The Irish Warrior (26 page)

Senna, half-draped in furs at the window, spun, her eyes wide, her face washed white.

“Do as I said, lass,” he ordered swiftly. “Stay in the room, lock the door. And
keep yer blade to hand.
”

Then he was gone, striding out of the chamber without looking back. Something cold folded over Senna's collarbone and shoulders like a frozen cape.

Two things warred for her attention. The realization that Finian might have just admitted he would fail her. And the certainty that he was afraid.
For
her.

 

Balffe drew rein. The line of soldiers beside him halted in unison. It had been hours since the sun had set, but Balffe had pressed on despite the darkness and cold. A hunter in these regions for nigh on thirty years, Balffe knew the Irish well. Knew O'Melaghlin well.

Of course O'Melaghlin would come here, dragging the de Valery whore behind. Straight to The O'Fáil, the man who'd first dragged O'Melaghlin out of the muck years ago, when his whore of a mother killed herself.

Which is why he wasn't entirely at ease, riding ever closer to the Irish keep. Finian O'Melaghlin was in there, but he would come out, too, and when he did, it would be at the head of an army. An army that might be poorly equipped, but would be outfitted with a commander who possessed the keenest leadership abilities and the most impressive warrior skills known in the Irish marches.

Balffe was all too aware of these particulars. He had come out on the losing side of too many encounters over the years to underestimate either the Irishman's intentions or his abilities.

Aye, O'Melaghlin would come out, he decided with a quick righting of his codpiece. And Balffe would be waiting.

No one
escaped a castle of which he was guard, at least not without sacrificing a few vital body parts as payment. Certainly not the Irish dog who had debased Balffe's very own sister some ten years earlier with his contaminated charm. My, yes, their history went back some, and O'Melaghlin would die with a slow twist of a knife plunged in his chest.

Balffe would see to it himself.

But first, he would take Senna de Valery, more witch than woman, back to Rardove with a malicious pleasure.

And if she caused him any trouble,
any at all,
she would be pitifully sorry. As would anyone close enough to hear him extract her useless screams for mercy.

The men stood in the king's chamber just as the runner stumbled in, sweaty and harried. It was half a minute before they could get the news out of her. During that time the men stood, the silence dense. She clutched her side, doubled in half and panting.

“The king's governor of all Ireland is marching north with a massive hosting.” She gasped for another breath.

“Wogan?”
The shocked murmur swept through the room. The justiciar? The governor of all of Ireland? The hand-picked servant of Edward, Hammer of the Scots and bleeder of the Irish, was marching north?

“They must be over four thousand strong.”

Someone cursed. It seemed to come from far away. Finian said hoarsely, “How long until they get here?”

“Two days, mayhap half of another.”

Two days to muster as many divergent, loosely allied Irish and any loyal English they could to their cause. A cause which was looking more bleak as news of the English arrayed against them grew. Not only Rardove and his vassals. Now 'twas the governor of the isle, King Edward's lieutenant, John Wogan.

And that about does it,
thought Finian.

“There's more,” panted the messenger, folding to her knees. “The Saxon king is coming, too. His muster is in Wales, waiting for a good wind. When they get it, Edward Longshanks will march on Ireland.”

The room dropped into shocked silence. Everyone turned to Finian, who was staring at the far wall. He could feel every ponderous beat of his heart as it slowed, as his body closed in on itself, as everything went cold.

“Leave us,” he heard The O'Fáil say.

The room cleared of men until it was only Finian and the king, who stood staring at him with sad eyes.

 

A clamor outside the window made Senna start, drew her out of her simmering reverie. The hem of the dark blue undertunic Lassar had given her picked up stray bits of rushes as she walked to the slitted window and leaned her elbows on the knobbly ledge.

People were laughing and exchanging friendly insults as they darted across the bailey from one doorway to another, dashing to and fro, readying themselves for the evening entertainment. New people meant new ideas, new conversations, new stories, new dalliances, most of all. And that the fine-looking, charismatic Finian O'Melaghlin was one of them was almost too thrilling to imagine.

Better than stories, Finian himself, in all his glorious flesh, was to be there, to flirt and entertain.

