The Irish Warrior (4 page)

Throughout the castle, the story was passed mouth to ear. Soldiers and maidservants, livery staff and merchants on deliveries, guards and prisoners, everyone heard of Senna's defiance.

Foolish, they said. Reckless. Unwise. And in the end, hopeless.

 

But Senna was not without hope. Nor was she without a plan.

She appeared the next morning, utterly transformed. Docile, compliant, quiet and meek, she appeared on her betrothed's arm soon after the bells rang Prime, and seated herself quietly at the dais table.

Rardove grinned from ear to ear. “Eat,” he laughed in a bellowing sort of way, gesturing to the hall.

The gathering shifted uncomfortably. Senna was a bruised and battered wreck. Her smashed fingers were tightly wrapped, but the cloth was stained a pale rose color, the dainty shade belying the violence of the wound seeping below. Her lip was swollen, her cheek black-and-blue. Her hair was pulled back softly from her face, but it was hard to miss the angry red line around her neck. Almost as if she'd been choked.

But whatever the castle prophets said as they stood around the wash buckets that dawn, Senna had hope and a plan.

 

But, as she stood over Rardove's prone, drugged body, where he'd fallen on the bed after leading her to his chamber, she wasn't sure it was the
best
plan, but as it was the only one to hand, it held great allure.

Had Rardove no notion how many uses some of these herbs had, aside from mixing agents for dyes? And he'd left them all within her reach.

For the rest of the day he would have terrible stomach cramps, and be in and out of a drugged state. Come morn, he would be enraged.

By then, though, she would be gone.

She meant to explore the castle from bailey to dog pens today. She would befriend every person, overcome every fear, crush every opposition, and find a way to the prisons. Then she would free the Irish rebel who'd given her strength in a moment of weakness and have him get her to the Dublin quay.

She had hope, determination, and a plan. What she was running out of was time.

 

Senna's younger brother, William, stared at the paper in his hand. “When?” He looked up at the servant, who cleared his throat before replying.

“Tomorrow 'twill be a sennight since she left, sir.”

Will looked down at the missive again, an indefinable disquiet unraveling through his body. Senna had been running the business masterfully for ten years now, so he wasn't sure why he felt so uneasy. Yet he did. And after a year on the tourney circuit, and three hiring out his special services to lords with ambitions both noble and base, Will knew to heed such rumblings.

Still, this was simply a message from his quite-competent sister, outlining her current business venture. A much-needed one, in truth, after so much of the money flooding into the business went pouring back out again, to plug up the holes created by their father Sir Gerald's ever-increasing need for coin.

Their father had been cold and distant and for the most part
gone,
ever since their mother left, when Will was but a year old. Servants had been present for a while, on and off, but mostly it was Senna who had raised him. Senna who had saved the business. Senna who took on abbots and royal clerks and shipping merchants, and spun the faltering wool business their parents had founded into something with the potential for true greatness.

Senna could manage this matter with Lord Rardove. And yet…Will couldn't toss his uneasiness aside. It's what had brought him riding north after a servant sent him a message with a query about a collapsed roof on one of the barns, anecdotally reporting their mistress had abruptly gone to Ireland.

To Lord Rardove. How odd.

He lifted his head and looked at his knobbly-shouldered squire. “Well, we're off again, Peter,” Will announced. “You've always wanted to see Ireland, haven't you?”

The boy blinked. “I have, my lord?”

“Good. Saddle Merc, put Anselm and Tooke on lead.” Will tossed the message on the table and looked at his men, the small entourage he had assembled for various and sundry—often highly sundry—purposes.

“Roger, look lively,” he said. One of the lightly armored men unraveled to his feet. “Find out what you can about Rardove's activities of late. Attend any rumors in particular. Meet us at the dock at Milford.”

He glanced at the other men lounging about on stubby-legged benches while Roger tromped out, Will's squire hurrying behind. The small hall of the manor house was suffused with afternoon light, speckled with shadows from the riot of rose vines draped over the windows and shutters. Will looked his men over thoughtfully. They peered back, mugs of tepid ale hovering expectantly before their mouths.

“Did I ever tell you louts I have a small piece of land in Ireland?”

His men exchanged glances, eyebrows raised. “No, Will, you never did,” said one.

