The Irish Warrior Part 28

"Yes," she said more firmly. "You need to charge more."

"They're not even paying now," laughed one of the women. "And you'd have us charge more? As if they have more."

"Oh, they have it," Senna said in an ominous tone.

Finian took another sip of his drink. It wasn't bad ale; someone here knew her business.

"The rabble-s.h.i.+te that come 'ere?" snapped one of the prost.i.tutes. She leaned her thin elbow on the bar and shook her blond head. "Money? Pah. They've got b.o.l.l.o.c.ks, that's what. Not coin."

"They have it," Senna demurred, "and if you demand it, they will pay. You've simply got to charge more for yourselves than you do for a mug of this ale-no offense meant, madame." Senna sailed the apology over to an old woman who, Finian suddenly noticed, was sitting on a crate in the back room, just beyond the counter.

The old woman, face cragged, waved off Senna's words with a bony hand.

"And this business of collecting payment after the service is rendered...?" Senna shook her head sagely. "That is poor practice indeed. You collect beforehand. In your business-not that I know much of it," she added quickly, "but I've a brother and a father, and I know them rather well. You simply cannot expect their a.s.sessment of the value of the...goods to remain as high after they have...sampled."

Finian smiled in the shadows.

"Och, well, then they won't be sampling at all," protested one of the women. Irish. This group was a mix of Irish and Saxon, he realized, and a few Scottish flowers as well.

"I wager they will," Senna countered. "You're the only...establishment...in the town, is that so?" A few affirmative nods. "Then they'll be back. But if you make it harder to get, they'll want it even more."

"And I want food to eat every day," muttered one of the more heavily painted women. A cobwebbing around the edges of her eyes bespoke an age older than most of the others. "The less I have, the more I want it. And if they don't come in, I won't have it a'tall."

The tall, willowy owner spoke then, her voice like smoke, low and sultry and just a little hoa.r.s.e. "They always come back."

Finian watched Senna smile at her with the full force of her accountant's mind, which was quite a s.h.i.+ning thing, even here in this dingy tavern.

"Of course they'll be back," she agreed.

The owner extended a long, elegant arm and lifted a cup to her lips. Wine. Finian knew it without seeing inside. The way she lifted the cup, the way she swallowed, everything about the woman said she was drinking very good wine.

Senna leaned her side against the counter, totally absorbed in the impromptu business meeting. Finian put his boots up on the bench across from him, crossed his arms over his chest, and leaned the back of his head against the wall.

She met their eyes, one by one. "Your customers know exactly what they're asking you to sell. And they'll pay for it, if you make them."

The group fell silent, considering this.

"There is not a great deal more to be gotten out of our current clientele," observed Esdeline in her smoky, thoughtful voice.

"You're right," Senna allowed after a moment's reflection. "You'll eventually need to move the operation to a larger town or a city. Where there are lords. Merchants. Soldiers of fortune. Ones who've actually experienced fortune." The willowy owner smiled in a mysterious way but said nothing. "But in the meantime, you really should aim higher."

Confused silence.

"There are soldiers about here?" Senna persisted. "Well, look to their captains. A s.h.i.+re reeve, mayhap? The bishop-"

A gasp went up and Finian opened his eyes. Three of the girls had thrown their hands over their hearts. Senna's eyebrows went up, but she obviously decided not to have that conversation. The tall owner's smile expanded. Finian half closed his eyes.

"Perhaps not the bishop. But his steward. Do I misdeem the matter? Or is this conceivable?"

"You appraise rightly." The owner's low, sultry voice lifted like smoke. "I do believe I had forgotten it."

Finian swept up his drink and downed the last of it.

"You'll have to pay your girls more," Senna said.

Esdeline looked at her sharply. "They are not mine. My conscience is a reservoir for no one's soul. They do this themselves."

"No. Indeed. That is as it should be. You are a...a business commune. What you need is money. And you must bring in pretties, hangings and the like, to enrich this place, so it's nothing they've ever encountered before, not even in their dreams. And yourselves. New dresses. Ribbons. Throws on the floor." Someone gasped. She paused before returning to her original and most important point. "And you need to charge more. A great deal more."

"Och, as if we can afford such things as you're speaking of," muttered one of them.

"I've a few pennies," said the shy one.

"Aye. Myself, I've a few, too," said another, stepping forward.

A gnarled old hand appeared in the midst of their little group and dropped a handful of bent coins onto the wooden counter. "That's all you'll get from myself."

Everyone looked at her in astonishment. "Grand-maman," murmured the tall owner. "Where did you get that?"

"You don't know everything about me," she muttered, and that cryptic phrase was the most anyone could get out of her.

"That's a good deal of money," observed the owner, considering the pile with a knowing eye. "But 'tisn't enough."

Senna looked up from the pile. Their eyes met.

"No," Senna agreed slowly. "Not enough by far."

She tromped back to the table and began rummaging through her pack. "Do we have a pressing need for money just now, Finian?" she asked, her head to the side as she peered into the bag.

"We've got to pay for these." He tapped the rim of his mug.

"Aye. The drinks. But other than that, do we need money for anything?"