My, how did they bear it? she thought acidly.

Down in the bailey, someone pulled open the door to the main keep. Yellow light and laughter spilled out into the chilled blue twilight.

“Come see Finian!” someone shouted, laughing. “He's already here!”

People scurried in and the door slammed shut.

Come see Finian,
indeed.

He'd come to see
her,
when the mood had moved him. But Senna was simply not capable of sitting like a rocking horse in the room, for Finian to come and ride when the mood spurred him. And this
I'll ruin you
notion of his, that was madness. He was simply not capable of ruining her, nor, for that matter, protecting her. These things had already been done, by Senna herself.

This matter between them had nothing to do with ruination or fortifications. It concerned something else entirely. And 'twas time for him to acknowledge it, before he left her behind, lying to himself as he broke her heart.

Then, by the window, she heard the others. Small groups of men, talking, murmuring among themselves, like the buzzing of bees. Or a stampede from far away. She tipped her head out the window and listened hard. They were talking about war.

They were talking about her.

She pulled her head back inside, threw on a yellow overtunic, flung a cape over her shoulders and marched down to the hall.

She did, though, do one thing Finian had bid. She kept her blade close.

 

“I'll not return her,” Finian kept repeating, after the other men had left. Each time he repeated it, his heart sank further. Until finally the king nodded grimly.

“So you love her.”

Finian threw up his hands. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”

The king lifted his shaggy brows. “Because you're willing to take us to war for her.”

Finian stared, unwilling to repeat, yet again, that this war had been coming for some long time. He said only, “She saved my life. I'm not sending her back.”

“She's distracting you. Weakening you.”

Like your father.

Which was exactly his deepest fear. The O'Fáil didn't say the words, but he didn't need to. They reverberated in the air between them, like waves of heat.

“I've never been distracted before,” he replied in a low voice, packed with fury.

“You've never run out on us before, either.”

“I'm not running out on ye!” But he didn't meet his foster father's eye. “I'm
right here.
”

The O'Fáil looked at him for a long time. “Is there something you're not telling me?”

Finian took a deep breath. The king waited, he waited, and they stared at each other through the ensuing silence. Yes, Finian realized. Disappointment could pass into the territory of regret. At this very moment, his foster father was crossing the border.

“The reason ye cannot send her back,” Finian said, hearing his own voice coming in from far away, “is because she's a dye-witch.”

The king didn't say anything for a very long while. It gave time for the wrenching pain to twist around Finian's heart like a steel wire. Och, if this was loyalty, it was a hurtful thing.

The king ran his hand across his beard a few times, then over his knee. “I thought she looked familiar.”

Finian looked up sharply. “My lord?”

“I suppose you were wise to not mention it earlier,” The O'Fáil went on in a musing tone.

Finian felt the bite of impatience. Enough of intrigue. “And why was such a thing wise?”

“Because men have a way of going mad when dye-witches come around.”

Finian nodded curtly. He hadn't held his tongue out of wisdom, seeking only a private moment with his king. He'd done it for very different reasons indeed. Ones he barely understood. If he'd been protecting something vulnerable, a creature weaker than himself, he could grasp the meaning of his silence, an action of near treason, certainly disloyal. But what he felt was nothing like that. Nothing at all. Protection, aye. But of an entirely different sort. And he had never felt it before.

He did not like it. It made him…weak. Just as his king had said.

The O'Fáil studied him, lips pursed. Then he ran his palm across the smooth tabletop. “Did you know Rardove had himself another dye-witch, decades ago? I saw her once.”

Finian felt cold. “I did not know that.”

“Aye, he did.” The king stopped making palm circles on the table. “She looked an awful lot like the lass you brought to me.”

The coldness went deep, into his bones. He hadn't brought Senna to the king. But she was his now.

And yet, just now, another matter wanted his attention…Senna's mother had been a dye-witch
for Rardove?
How much worse was this going to get?

“She died,” the king went on, “trying to escape. Nineteen years ago.”

