The Irish Warrior

Indeed, her eyes were far too bright. She was losing her mind.

“Ye’ve lost yer mind.”

She scowled. “I know where the highway is.”

“Oh, ye do, do ye?”

She nodded. “I have that sort of mind. It remembers things.”

“Oh, aye? And do ye also remember where the quicksand is?”

She looked startled. “Quicksand? I don’t believe I encountered quicksand.”

“Och, well, it’ll be hard to find then. And the wolf den? Do ye know where that is? And how about Rardove’s village, a few miles south, the one you’ll pass through when ye’re marching down the highway?”

She looked rattled, but determined. “I wasn’t going to walk down the middle, waving my arms about,” she said sourly.

He wiped his palms over his face, a few vigorous strokes, to bring blood to his head and help him sort this out. “Senna, ye’ve lost yer mind.” He got to his feet. “I cannot go to Dublin. And therefore ye cannot go to Dublin. And I think ye know that.”

She stared away from him with great purpose.

He sighed. “Ye look determined.”

“A bad habit.”

He leaned his buttocks back against a large rock. It was warm from a day of sunshine, heating the backs of his thighs. “I’d have to bind ye if ye tried, Senna,” he said in a reflective tone, “and that would slow us down considerably.”

The smallest flicker crossed her face. More determination? Laughter? The urge to haul off and hit him? He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck, then flung it down.

“Fine, then,” he announced curtly. “Go. The way to Dublin is fair lined with swords. What road does every Saxon knight use? Upon what highway does yer fine king’s governor travel? And tell me, which is the easiest road up north? Soldiers, merchants, cows travel the road to Dublin, Senna. And the first two would spit and roast a monk as quick as turn ye over for the reward Rardove’s sure to put out on ye.”

“They’ll never recognize me,” she insisted. “I can blend in.”

He eyed her head skeptically. “With that hair?” Her hand shot up to touch her scalp. “Och, not a bit of it, Senna. That sort of magnificence will mark ye like a scent across the path of a fox. And a ship? Ye think ye’ll gain berth on a ship?” He snorted, ignoring the bright pink blush rushing over her cheeks. “Ye’d be raped before ye hit the end of the quay. And anyhow,” he added, more mildly at her shocked gasp, “I like yer company.”

She jerked, startled, he was sure, by the rapid succession of compliment, threat, and veiled admission of…something.

“Cannot yer father manage your terribly important business for a bit?” he demanded irritably, to shove off the…something.

“I manage the business.”

“Och, ye’ve made that abundantly clear, lass. And what does yer father do, while ye’re managing his business so awfully well?”

“Gamble.”

Finian felt his mouth opening in amazement, not so much from the news, for that was common enough, but from witnessing the brittle pain it nailed onto her spirit like a stake. Her body had gone stiff. Hard, no dents, she suddenly looked impermeable, like stained glass. Many bright colors, all seared in place.

He pursed his lips, then said gently, “Ah, Senna. That bug stings hard.”

A blindingly bright smile ripped up the corners of her lips. “I know.”

His heart did a little tumble. She was a woman-child, and whatever hurts she spoke of now, he was certain many more lurked in the shadows of her heart. Every penny that came in, counted in her silent ledger, must have been a coin measured against the rest of her life.

And her father was a fool.

“Senna,” he said carefully.

Woodenly, she looked over, the edges of her mouth still tipped up in that false smile, like a painted marionette.