The Irish Warrior Part 26

Dancing women and men, strands of flowers and curving lines and copulation. Heads thrown back, in various poses of pleasure, their bodies were so skillfully painted they actually looked to be gleaming with sweat.

These ill.u.s.trated figures were having more fun than some living souls did. The abbess would not be pleased to be the conduit for pa.s.sing it along.

Finian looked up, brows raised. Red nodded, then shrugged.

He kept turning pages, focusing on the text because the drawings were not, at least initially, informative. They were arousing, though. He focused on the words. Flowing Latin script, letters and words, hugged corners here and there, and occasionally filled the center of a vellum sheet. Numerals as well, surprisingly...

"Arabic," Red croaked, following the direction of Finian's perusal.

"Aye," he said, feeling slightly tossed about.

But whether in Roman or Arabic, they were certainly measurements. Distances, miles, amounts, dilution rates. Everything was figured here.

But erotic imagery and computational guide aside, most of the work was sketches. They looked like architectural blueprints, of castles and water wheels and mills. Trajectories and trebuchets. Explosions.

This was a military manual.

"The mind that made this was lethal," said Finian grimly.

"Dyer had a genius," Red croaked.

n.o.bles in robes, dropping to their knees. Various sketches showed this. A man, a crowned king, wore a cape in one drawing. The bottom half of him was slowly fading out, disappearing. It looked as if the ink was fading, or as if water had been accidentally mixed with the ink and the image was washed out. But the whole thing was far too intentional for that.

"What is this?" Finian murmured.

"What does it look like?" Red's words were quiet, his eyes closed. But he seemed to know exactly what Finian was looking at.

"It looks like a man disappearing."

"Or being made invisible."

Finian looked up sharply. "That's madness."

Slowly, Red pushed himself up a bit and stuck his hand inside his leather gambeson. He pulled something out and extended his hand as if handing something over, but Finian couldn't make out what he was seeing.

He blinked and looked closer. Some kind of s.h.i.+mmering was on Red's upturned palm, like faraway b.u.t.terfly wings over water. He reached out, touched Red's palm, and then he felt it. He was touching something he could hardly see.

Each time he tried to focus on it, it s.h.i.+fted, emitted that s.h.i.+mmering effect. But Red was holding something very solid, very definite in his hand.

"Take it," he rasped weakly.

Finian did, lifting the nothing-that-was-something. "What is this?"

"This is that." Red pointed to the image of the disappearing figure in the dye manual. "See what it can do."

"Madness," Finian said again, as precious time flowed away. But he had to understand. "As a powder, they're explosive. As a dye, 'tis the royal indigo shade-"

"And true-dyed onto a certain type of wool, in a certain weave, it can do that."

He could feel the wool's weave, sitting lightly in his hand, its draped edges ruffling down over the edge of his palm, but he could not see it. Not truly. And the more he tried to focus on it, the harder it became to detect.

"It appears some parts are there," Red rasped. "As if little specks of the fabric are visible-"

"But all the surrounding spots are not."

"As if one point in ten is showing."

"'Tis almost as if...it's picking up-"

Finian shook the fabric into the air, held it by his fingertips with the dun-colored wall behind it. For a brief second, it was visible as just what it was, a piece of pale weave, the size and shape of a child's tunic, not indigo alone, but with a slighter, redder hue.

Then, before his eyes, it seemed to disappear again, blending in with the wall behind it except for those few little spots of distinctive, steady color that made the s.h.i.+mmering so disorienting.

"'Tis magic," the spy said.

But Finian's concerns were much less enchanted. "And that manual tells how to do this?" he demanded.

Red nodded his head once, an effortful move. "Aye."

"But how? The secret of the Wishmes has been lost for hundreds of years." Finian held up the s.h.i.+mmering, vanis.h.i.+ng fabric, evidence that someone, somewhere, had known how to conjure this dangerous magic.

Red met his gaze. "The manual in your hand is not a thousand years old."