Finian nodded silently as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He stared at the rushes on the ground. He could hear the people in the hall below, the loud buzz of their conversations coming up the stairs. Someone said something about Rardove, and there was a chorus of male shouts. He heard someone say “the Englishwoman.”

“Bring her to me,” the king said quietly.

 

A low fire was all that burned in the trough at the center of the hall at this late hour, but Senna's eyes were well adjusted to the dim light. She'd been waiting for a long time. Seen the men tromp through the hall to a guarded office chamber. Seen them come out again. Waited while some came in to make their beds on the floor.

Now the hall was a huddled mass of sleeping male bodies, snoring and farting, scattered across the benches and rush-covered floor. A few men sat on a far bench beside the fire, talking in low tones, but otherwise the castle seemed to sleep. She couldn't stand in this corner all night, and was finally ready to admit defeat and leave, when the masculine voices by the fire rose in slightly slurred tones, just enough to be heard.

Light from the dying flames did not shine far, and while the fireside conversants were cast in flickering shadows, the rest of the hall was drenched in darkness.

Senna paused, her cheek by the wall.

“Och, and 'tis only the whole English army he's bringing down on us, it is.”

“Ye're right. But I'll be glad of a reason to wield a sword well enough, whatever the cause.”

“And this thing with Rardove has been going on a fine long time. O'Melaghlin says the Englishwoman has nothing to do with it.”

“Naught to do with it, and naught to do with him, that's what he says all right,” complained a younger, higher-pitched voice. “But still, we've an army marching for us sure as anything, and 'tis because
she's
here.”

“Ye're right,” agreed an older voice. “Maybe she t'ain't the reason, but she's sure enow the cause.”

“Naught to worry on,” said another voice. “O'Melaghlin loves the ladies, but he'll not endanger our lives and lands over one. They're for bedding, not politickin', and he knows that as well as anyone.”

“Better.”

“Still,” said the young one, his voice a dark, drunken snarl. “We should go teach her what we think of women who start wars.”

He rose unsteadily and tripped over his feet. The small group broke into predatory snickers and yanked him to his feet.

Senna backed up through the darkness, her hand at her chest. She waited until they were gone, then crept through the darkness, out of the hall, her heart and blood pounding. She staggered into the bailey and the autumn night.

She didn't belong here. They didn't want her.

The thought was so familiar it almost had taste. Metal, cold, rusty.

Now what?

She turned and slammed directly into Finian's chest.

“What are ye about, Senna?”

She kicked herself backward, but he already had a hand on her arm, and stopped her completely.

He was frowning. Burnished black hair hung unfettered over his shoulders, one small braid dangling near his eye. Beneath the layered maroon
léine,
his powerful legs, covered with dark hair, disappeared into high boots. His wrap was belted at the waist, and a blade dangled at his side.

“I told ye to stay in the room. 'Tisn't safe out here.”

She gave a wild laugh. “No. Not by half.”

She yanked on her arm. He held firm, in fact pulled her a few inches closer to his body. Frantic and suddenly on the edge of panic, she wrestled, her right hand going instinctively for the blade strapped to her waist. He knew her that well, though, and before her fingers could touch her skirts, he had gripped her and spun her around so her back was to him. He folded her wrists together in one of his hands, and put his other palm behind the back of her now thrashing head.

“What the hell is going on, Senna?” He spoke directly into her ear.

She stopped thrashing. “Ah, so we both have the same question,” she replied, keeping her voice low. Finian stood behind, warm and solid, listening. “You tell me nothing of what is afoot. You bring me here to this castle—for what purpose I know not—and your people are not glad to see me. I know a war is brewing, but can only guess at the whys, as you do little but bid me stay in the room. And take me on the bed.” He stiffened, but she kept on.

“Then I hear men talking, about how I brought this war to their shores.
I
did this? You say it has naught to do with me, but of course it does. So I wonder, why would a wool deal matter so much?” She felt him breathing slowly by her ear. “It doesn't, of course. It did not matter to Rardove, and it does not matter to the Irish. 'Twas always the Wishmés.” She didn't bother to ask if she was correct.

“So tell me, Finian: what is it about a mollusk that makes for a war?”

