The Irish Warrior

“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.