The Irish Warrior (5 page)

The sniffles stopped. Her body assumed a different posture: watchful, alert, capable. The corridor was dark, the air rancid and old. She followed the guards' instructions to stay by the left wall, farthest from the “holes.”

Her slippers made gritty, grinding sounds on the floor. Small rays of light poked in through chinks set high in the walls. By this dismal illumination she made her way, peering through the bars into each cell, praying she'd find the one she sought.

It smelled of decay and urine, and she moved through a blanket of eerie quiet, peering sideways into each cell as she passed. Every one, empty.

If her mouth had been dry before, 'twas nothing compared to the woolen clump of fear she had to untangle now. Four Irish soldiers had been chained in the hall the night she was beaten. Where were they now?

Please God, don't let
him
be gone.

The only sound was the thundering of her heart and her raspy, shallow breathing. As she crept along, she saw one prisoner, slumped and snoring in a cell, but it wasn't her Irishman. Then, out of a far cell, separated from the others, trailed a length of familiar black hair. Her heart leapt. She left the wall and came over to crouch in front of the cage. The figure was slumped in a sitting position, his side pressed up against the bars.

“Sirrah,” she whispered.

Nothing.

“Sir,” she whispered again, more loudly.

Nothing. She reached in and poked at his shoulder.

A hand whipped out and grabbed her wrist. She stifled a scream. Her slender bones were trapped in the firm grip of the prisoner in the cell. All breathing stopped.

The prisoner slowly turned his head.

“Thank God 'tis you,” she exhaled, icy relief dripping into her blood.

His eyebrows shot up. “And who am I?”

“You are you. How am I to know?” she said in an aggravated tone. She tugged at her wrist.

The Irishman grinned into the darkness. “I've here in my grasp a female who comes floating out of the darkness of a prison, smelling of sweetness and light, for all the world as if 'tis a garden stroll she's on. She pokes at me, and praises God that 'tis myself, although she doesn't know who that would be, and growls when I ask. Being a witless man, at least when it comes to fragrant ladies, I'd say I've died and gone to heaven, and am staring at an angel. Although why she'd be here in hell with me, I've no notion. Can it be ye're to answer my prayers, sweet angel?”

She was surprised by the tumble of feelings evoked by his little speech, spoken in a rough but pleasing voice. There was a smile and gentleness in his tone, but rock-hewn power lay repressed in the hand that still wrapped itself around her wrist.

She tugged a little, and he released her.

“I need your help.” Leaning closer to peer into the cell, she could discern his outline. There was only the glitter of bright eyes and the gleam of white teeth as he grinned at her.

He smiled more grimly. “'Tis as if ye read my very mind. But sweetly as your request is spoken, 'tis little succor I can give, as I hope ye can see.”

“If I free you, will you help me?”

The gleam from his smile disappeared and his gaze grew sharp and intent. “Aye,” he said slowly, regarding her. “And why would ye be doing that?”

“I need a guide when I leave.”

“Is that so?”

“'Tis,” she replied in a firm whisper.

“I thought ye only just arrived to be made a baroness.”

She leaned a tiny bit closer. “I do not fancy his wine.”

“Aye, I noticed that.”

“I do not mean to shock you, but Rardove tells lies. I am not his betrothed.”

He gave a slow grin. “Ye are surely not.”

“And I need a guide to the Dublin quay when I leave.”

“Couldn't ye find another Irishman, or better yet a Saxon, who would be pleased to do such a task, and better able, too?”

“Mayhap. I have not looked.”

“Really?” He sat upright to regard her. A small smile lifted the edges of his lips and a tremor of unnamed excitement traveled through her body.

“Really,” she breathed, lowering her voice. She was entranced by the way his body curved over itself, his muscles tightly corded and tensed beneath what looked to be silky skin. Even in this decrepit prison he was filled with sunshine and fresh air.

“Now why would ye be doing such a thing as that, angel?” he inquired in a low tone.

“In the hall…you made me hold my head up. I think you would be best.” There was nothing more to say.