His breathing stayed rhythmic by her ear. He didn't reply, so she did.

“I do not know the whys or the hows, but this war is over the Wishmés, and that means over me. You see how it all comes together, neat as a weave? I am nothing but trouble, so I shall leave.”

“No.”

“You may fight your war over something else.”

“'Tis far past that, Senna.”

She tugged on her arm. “Let. Me. Go.”

He looked down, as if surprised to see he was still holding her, then opened his fingers. She pulled free and turned to him. He'd shaved again at some point while he was not with her, so only a dusting now darkened his jawline. His eyes were shadowed and narrowed.

“They said they were coming to get me,” she said in a calm voice, “to teach me a lesson about women who start wars. I know what they meant to do. My husband taught me that much.” She lifted her chin a little farther. “So much alike, the men of Ireland and England. I had almost begun to suspect otherwise.”

If the jab hit home, she did not know, because he grabbed her by the shoulders.
“Who tried to hurt you?”
he demanded in a voice devoid of anything but cold, honed fury.

She stared at the menacing transformation, then shook her head, sending hair tumbling over her shoulders. “I do not know. I do not care. They do not matter.” She didn't say
only you matter,
but surely these things were clear. “I will not stay here and wait for such things, Finian.”

Did he suspect what she would not wait for? That never again would she wait to be rejected, every sunrise additional proof of the never-ending rejection?

No more. Never again. Not her mother, not her father, and certainly not Finian. What she'd had with him was the only thing of real value in her life. If she let him abandon her, it would all be sullied, and nothing good could come out of those ashes. She would rather die.

But she had no intention of doing that.

She was going to build a business, if she had to swim back to England herself. She knew wool, and she knew how to survive. One could not ask for more than that.

But of course Finian understood all the implications of her words. She could see it mirrored in the pain in his eyes. He started to slide his hands from her shoulders to her face.

“Tell me what is happening, Finian. Or I will leave.”

He paused. “I will not let ye.”

She gave a bitter smile. “You would not be here to stop me, would you?”

“I'd put a guard on ye.”

“I'd throw a knife in him.”

He blew out an irritated breath and dropped his hands. “I told ye, Senna, the whole affair is a dirty river. Do not dip in.”

She leaned close and said fiercely, “I was dipped on the day I was born, Finian. Do not think you can rescue me. But I can help you. In truth, I may be the only one who can. So tell me, what is it? Rardove wants the dyes, and the Irish want the dyes? Do they matter so much? So be it. I will make them.”

She said it swiftly, plunging into the decision the way one plunges off a cliff; you'd seen it coming from a mile off, but in the end, you simply tipped over.

This time he did make it all the way to her face, cupped it between his palms and dragged her up onto her toes. “Ye would do that?”

“I would. I will. I will try, at the least.”

“Why?”

She gave a sad smile. “You do not know?”

Their faces were inches apart, his eyes filled with fury. “Och, lass, why did you have to need me so much?” he muttered in a low growl, then forced her mouth open with a blistering, hot, hungry, angry kiss. Just as swiftly, he broke it off and dropped her back to her feet.

“I told ye men were fools, Senna.”

The masculine rasp came by her ear. “I did not think you meant
you,
” she whispered brokenly.

“Och, I am the worst sort of all,
a rúin.
I look good.”

He disentangled his fingers and everything was cold where he'd been touching her, even the strands of her hair. The back of her head felt as if a door had swung open, and everything dark and nighttime swooped in.

“'Tis time, Senna.”

“Time for what?” she said dully.

Above his shoulder, the moon had risen above the squat round tower in the background, cut black against the sapphire sky. “To answer yer questions. And see the king.”

“The king? Why?”

“The Wishmés.” Whatever was going on inside him was unreadable through his eyes. They were as magnificent and remote as a mountaintop.

“You told him. You did not wait for my consent.”

“It was that or have him send ye back to Rardove.”

She looked at him for a long minute. Her fingertips were cold. “You knew I would, didn't you?” she said flatly. “You knew, in the end, I would make the Wishmés for you.”

He turned away. “I knew nothing.”

“No? Well, you know now.”