The Irish Warrior

by Kris Kennedy

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 hell 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 lordship. 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 hell out of here?”

  Chapter 8

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

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

  Steal.

  Under the guise of the new chatelaine, while Rardove slept and retched, that’s what she did. Linen shirts, leggings, hooded tunics, food, rope, flint: anything she could lay her hands on. She also scooped four handfuls of pennies from Rardove’s coffers, all she could carry without it being too heavy.

  Then she shoved her booty into packs and stared at it glumly. Such a cache was meaningless if she ended up astray on the Irish countryside, well stocked to await her demise. She might have coin, but what she needed was the Irishman. Without him, she had as much chance of survival as a good notion in a tankard of ale.

  She looked down at her injured hand and tried flexing it. Her fingers didn’t hurt, which should have been mildly reassuring, except that they were numb. That could not be good.

  The autumn day was growing weary of its task and stretched out in long shadows, when she spied a short, squat, red-faced villein who did odd jobs around the castle. He was pushing a creaking wheelbarrow. It was filled with old, rusted leg irons.

  Senna stopped short.

  The villein did too, his beefy hands frozen on the wooden handles. Senna stared. He stared back, then set down the barrow and scratched his balding head. She sighed. His hand froze mid-scratch, and his eyebrows lifted, but otherwise there was no change.

  “Are you…milady?” he asked, lowering his hand.

  “I suppose I am.”

  He dragged off his linen cap and gave a small—a very small—bow. “Milady.” Then he deposited the linen back on his shiny scalp and levered the wheelbarrow onto its front wheel. “If I can ever be of service, then, milady. I’ll be on my way, then? Milady?” His queries were sounding more desperate.

  Senna’s heart slammed against her ribs. There was nothing for it but directness. “I wish to see the prisons.”

  His eyebrows shot up, then descended into a thick black line, a startling slash across his red face. “Milady.” He frowned disapprovingly.

  “’Tis…a game,” she declared.

  “A game,” came the flat, disbelieving reply. The black lines jogged into jagged curves.

  She nodded. “A game. Lord Rardove devised it for me.”

  Something rippled across his sweaty face. It might have been disgust. Or sympathy. In any event, he set down the wheelbarrow. “Well, then. I’ll show you the way.”

  He guided her down a dark hallway, out into another courtyard, back inside, through more doors and hallways, and down, ever down. The light dimmed, the air grew cold and dank, her fingers grew damp and chilled. She blew on them and hastened after. How in God’s name would she remember all the twisting turns?

  The villein suddenly halted in front of a thick wooden door. “I’ll wait for you, milady.”

  “No.”

  Up went the thick black eyebrows. Passing her a look that spoke volumes on his opinion of the rich, he shrugged and pushed the door open. Two guards sitting at a small table leapt to their feet.

  “Her ladyship is here…for a game. Methinks’ twill be great fun,” he announced, then disappeared.

  “Sirs,” Senna trilled, sweeping into the small, dirt-walled room. She smiled brightly, completely pushing aside the terror about to close up her throat.

  “My lady!” they exclaimed in startled unison.

  “I am inspecting the castle,” she explained brightly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “And I couldn’t very well ignore this place, could I, where the ruffians who threaten my lord’s peace are held, before being taught the folly of their ways? ’Tis here that the true peace is kept, and men like you ought to be honored for your role.”

  She concluded her patriotic little speech with sparkling eyes. The men stared at her, mystified.

  “And how long have you been stationed here?” She wandered around the small antechamber, continuing the one-sided conversation.

  The taller of the two cleared his throat. “Since Michaelmas.”

  “Do you enjoy the post?” she asked, seating herself at the small table and peering at them with interest.

  “My lady,” the shorter one mumbled helplessly. His thoughts were emblazoned across his face like an armorial crest: What was this cruel torment? What answer would suffice?

  She got back to her feet and wandered about the room, tucking her injured hand close to her chest. The men stared, slack jawed, then jerked their eyes away. They shifted back and forth on their booted feet, their eyes darting to every point in the room but the brightest.

  “The souls who do the hardest work are oft ignored by those who receive the bounty of their labors,” Senna said in a conspiratorial tone.

  They nodded miserably. She could have said the king of England should be garroted and they would have agreed.

  “I do not wish to be one of those who would benefit without giving recompense,” she added, spinning around.

  They jerked straighter and stared straight ahead. “Nay, my lady!”

  “Some are,” she breathed, soft again. Bending her head, she touched her hand gently, drawing their eye to the damage done by their lord.

  “Aye, my lady,” the taller one muttered uneasily.

  “I wish to know all my people and to show my…appreciation to those who work hard in my service,” she murmured in a low voice, and, in a fit of inspiration, trailed her hand along the curve of her bodice.

  The guards’ eyes practically bulged out of their heads.

  “Aye, my lady,” the shorter one stammered, wiping sweat from his brow.

  She lifted her eyebrows ever so slightly. That particular tactic had never come into use in contract negotiations before. “And when do you leave your posts?”

  “Prime,” one croaked.

  She smiled in relief. “So you shall be here later this eve?”

  The taller one adjusted first. “As you wish, my lady.” He stepped forward, his gaze raking her figure with an intense, hungry look.

  Her mouth went dry. She stepped backward, her ankle turning slightly as she stumbled.

  “Fine then. We understand one another,” she murmured, her heart hammering. This was a remarkably dangerous game, but what other weapons did she have at her disposal? Few enough not to use those to hand.

  “I will leave you to your posts and explore the remainder, as I have done with all the rest of the castle.”

  “My lady, those are the holes where the prisoners are kept,” the taller one protested, stepping forward again.

  She turned, her forehead furrowed in delicate disapproval.

  “Are you gainsaying me? My lord has it wished that I know every inch of his keep, as he will know every inch of me. Those were his exact words. I have found it unw
ise to thwart him.”

  She suddenly dissolved into tears, her shoulders bobbing up and down.

  The soldiers herded her to the table, abashed. They sat her in a chair and knelt beside her, frantically soothing. No, of course they did not mean to oppose her. Yes, they understood how difficult it was to be married to a man such as the baron. Indeed they did. No, they did not want Lord Rardove to be angry with her. Yes, of course she must walk up and down every hallway as he’d bid her to do, and yes, she must do so alone, to test her memory of the maps.

  However odd that last seemed, neither man seemed willing to bicker with her tearful ladyship. Not with the delicious promises she’d hinted at ringing in their ears.

  She left them at the table, their heads close together, and pushed open the door to step into the hallway of the cells.

  Chapter 9

  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, securi
ng 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.

  Chapter 10

  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.