A genuine, pleased smile brightened his features before a grimace of pain took over. “Aye, then, lady, I'll be awaiting yer coming, but ye'd best work quickly, as my head is being fitted for the stakes out front.”

Senna glanced over her shoulder. The guards would grow suspicious soon. “Tonight, after dark.”

“How?” he asked swiftly, his gaze suddenly hard and appraising.

Senna picked up a handful of rocks and ran her thumb over the jagged edges. “Rardove is thrashing on his sheets at this moment, clutching his belly. I expect it to last the night. Some mysterious infection of the gut.”

His eyes gleamed in the darkness. “Och, they're terrible mysterious out here. Hit without warning.”

She gave a miniature smile. “This one did. I didn't give him any warning a'tall.”

“I'll owe ye my life.”

“You will be helping get back mine.”

He smiled and when she smiled in return, he sat back on his heels. “Ye're a fair measure of beauty, ye are,” he whispered.

“What, with my bruised cheekbone?” This time she did laugh, very softly. “You must fell a great many ladies with such lies.”

The smile this earned was all charm and self-assurance. She shook her head, looking away. That would not help
at all.

“Finian O'Melaghlin.”

“Senna—”

“De Valery,” he finished, his gaze traveling slowly over her face, the smile fading.

“You know my name?”

His eyes lifted back to hers. “If ye can get me out of here, I'll have it put in a song.”

“If you can keep me alive once we're out, I'll write it myself,” she whispered back.

His smile returned, and her heart tripped over another beat. “I'll remember yer name forever, angel, song or no.”

Her eyes fell into his deep blue ones and for a fleeting moment she felt as if she were floating. His rough voice and gentle manner pleased her greatly. For heaven's sake.

“I will return,” she whispered, rising to her feet.

“I'll cancel all my other engagements,” he pledged, his voice rough and solid.

She smiled over her shoulder, startled at how calm she felt with her life resting on what they planned. It was like the peace she'd felt in the hall when he made her lift her head, when the world had receded except for his endless blue eyes.

And all he'd done then was smile at her.

 

Will de Valery spent all of a day preparing to leave England and did so with a vengeance, securing the services of a few additional for-hire knights, promising good terms in lieu of the plunder he could not offer. Yet. But one never knew what might be around the next bend in the road.

Thirty-three weapons-bearing others, men-at-arms and attendant squires, made for a goodly force. Two cooks, eight servants, a marshal and a mason completed the ensemble—his grateful proprietor had intimated the manor house was in grave disrepair when he enfeoffed Will with it in the first place, and that was likely much the reason for his largesse in any event.

They took to the seas in the middle of a storm, all staring askance at their lord, who stood golden haired at the bow of the ship as if he could drag the Irish coastline closer by force of will.

When the troop arrived in Dublin, the marshal would stay with the others in the walled city to arrange for the needed horses, wagons, and provisions, then march for the keep.

Will would take the five men he trusted with his life—despite their abiding affection for brown English ale and their desire to stay in England to drink it—and arrange a meeting with Lord Rardove.

He planned it all out in his head, to the last detail, while the wet winds blew across the ship, and Senna was beguiling the guards with sweetmeats and lies.

Moonlight cut through the slatted shutters, creating just enough light for her to see by. It clawed its way over the window ledges and grasped at the stony walls, thin fingers of chalky light.

Creeping over damp stone and gritty floors, crunching over stale rushes, stumbling and slow hurrying, Senna moved through the castle, dodging the occasional nocturnal servant and bleary-eyed soldier returning from a tumble in the brothel. The castle was rock under moonlight.

She wore a pair of boys' hose and a belted tunic that hung to midthigh, overtop a soft linen shirt. Over everything she wore a loose over-tunic gown, barely girdled, just enough to look the part should anyone stop her.

In her hands she carried the packs. Her hair was banded loosely with a strip of leather and hung in a long braid down her spine. Her eyes were bright, her head spinning, as she crept to the cellars. Setting down the packs, she stared at the solid oak door. Stretching out on either side was a narrow, endless corridor of chunky stone and eerie echoes.

