Rardove exploded. He bent his knees and upended the huge oaken table with a roar. A jug of wine and half a dozen scrolled parchments careened into the air, held a moment, then came crashing back down into the rushes Rardove was now stomping across, hurling curses and objects through the air as he went. The jug smashed, and pottery shards skittered everywhere. The table came crashing back to the ground, too heavy to be overturned completely. It trembled on all four legs.
“God’s bloody bones!” Rardove punched the door of a wardrobe that held parchment and inks and wax for seals. It bounded open, the iron lock cranking wildly. He spun back and tried to yank the door off its hinges, then flung himself away, stalking across the room.
“Goddamned whore!” He picked up one of the fallen earthenware jugs and threw it back onto the ground. It shattered into a hundred pieces. “She will kneel at my feet and beg—” He smashed his hand into a tallow candle hanging on the wall. It fell, still aflame. Pentony put out a toe and quietly extinguished it. “She will bend that godforsaken head and—”
Rardove went still and spun to the soldiers. “They were going downstream?”
The soldiers, now utterly pale and huddled together like ducklings, nodded energetically. “Downstream, indeed. Far downstream.”
“Just so, milord. Downstream.”
Rardove looked sharply at Pentony. “South. They’re going south.”
Pentony nodded.
“But, why?” His voice quieted, as if on some inward journey. He felt for the edge of the bench and sat. “Why south? O’Fáil is to the north. What is O’Melaghlin up to?”
A few candles sputtered in their holders on the walls, casting pale, angular wedges of light across the room. One still huddled on the table, plunged deep enough in a puddle of tallow to have withstood the earlier quake. Its small, wavering light was almost depressing; it had no chance against the surrounding darkness.
Rardove stared at i
t, then cursed quietly.
“He’s going to meet with the spy Red.” His voice was hushed, perhaps in awe. “O’Melaghlin’s taken over the mission. God’s teeth. But…where? Where were they to meet? South. What lies south? Near enough for a foot journey, safe enough for the Irishry near my borders?”
His forearms were laid flat across the width of the huge oak table, a foot apart. The candle flame sucked and sputtered a few feet away as he sat, deep in thought. Then he lifted his head with a smile.
“Is not the abbess at Hutton’s Leap an Irishwoman?”
But they both already knew the answer to that.
Rardove actually threw back his head and laughed. Another candle flickered out. Only one burned now, a fat tallow one, guttering in its iron holder on the wall.
Rardove called for one of his captains and gave his orders. “Any guests of the abbey, be they cleric or lay, round them up. Question them, break them. Find out if one is the elusive Red. Then bring him to me. Be quick about it. I expect you back by Sext on the morrow.”
The guard nodded and spun on his wooden heel. Turning back, Rardove sailed a brief look over the young, derelict soldiers. “Return the armor and find another lord.”
Their mouths dropped open. “But sir—”
Rardove turned on them. “You were not at your posts. You were playing at shuttlecocks, jacking off while an escaped prisoner sailed by your stupid faces. You do not know Finian fycking O’Melaghlin when he’s standing right in front of you. You are of no use to me. Begone. Or stay,” he added, turning away, “and if either of you are here by couvre-feu, it shall be your last.”
Pentony watched as they made their dazed way out, escorted by one of Rardove’s faceless helmed guards. The baron had taken to keeping his personal guard with him at all times, even about the castle. Perhaps that was wise. There might be need for such caution. Especially if Balffe succeeded in bringing Lady Senna back.
Rardove reached for the candle on the wall and pinched it out.
Chapter 25
“Why is it so dark?” Senna mumbled under her breath as she tripped over yet another tree root. But darkness wasn’t the problem. It was her body.
Finian had healed her fingers, but the rest of her felt as if it had undergone a beating. Her hand was at the small of her back, cradling it as they scrambled up yet another hill. Her hips felt like they’d been stretched on a rack, or at least what she imagined such a torture would feel like. Her thighs actually burned, as if hot coals were ablaze under her skin. And her back…best not even to think of it.
“I believe I am somewhat the worse for wear,” she said.
This time Finian replied, which he had not been doing for the last hour of hiking. Still, though, he was exceedingly curt, which he had been ever since the river.
“Ye’ll be better off by tomorrow,” he said. Curtly. “Three days is the charm. Yer body will get used to this manner of traveling.”
“Ha.” She flung knotted curls over her shoulder, spitting a tendril of hair out of her mouth.