Desired. Which was, Senna realized, what she'd wanted all along: to be cherished, as she was.

In return, she was willing to offer much, including attempting to learn the names of centuries-dead poets. Or the entire Irish language. It was a beautiful tongue, but perilous, she realized with trepidation as she waded in to lessons each afternoon. Finian was a patient teacher. She tried to be a patient student. Her fingers had healed. Pentony was dead.

“I hope he did right by himself,” she murmured, her gaze drifting down the sloping hill below them. “I do not like to think of him suffering anymore.”

In part, she wished that because if Pentony was not suffering anymore, despite his sins, then perhaps Finian's mother was not either. And one day, that thought might bring Finian peace.

He stood near her, towering to his full rangy height. Black, windswept hair fell across his shoulders, and he was as magnificent to her now as when she'd first laid eyes on him.

“You sent a trunkful of coin to his illegitimate child in England, didn't you?” she said abruptly.

He started shaking his head, but she held up her hand.

“I know you did. I heard Alane speaking of it.”

He shrugged. “Ye'll believe what ye want, Senna. Ye always do. I've given up trying to change ye.”

“You never began.” Her breath caught in her throat. “You are a good man, Finian O'Melaghlin.”

“And ye,” he whispered close to her ear, “are the most beautiful woman I ever did see.”

She feigned shock. “You say nothing of my goodness.”

“Aye, for I've nothing good to say of it.”

She laughed as he pulled her back into his embrace and they both looked out over the walls. He breathed into her hair as the chilled winds swept up from the hills below.

“Yer father asked me for something, Senna,” he said quietly a moment later. “Before he died.”

She looked over her shoulder. “Indeed? What was that?”

“To help save Scotland.”

She looked away sharply. “You owe my father naught.”

He turned her by the shoulders and peered down with those dark, perceptive eyes. “Just so. This is not a matter of a debt or a duty. Ye taught me that much.”

She nodded solemnly. “I see. Will the king allow it?”

He nodded gravely. “We've already spoken of it.”

“But I thought—You were to be…” Her words trailed off.

“I'll never be king here, Senna. I made my choice.”

She stared at the castle behind him, then forced herself to meet his eyes. “A choice between a woman and a kingship. Some would say 'twas an easy choice.”

“Oh, aye. Simple enough for me.” He ran his palm over the side of her head. “I suppose ye'll have to make yer choice now, Senna, knowing I'm not to be a king after all.”

She pursed her lips, as if considering the matter. “I have always heard 'tis best to keep royalty at a distance.”

“Have ye?”

“You, I shall keep close.”

He slid his hand to the back of her head and pulled her forward. “Will ye, now?”

She rested her arms around his shoulders. “I made my choice in a stinking old prison. I'm fairly certain you were there. Do you not recall?”

He smiled faintly, but, still cupping the back of her head, looked down into the valley below. “A prison is a prison. Free air has a different odor. I've seen men in cellars make vile, regretful choices.”

She entwined her fingers behind his neck. “But, Finian, what you saw was a
woman
in a cellar.”

His blue gaze came back down, his smile deepending as his eyes searched hers. “Well now, that is so. And she was a fair staggering thing.”

She disentwined her fingers to wave her hand, her face flushing. “Enough of that.”

“Nay, not enough.” He ran his hand down her neck to her shoulders in a manner she knew far too well.

“Cease,” she protested, but she didn't mean it, and he knew. He caressed her shoulders in deep, circular motions, massaging. A prelude.

She bent her head to the side and closed her eyes, but still said sternly, “You shall not be let off so easily. We were speaking of plans. Instead of being a king now, you shall be a spy?”

“Tend toward calling me a diplomat when we travel. It'll sound less treasonous if anyone asks.”

She opened her eyes, smiling widely. “I am to come with you.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “For certes.” He ran his lips over her cheek, then slid them down to her jaw. “I've been looking for ye my whole life, lass. Dye-witch or no, I'm not letting ye go. Kings can want ye; I have got ye.”

“Good,” she whispered.

He bent to her lips but she put a hand on his chest stilling him.

“And are you never going to ask?” she said in a low voice.

“Nay.”

“You do not want to know how I did it?”

He was quiet, then reached into his fur and held up the small scrap of Wishmé-dyed fabric she'd carried out with her that day at Rardove's, and given to him. A gift of nothing, she'd laughed. He had not joined in, she recalled.

“I think the dyes are a thing rare and astonishing,” he replied slowly, handing it to her. “Like their maker. Ye wish to tell me, so do.”

“'Tis a secret. You cannot tell a soul.”

He smiled faintly.

“I followed my mother's recipe. 'Twas the simplest thing in the world.”

“Is that so? Five hundred years of Irish dyers do not agree.” He rested his hand between her shoulder blades, a gentle touch. Unconsciously, she was certain, he started rubbing.

“Perhaps they must not have been women,” she explained loftily. “One must have a willing woman.”

“Ah.” He kissed her cheek. “I like that.”

“I thought you would.”

He moved lower, kissing her earlobe. He seemed to be losing interest.

“Have you even a notion what that means?” she demanded.

“Nay.” He kissed her neck, and his hand slipped lower. “Keep yer secrets, woman,” he murmured into her hair. “I want only yer body.”

She laughed and turned, resting her hand on his upper arms, holding him slightly at bay. “Are you not the least bit curious?”

He pushed the warm fur away from her shoulder, pressed a kiss to her bare skin. She shivered. “For ye, I shall be the least bit curious.”

She smiled. “The secret of the Wishmés is that the woman has to be in love.”

He paused, looking vaguely impressed. “How?”

“Urea.”

“Fascinating,” he said after a moment's reflection, and met her eye. “But then, willing does not always mean loving.”

She touched his cheek with her fingertips. Her heart actually hurt from the fullness of loving him, of knowing he loved her equally, of contemplating all the things that could be with this man.

“For the Wishmés, it means just that,” she said softly. “A woman must be deeply in love. No other will do.”