The Irish Warrior Part 4

Without a backward glance, he disappeared from the hall.

Senna tottered sideways a step. The front of her skirts bespoke violence: a vivid ruby trail screamed across the emerald fabric. She walked to the long dais table, hyperventilating with pain, fear, and anger.

Anger won out.

She reached for a corner of the long table linen. The servants watched with wrinkled brows and wringing hands as she wrapped it around her palm twice and tugged.

One stepped up to her. He cleared his throat. "May I help bandage your wound?"

"No, thank you." She smiled sweetly, then jerked the tablecloth off the table with all her might.

Plates went spinning into the air and a tower of fruit and sweets tumbled to the ground. A large oval platter holding an eel dish spun around twice, looked as though it might stay centered on the table, then skittered off, joining the rest of the mess on the floor. The clamor and racket thundered through the hall, drowning the incredulous gasps and shouts of the gathering.

The jug of red wine, oddly, stayed put, heavy enough to withstand the quake.

"Praise G.o.d, my lord's wine is safe," she murmured. "'Tis a most precious spirit," she said.

Silence reigned. The servants, soldiers, and liege men gaped. Jaws dropped, heavy boots clomped on the ground as the men s.h.i.+fted nervously. What to do now? The baron had left no orders, although his last actions were clear enough indicators of how he planned to treat any disobedience on the part of his new "wife."

Still, watching her ramrod-straight back, somehow not a single man was man enough to approach her. A few servants scurried to pick up the downed items, and another ran to get water.

No one said a word to Senna.

The soldiers, after a spellbindingly long moment of indecision, went on with their task of rounding up the battered Irish warriors and leading them away.

Senna wrapped her bleeding hand in the cloth, leaving seven yards of fabric to trail out behind her, ridiculously excessive, as she walked to the window, a narrow, bailey-facing slit set at shoulder height in the wall.

She pushed open the shutter a hairsbreadth. Her hand throbbed with a fiery pain that made her breathing erratic. Blood seeped through the thick cloth. She was weary beyond words, and exhausted by the cold, hopelessness inside.

How had things come to this pa.s.s? All her efforts, to this end? It made one consider whether one ought to exert effort at all. Things went as they were meant to go, no matter how one fought against it. Destiny. Blood. Rardove had been right after all.

She lifted her unsteady hand to sweep back the hair that had escaped from the pins. Her gaze traveled dully over the room. It was arrested by the Irish warrior, the man whose eyes she'd met earlier, the one who had leaped to save her, a new seepage of blood his only reward.

Their gazes locked, and he smiled, a crooked, satisfying smile. Dark blue eyes sucked her into their depths. A surge of blood warmed her face. But more than that, the coldness inside her belly warmed, and the sounds of the hall faded away, so that the world became peaceful for a moment.

He lifted his head and jutted his square, stubbly chin. His smile grew, became mischievous, and he lifted his head another inch.

Senna almost smiled back. What was he saying?

Saying? Why would he be saying anything?

He pushed back his shoulders ever so slightly.

"Dear G.o.d!" She started in soft exclamation, her skin p.r.i.c.kling. He'd read her thoughts. 'Don't surrender' 'Don't surrender' his silent message came as loudly as the baron's bellow had. his silent message came as loudly as the baron's bellow had.

She glanced involuntarily to the door Rardove had exited by, then back to the beaten warrior. He inclined his head the briefest inch.

I will not give up. Chills raced across her skin. So be it. She would not surrender, not in this way at least. Not if this doomed warrior could attend to her need in the midst of his misery, and offer succor. Chills raced across her skin. So be it. She would not surrender, not in this way at least. Not if this doomed warrior could attend to her need in the midst of his misery, and offer succor.

She pushed back her shoulders as he had done and met his eyes, acknowledging receipt of his gift.

Finian grinned. As if he hadn't known. As if he hadn't seen her head rise, watched the sparkle dance back into her eyes. As if he hadn't known the moment her drowning spirit was buoyed up.

And as he was led away, it gladdened him to know he'd had a part in keeping the flame lit in some small way, flickering in the beautiful woman he'd never met that night. He looked back, hoping for another glance of the angel fighting for her dignity in the slop of Rardove's hall.

He saw her eyes widen and, following her gaze, spied a knife lying among the litter the servants were cleaning up. His eyebrow lifted. She chose a dangerous route to rebellion. Then again, he decided, it seemed she would prove capable on most any path.

If the way were cleared. Would she be able to get her hands on the blade?

He was torn away from these musings by his captor's rough wrench, and shoved forward a few feet. Their progress was halted by a skirmish at the door leading out of the hall and the guard stopped, waiting for it to clear. Finian craned his head around again.

The chestnut-haired lady was bent over the ground, picking up a platter. She set it on the table and smiled at a nearby servant. This time his eyebrows almost met his hairline. Well, he hadn't expected her to help clean up.

Glancing around surrept.i.tiously, she slipped the razor-sharp dagger into her pocket.

He grinned as he was hauled away.

Chapter 7.

Throughout the castle, the story was pa.s.sed 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 s.h.i.+fted 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 p.r.o.ne, drugged body, where he'd fallen on the bed after leading her to his chamber, she wasn't sure it was the best best plan, but as it was the only one to hand, it held great allure. 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 n.o.ble 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, 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 s.h.i.+pping merchants, and spun the faltering wool business their parents had founded into something with the potential for true greatness. 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 s.h.i.+pping 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 k.n.o.bbly-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 a.s.sembled 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 h.e.l.l 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 lords.h.i.+p. 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 h.e.l.l out of here?"

Chapter 8.

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

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

Steal.