Another grinned. “I don't believe it. You always said you were landless and wanted it so.”

Will shrugged. “Did I? I talk a lot.”

“Who enfoeffed you, Will?”

“'Twas a grant from someone appreciative of a job well done. How could I refuse? 'Twas after that business up in the north of England.”

“That was Scotland, Will,” one man pointed out.

“So it was. In any event, I think it's high time for a visit.” He looked at them pointedly. “'Tis in Ireland. Across the sea.” They just peered at him. “Get up,” he finally said in disgust.

They did immediately, although one shook his head as he set down the mug of brown ale regretfully. “We heard you, Will. Just didn't believe it.”

“Oh, believe it,” he replied grimly, following them out the door. “Something is amiss in Ireland. I'm going to find out what it is.”

 

Finian knew something was amiss the moment he heard voices coming down the corridor. One sounded drunk.

From out of the darkness, two soldiers escorted a stumbling third down the narrow corridor that ran in front of the cells. They wrenched opened the squeaking iron door to his right, tossed the mostly limp body in, locked the door, and strode away.

Finian waited until the flickering torchlight faded to nothing. Only a thin band of pale gold, sunset light came in through a high, slitted window, but it made the chamber glow with a stony amber aura. He turned to his new prison mate.

“What the hell are ye doing here?”

The soldier shook his head blearily, as if he was shaking off sweat. Or blood. He lifted the back of his hand to wipe across the corner of his mouth. Blood.

“'Twash fightin',” he mumbled. “And drinkin'. And sayin' shtuff about his lordship. And then I hauled off and slugged—”

“That's not what I paid ye for,” Finian said coldly.

“Know that,” he mumbled. “Wife left me t'day. For the miller. Sho sorry.” He waved his hand unsteadily. His legs gave out and he slithered to the floor. His head dropped forward, chin onto chest, then his entire body tipped sideways. He was snoring by the time his skull hit the ground.

Finian tilted his head back until it touched the stone wall. He stared at the shaft of golden light coming in through the slit.

“Now how am I going to get the hell out of here?”

The prisons. She had to find the prisons. And then what…?

No
then whats.
Only right now, right here. Whatever was under her nose, in front of her toes, that is all she had to do.

Steal.

Under the guise of the new chatelaine, while Rardove slept and retched, that's what she did. Linen shirts, leggings, hooded tunics, food, rope, flint: anything she could lay her hands on. She also scooped four handfuls of pennies from Rardove's coffers, all she could carry without it being too heavy.

Then she shoved her booty into packs and stared at it glumly. Such a cache was meaningless if she ended up astray on the Irish countryside, well stocked to await her demise. She might have coin, but what she needed was the Irishman. Without him, she had as much chance of survival as a good notion in a tankard of ale.

She looked down at her injured hand and tried flexing it. Her fingers didn't hurt, which should have been mildly reassuring, except that they were numb. That could not be good.

The autumn day was growing weary of its task and stretched out in long shadows, when she spied a short, squat, red-faced villein who did odd jobs around the castle. He was pushing a creaking wheelbarrow. It was filled with old, rusted leg irons.

Senna stopped short.

The villein did too, his beefy hands frozen on the wooden handles. Senna stared. He stared back, then set down the barrow and scratched his balding head. She sighed. His hand froze mid-scratch, and his eyebrows lifted, but otherwise there was no change.

“Are you…milady?” he asked, lowering his hand.

“I suppose I am.”

He dragged off his linen cap and gave a small—a very small—bow. “Milady.” Then he deposited the linen back on his shiny scalp and levered the wheelbarrow onto its front wheel. “If I can ever be of service, then, milady. I'll be on my way, then? Milady?” His queries were sounding more desperate.

Senna's heart slammed against her ribs. There was nothing for it but directness. “I wish to see the prisons.”

His eyebrows shot up, then descended into a thick black line, a startling slash across his red face. “Milady.” He frowned disapprovingly.

“'Tis…a game,” she declared.

“A game,” came the flat, disbelieving reply. The black lines jogged into jagged curves.

She nodded. “A game. Lord Rardove devised it for me.”

Something rippled across his sweaty face. It might have been disgust. Or sympathy. In any event, he set down the wheelbarrow. “Well, then. I'll show you the way.”