The sound of furtive sniffing jerked her gaze down the hallway. A pair of small, round eyes, glittering flatly in the gloom, met her startled gaze; a rat snuffling at a pool of fetid water. What nourishment could it gain from that bracken watering hole? She shivered and looked back at the heavy door. Now or never.

Planting her palm against the iron handle, she pushed it open.

The soldiers leapt to their feet exactly as they'd done earlier. She smiled through the flickering candlelight.

“Sirs.” She inclined her head as if she were arriving at a social gathering a few moments early.

They goggled at her exactly as they had earlier.

“My lady,” the tall one gasped, fumbling to pull out the small bench he'd been seated on. Exactly as he'd done earlier.

If only their wits are as dim as earlier,
Senna decided,
I shall be fine.

She lifted her skirts and sat. Their mouths hung open half an inch. Easy prey. She closed in for the kill with absolutely no sympathy for what they might suffer as a result of the escape: they had helped to hang the dog.

She thumped down a flask of whisky on the table, filched from the baron's cellars, and looked up with a smile. They smiled back, gap-toothed.

In almost no time, they were well sodden and stupid, not a far cry from where they'd started the night. But this drink had an added spice, a powdered tincture of valerian root filched from the herbalist, which would ensure they slept for a long time. It took three swigs, maybe four, before they crumpled to the floor, leaving Senna standing, legs braced, breathing so fast her head spun.

No turning back now.

Plucking the keys off the taller one, she crept down the hall toward Finian's cell. A single torch lit her way.

“Angel.” His rough voice drifted down to greet her.

“I am come,” she announced in a low whisper, as if it were needful, completely ignoring the fact that his voice made her smile in the dark.

He was standing tonight, and Senna was a bit awed by his height and strength. Firm, corded muscles were tensed in the darkness and his voice had to travel some distance down to her. She'd picked a strong one.

They fumbled through the keys, found the one that fit, and after swinging open his cell door with an ear-piercing screech that would have awakened the dead—but not the guards—they crept back along the dank corridor.

“What happened to them?” she whispered, gesturing to the empty cells.

“The Irishmen who witnessed your kindly welcome in the hall were all killed soon after, lady, and in intriguing ways, too, rest assured,” he replied gruffly, following her up the hall.

Looking back, she found his jaw set hard, his eyes dark and impassive. She turned forward again, her fingertips trailing along the slime-ridden wall. Were her men to have been killed, she would be spitting for blood. Waving a sword and howling. He was so…restrained.

She repressed a shudder and pushed open the door to the antechamber.

He stared at the crumpled guards. “Ye have gifts I would never have suspected.”

She frowned a little. “I have a few hidden talents.”

He regarded her sideways, briefly. “Aye.”

He nodded his thanks when she handed him bread, then they swung the packs onto their backs. They were off, creeping across the shadowy courtyard. All they needed to do was steal a few weapons, sneak through both baileys, and scramble over the castle gate without being spotted by the guards.

Senna tried not to consider anything other than the next obstacle. Thinking too far ahead made her nauseous.

Crouched and watchful, she guided them to the blacksmith's hut. It was an elaborate affair, made of stone, two stories high. They stared up at the window on the second floor, far above their heads.

“It didn't look that high in the daylight,” she muttered.

Finian's hands closed around her hips. A startled breath whooshed out of her. “I'll boost ye up,” he murmured, and his fingers tightened as he lifted her up against the side of the stone building.

She reached as far as she could, stretching, aware of the power of him through his thick curled fingers, his shoulders, the steady strength holding her body up in the air. She curled the tips of her uninjured fingers around the window ledge, and that was as far as she got. The injured hand was still strangely numb, and therefore, while it did not hurt, it did not seem to have strength either. It certainly would not help her scale the side of the building.

“More,” she whispered.

“I haven't got any more.”

She scrabbled silently, panting and scraping her elbows and knees, but she wasn't a fly, and there was no way she could climb up the side of the wall.