"No, 'tis not. G.o.d save us," Finian said, his mind already integrating the information and finding the ramifications bone chilling.

Red summoned energy from somewhere, enough to scowl at him and sit up a little straighter. "You hope for G.o.d, O'Melaghlin. I've learned we've to make our own means in such matters. Now, listen. I'm giving this manual to you Irish for one reason."

Finian stiffened. "I didn't know there were conditions."

"I'm going to die. I make conditions if I want. You need to use that." He pointed to the manual.

"What do ye mean?" Finian set the fabric down and stared at Red. "Why now? Why are ye giving this to the Irish now now?"

Red sat up a little more. It must have taken great effort, because his words came out more harshly, his sentences broken up by short, pained breaths. "The Scots have signed a treaty...mutual aid with France. Longshanks is like a tornado touching down, he's so furious. The Scots, straining at the bit. Come h.e.l.l or high water, King Edward...will invade Scotland. Surely as I will die." Red grabbed his arm. "Do not let him."

"How am I to stop him?"

"G.o.dd.a.m.nit, Irish," he said with a sudden flash of anger. "I just gave you the 'how.' Set off a few explosions. Get his attention. Draw his eye, away from Scotland."

"Draw his eye," Finian repeated slowly. "Straight to Ireland."

"Scotland will fall, O'Melaghlin. And then Ireland shall, too. Either Longshanks looks to you now, or he looks to you later, but look he shall, and one by one, we will all fall under his boot." His eyes were furious. "Scotland is weary of going to the Continent for aid. France is a thousand leagues away. We need Ireland."

"We?" Finian echoed. "Ye are English."

In a rush, like air from a bellows, all the anger and its energy blew out of Red. His head dropped, the fire faded from his eyes. "My wife was Scottish."

They sat in silence, Red's breathing labored, until Finian said in a low, measured voice, "I will not promise a war to save Scotland, not if I have to offer up Ireland as payment. I cannot."

"b.a.s.t.a.r.d," Red rasped. "Suspected that. One more. Condition. Most important." His words were getting quieter, his sentences more abbreviated, staccato. "Rardove sent for...dye-witch."

Finian's body rushed with cold. Rivers of coldness, was.h.i.+ng through his limbs. "Who?"

"From England..."

The rivers of coldness turned to ice.

"Get her out."

"I think I already have," he replied grimly.

"Good. Protect her above all else. Now, Irish...get out of here. The men who attacked...were Rardove's. They'll return."

s.h.i.+te.

"Get out. Now."

"I'll not leave you-"

"Christ on the cross, man, I'm already dead. Go." Red's eyes closed for the last time.

Finian lowered himself back to the ground and held the greatest English spy for Scotland's cause on his lap until the life pa.s.sed out of him in invisible ribbons of steam, dispersing his spy heat into the ether.

Chapter 34.

The sun was dipping low by the time Senna finally broke. It was the smell of pasties that did it. Cooked food. Warm mashed bread crumbs and egg, with bits of pork, mayhap. Or ham. Which? She was almost frantic to find out. Someone walked by with one, and she leaned forward to sniff.

The man tossed her a startled look. She tipped back into position, practically in tears. It was ham. Salted, warm ham, with cheese, spiced perhaps with basil or sage. The wafting scent of warm pastry and hot cheese made her stomach clench painfully. Basil. It was basil.

She broke and bought four of them, taking coin from the purse tucked between her layers of clothes. Inhaling one, she ate the other more slowly, shoving the remaining two in a pocket for Finian. Calmer now, she stood as twilight deepened, smiling at the antics of a small boy doing handstands while his elders juggled beside him, occasionally tossing items for him to bounce off his feet. Tinkling music from a flute filled the bustling square.

Finian appeared beside her, sidling up like smoke. He pressed up close, his body warm, the urgency in his words chilling.

"We have to get out of here."