His eyes swept across her dirty face, her ripped leggings. He pictured her in a green dress, with ribbons in her hair. And a jewel around her curving neck. On a bed. With fur covers. And the dress coming off. The necklace staying on.

"A few dozen things come to mind, aye," he said slowly. "Have ye more coin, then?"

"A little."

His gaze slid up. "Ye're like a treasure trove, Senna. Where did you get all that?"

She slid her hand from her pack, clutching a small pouch in her palm. "I brought some with me from England."

"Ye did?"

She shrugged. "Some. The rest is from Rardove's coffers. 'Tis recompense for my physic expenses." She paused. "What is your rate of pay?"

He gave a slow smile. "A powerful lot."

She smiled back.

"Ye've the makings of a very fine thief, Senna. How much coin did ye take?"

"Just one scoop." She cupped her hand and swept it through the air, like she was scooping a handful of water.

"Just one little scoop, is it?"

"Just one. Out of each coffer."

He laughed.

She held up the purse. "So, do we need this?"

"Aye, la.s.s."

"As much as they do?" she asked, and flung her hand out behind her.

Finian followed the invisible trajectory drawn by the toss of her hand, to the small cl.u.s.ter of women, some barefooted, watching them in silence.

"No," he said slowly. "Not nearly so much."

Her bright smile nearly blinded him. If she'd been within reach, he might have swept her up in his arms for a kiss. But she turned and walked back to the cl.u.s.ter.

"We have to pay for our drinks, and we'd like two more," she said. "This should settle for those, and mayhap just one more thing."

They stared at the lumpy purse like a cat had just delivered kittens on their counter. The owner reached out and swept it up. She peered inside, then lifted her head.

"What do you want?" she asked slowly. Suspicion filled her already guarded eyes.

"More drink," Senna said. "And a way out of town, without being discovered."

Silence reigned. No one asked how she came by such a rich bag of coin, out of the nighttime, and yet had no horse of her own. A handful of causes would certainly have already come to mind. But they did not ask a single question. They did look at Finian, though.

"Who's he?" asked the owner, hooking her head his direction.

Senna glanced over briefly. "He's my..."

Finian waited to see how on earth she would describe him.

"My Irishman."

He grinned.

The group of women giggled, sounding genuinely, playfully feminine for the first time since they'd entered the tavern. "Where can I get one of them?" one of the girls whispered, and the group broke into tinkling laughter again.

Senna bent closer. "We're in Ireland," she murmured. "They're everywhere. everywhere."

"Not like that," one said.

The owner was holding Finian's eye. He nodded, acknowledging her silent regard. For a moment she didn't move, then a slim, elegant fingertip lifted briefly off the counter. She turned back to Senna.

"The guards change their posts in about an hour," she said, her voice like plush felt. "Ofttimes, we have need to escort guests home after the gates are shut for the night."

Senna looked shocked at the extravagance. "How much do you charge for that? that?"

Esdeline smiled her mysterious smile. "Indeed, they pay."

Senna harrumphed. "I should hope so."

"My wagon coming through the gate should not draw any undue attention. Tonight, you"-she pointed to Senna-"will escort him." She gestured to Finian.

When Senna came back to the table, he reached for her hand. She slid it into his, and he stroked his thumb over the center of her palm slowly.

"That was a kindness," he said quietly.

She shrugged, but s.h.i.+fted her eyes away. "'Twas only coin." Her voice hardly caught at all. "And truly, Finian, it hardly seems likely that-"

She stopped. They all heard it at the same time.

A low rumble, coming closer. The clatter of hooves into the stable yard, the sound of men, drawing nearer.

One of the women hurried to the door and pulled it open an inch. She slammed it shut at once and spun around, her face frightened. "'Tis the whole bleedin' regiment!"

"Quick, get the bag," snapped the owner, and the women went into motion, hurrying the pouch of money off the counter. One woman beckoned to Senna and Finian, by the back door. Senna hurried over while Finian strode deliberately to Esdeline.

"Lady," he said in a low, swift voice, "all those things ye spoke of, if Senna says ye need them, then so ye do. But I'm telling ye, ye also need a protector. Send word to The O'Fail. Mention my name. Say I told ye I owe a debt, and to send a guard. One of my personal guard. Ask for Tiergnan-he's a monstrous hulk of a beast, but gentle inside."

"I will," she said in her throaty voice. "And what name shall I mention, Irishman?"

He lifted her hand to his mouth, his eyes on hers. "I think ye know that."

He pressed a kiss to the back of her hand, then followed Senna out the door.

Chapter 37.

Their dour-faced wagon driver took them much farther than they'd have hoped, in a straw-filled, two-wheeled contraption that clattered and clumped and drew less attention than a bat. Then he dumped them on the side of the track and drove off without a backward glance.

Finian hurried them deep into the woods, where no Plantagenet soldier would dare to go. For an hour they walked, then Finian let them stop beside a river, where they rested and allowed Senna to wash off the mud he'd streaked over her face earlier in the day. He sat down as she knelt beside the bubbling creek.

"Tell me about yer wool, Senna."

She looked up quickly. Her face gleamed with wetness. "My little bleaters?"