He guided her down a dark hallway, out into another courtyard, back inside, through more doors and hallways, and down, ever down. The light dimmed, the air grew cold and dank, her fingers grew damp and chilled. She blew on them and hastened after. How in God's name would she remember all the twisting turns?

The villein suddenly halted in front of a thick wooden door. “I'll wait for you, milady.”

“No.”

Up went the thick black eyebrows. Passing her a look that spoke volumes on his opinion of the rich, he shrugged and pushed the door open. Two guards sitting at a small table leapt to their feet.

“Her ladyship is here…for a game. Methinks' twill be great fun,” he announced, then disappeared.

“Sirs,” Senna trilled, sweeping into the small, dirt-walled room. She smiled brightly, completely pushing aside the terror about to close up her throat.

“My lady!” they exclaimed in startled unison.

“I am inspecting the castle,” she explained brightly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “And I couldn't very well ignore this place, could I, where the ruffians who threaten my lord's peace are held, before being taught the folly of their ways? 'Tis here that the true peace is kept, and men like you ought to be honored for your role.”

She concluded her patriotic little speech with sparkling eyes. The men stared at her, mystified.

“And how long have you been stationed here?” She wandered around the small antechamber, continuing the one-sided conversation.

The taller of the two cleared his throat. “Since Michaelmas.”

“Do you enjoy the post?” she asked, seating herself at the small table and peering at them with interest.

“My lady,” the shorter one mumbled helplessly. His thoughts were emblazoned across his face like an armorial crest: What was this cruel torment? What answer would suffice?

She got back to her feet and wandered about the room, tucking her injured hand close to her chest. The men stared, slack jawed, then jerked their eyes away. They shifted back and forth on their booted feet, their eyes darting to every point in the room but the brightest.

“The souls who do the hardest work are oft ignored by those who receive the bounty of their labors,” Senna said in a conspiratorial tone.

They nodded miserably. She could have said the king of England should be garroted and they would have agreed.

“I do not wish to be one of those who would benefit without giving recompense,” she added, spinning around.

They jerked straighter and stared straight ahead. “Nay, my lady!”

“Some are,” she breathed, soft again. Bending her head, she touched her hand gently, drawing their eye to the damage done by their lord.

“Aye, my lady,” the taller one muttered uneasily.

“I wish to know all my people and to show my…
appreciation
to those who work hard in my service,” she murmured in a low voice, and, in a fit of inspiration, trailed her hand along the curve of her bodice.

The guards' eyes practically bulged out of their heads.

“Aye, my lady,” the shorter one stammered, wiping sweat from his brow.

She lifted her eyebrows ever so slightly. That particular tactic had never come into use in contract negotiations before. “And when do you leave your posts?”

“Prime,” one croaked.

She smiled in relief. “So you shall be here later this eve?”

The taller one adjusted first. “As you wish, my lady.” He stepped forward, his gaze raking her figure with an intense, hungry look.

Her mouth went dry. She stepped backward, her ankle turning slightly as she stumbled.

“Fine then. We understand one another,” she murmured, her heart hammering. This was a remarkably dangerous game, but what other weapons did she have at her disposal? Few enough not to use those to hand.

“I will leave you to your posts and explore the remainder, as I have done with all the rest of the castle.”

“My lady, those are the holes where the prisoners are kept,” the taller one protested, stepping forward again.

She turned, her forehead furrowed in delicate disapproval.

“Are you gainsaying me? My lord has it wished that I know every inch of his keep, as he will know every inch of me. Those were his exact words. I have found it unwise to thwart him.”

She suddenly dissolved into tears, her shoulders bobbing up and down.

The soldiers herded her to the table, abashed. They sat her in a chair and knelt beside her, frantically soothing. No, of course they did not mean to oppose her. Yes, they understood how difficult it was to be married to a man such as the baron. Indeed they did. No, they did not want Lord Rardove to be angry with her. Yes, of course she must walk up and down every hallway as he'd bid her to do, and yes, she must do so alone, to test her memory of the maps.

However odd that last seemed, neither man seemed willing to bicker with her tearful ladyship. Not with the delicious promises she'd hinted at ringing in their ears.

She left them at the table, their heads close together, and pushed open the door to step into the hallway of the cells.