“Stand on my shoulders,” he said, a gravelly command.

She stilled, then bent her leg back. She must have kicked his chin or something, because he grunted. She slowed her movements and nudged her toe backward, felt for the ledge of his shoulder. She planted her foot on it, then did the same with the other. It gave her just enough lift to get her elbows on the ledge.

She pushed at the shutters. Locked. Stifling the urge to smash them, she felt around in her pack and pulled out a strip of dried meat. Working it between the two shutters, she lifted upward, unhooking the latch that held them closed. A small metallic
clink
rang out, loud as a shout, and the shutters creaked in opposite directions, one in, one out.

Quickly, she shoved them inward and shimmied through. Thrusting her arms out, she dropped to the ground. Her palms hit first and the rest slithered behind, until her knees hit the floor with a muted thump.

She scrambled to her feet. Her vision quickly adjusted to the deeper shadows. A black opening gaped straight ahead. The stairway.

Another black gaping hole appeared to her right. The blacksmith's bedchamber.

She swallowed dryly.

She hurried down the stairs, weaving her way between tables and anvils, and tiptoed carefully around the oven, which was still heated to a pale orange glow. She swung the latch up on the door and inched it open. Finian stepped inside.

They crept back up the stairs, where the items in for repair and new works of deadly art were stored. Where the blacksmith was stored, along with his wife and children, but, praise God, no dog. After tonight, there would be one for certes.

They worked swiftly, without words. Within minutes, Finian was garbed in the powerful protective covering of an Englishman's mail hauberk, flinching just slightly as the weight of it settled on his back. There was none to fit Senna. She picked up a knife that looked the right size for Finian, which he immediately strapped around his thigh. He grabbed another one and she belted it for him, around his left arm. She grabbed one for herself, a long, wicked thing that looked just right.

At that moment, the blacksmith spoke, muttering a few garbled phrases. They froze, staring at each other. Silence, then a murmured, “Move over.”

Good heavens. The smithy's wife was awake.

Coldness spread across Senna's chest. A few feet away, Finian extracted the blade from its arm-sheath. She shook her head wildly, silently. He tipped his head to the side, one palm up, looking at her like she was crazed.

She gestured adamantly to the sheath on his arm. He just lifted his brows, but, as the silence extended, he slowly redeposited the blade. She smothered a sigh.

It felt like hours before they moved again. First Finian, then she, slunk back to the stairs, hunched over and breathing fast. Senna spied something out of the corner of her eye. She moved closer.

A broadsword, in a beautifully adorned sheath stitched with bright threads resembling fantastical shapes of animals and lettering in an unknown language. It looked like a warrior's sword, a king's sword. It looked like Finian's sword.

Without another thought, she lifted the massive weapon, staggered down the stairs, and hissed at his back.

He spun, his eyes glittering in the darkness, his body reflexively crouching into a fighting stance. The fire-glow of the oven lit up dark shadows on his face. He looked wild and dangerous, and she was about to hand him the hugest sword she'd ever seen.

“Here,” she whispered.

“My blade,” he murmured, stepping close.

“Yours? Truly?” She'd only thought it
looked
like a sword he might have.

“Aye.” He took the weapon and held it reverently, handling its weight as if it were a dinner platter. He slid it halfway out of its scabbard. The flat glitter of steel flashed in the firelight. “The scabbard, too,” he whispered. “I thought 'twould be quickly assumed by another, although the spells woven in it would not work well for any other. And never a Saxon.” He lifted his gaze to hers. “I am doubly indebted.”

They left the smithy's building and crept along the side of the open exercise field, a labor in madness which frightened her into a dry mouth and prevented her from talking for a good three minutes. Finian seemed impressed. They ducked between the buildings, silent moving shadows: one-room cottages, a chapel, the stables.

As they passed the kitchen gardens, Senna stumbled in a rutted furrow and muttered a curse. It sounded like a shout in the quiet nighttime. She snapped her head up.

Finian stared at her, frozen.

Then, keeping time with her hammering heart, the boot steps of a soldier drew near.