He didn't look at her. He was scanning the crowd. His hand was on her upper arm, turning her slowly away, when a ruckus disrupted the pleasant, bustling mood of the square.

A group of armored soldiers climbed the platform. A well-dressed, portly man hurried up ahead of them, as if he was being herded. Likely the head of the largest merchant's guild, de facto mayor of the town. Finian's fingers tightened around Senna's arm. He guided her backward, until they were up against the corner of a chandler's stall. The scent of warm wax was strong.

In the square, people stopped chattering and turned. One of the soldiers nudged the mayor, who stepped awkwardly forward and unscrolled a doc.u.ment.

"Lord Rardove has pressing need of this town's service," he announced in a loud voice. "Six nights ago, an Irish prisoner Lord Rardove was holding on charges of treason escaped."

No one seemed particularly impressed with this, Senna decided, looking around. But then, no one knew how terrifying the whole thing had been.

"This Irishman abducted Lord Rardove's betrothed when he went."

This got the crowd's attention in a more riveting way. Senna and Finian stared at each other.

"Lord Rardove is offering a bounty for the return of the Irishman and his betrothed." Senna noted the order of those events. "Any goodman who brings them back will receive a gold coin." The crowd was getting excited, elbowing each other and nodding. A few youngsters ran from the square, likely to spread the news to all the dest.i.tute and ambitious of the town.

The mayor was wrapping up his appalling, instigating decree. "News alone will earn pleasure for any past debts or allowances owing to his lords.h.i.+p."

One of the soldiers stepped forward, elbowing the mayor aside. His loud, commanding voice rose over the crowd. "Lord Rardove wants them above all things. Find them. If someone does before we do, this night, five marks to him."

Now it was like a celebration. People pushed closer, tossing questions at the soldiers. A few farther back hurled insults, then quickly melted into the background.

Finian squeezed Senna's arm and they backed away from the square, while others pressed forward. Once clear, they turned down the main road, toward the west gate. She could feel the breeze rush by her flushed cheeks.

"Not too fast," Finian said, his fingertips on her arm, "or we'll draw attention."

Just then, a soldier wearing a Rardove surcoat stepped out from an alleyway. A hot stream of fear swept up Senna's throat. She smashed her hat down farther on her head and stared at the ground under her boots as they walked along at a screamingly sedate pace.

The soldier crossed the road and disappeared into the deepening purple-blue shadows behind another row of homes. Night was coming up fast.

"Finian?" she murmured.

"What?"

She tried to keep panic out of her voice. "They're going to close the gates."

"I know."

If they closed the gates, whether to trap them or for couvre-feu, couvre-feu, they'd be locked in the city all night. With Rardove soldiers on the prowl. All the citizens, too. they'd be locked in the city all night. With Rardove soldiers on the prowl. All the citizens, too.

They ducked around people and two-wheeled carts, increasing their pace, moving forward with intent focus, keeping to just under a trot. Finian bent his head beneath eaves when they had to walk close to the buildings. A horn suddenly sounded, a long, sustained note that rose at the end.

It sounded again.

They broke into a run, dodging a crowd that was suddenly streaming drunkenly out of a tavern. They spun to the right, turning onto the long, partly paved hill that led steeply down to the southern entrance. Then they skidded to a halt and watched as the huge oaken gates, studded and banded in iron, swung shut. They crashed with a resounding shudder.

Senna wanted to scream.

Soldiers stepped forward to slide the long bolts across its width, locking the gate with a huge, four-inch-thick wooden bar. The guards stepped back to their posts, small stone alcoves beside the gates. Above the gates, on the walls, was the alure, the stone walkway where armed sentries went on their ceaseless patrols.

Senna stood in the middle of the road, stunned and disbelieving. People flowed around her.

"Come," Finian murmured, putting his hand on her arm. She spun toward him.

"We can pay them," she said urgently. "I have money. For a small bribe, they'll let us through."

"Aye. And for a larger one, they'll turn us over to Rardove."