The Irish Warrior

Not that Finian expected any problems this far south and west, not so soon. Rardove would expect them to go directly north, to the O’Fáil king, not detour south to this small but bustling English town. And truly, so many Irishmen might have been moved to kill four English soldiers beside a river. There was no certainty Rardove would place Finian near the crime.

But even if he did, Finian had no choice. Red was waiting, with the precious dye manual.

“Loud?” he repeated distractedly. He turned to study the sentries patrolling the walls. His heart beat strong, pumping blood to the parts of him that would most need it: legs, arms. He forced himself to look down at Senna. “Ye’re always traveling to towns, are ye not? Signing contracts, breaking townsmen’s hearts.”

“I try to avoid towns.” Her gaze was darting around. “As I said, they’re so…loud.” She glanced up into a flood of sunlight illuminating her face. She squinted into it and gave a stiff smile.

“Keep your head down,” was all he said.

Behind them another party of fair-goers arrived, clogging up the gate path. Good. The more distractions, the better. This group looked like entertainment: minstrels dressed in bright, beribboned, flowing clothes, and a monkey perched on one of their shoulders. They’d have stories to tell and tricks to perform.

Senna looked around, her eyes wide. “Is that a monkey?”

Her words were low, but while probably intended to disguise her voice, succeeded mostly in making her sound throaty. Seductive.

The minstrel overheard and laughed.

“Indeed, ’tis, mistress.”

Finian groaned inwardly. Senna’s disguise would work only if a man didn’t come within ten feet of her. Any closer, and Finian could hang her with leeches and a man on the hunt would still know she was a woman to be hunted.

“Come to our show this evening, in the market square,” said the minstrel, smiling. He was more interested in a customer than a woman, Finian realized, the tension lessening somewhat. “You’ll see a fine show. Half a denier.”

Then he bent forward slightly at the waist and winked. “And we’re always needing pretty volunteers, maiden. No deniers required for them.”

So he was somewhat interested in a woman, Finian amended dourly.

A smile tugged her lips upward. She shook her head shyly and turned back to Finian. “I’ve never seen a monkey,” she whispered, grinning at him from under her half-tipped hat.

He resisted the urge to kiss the tip of her exceedingly dirty nose. Wouldn’t do to draw attention by kissing his squire.

They drew nearer the gates. The porter stood, an armed guard on either side, giving desultory inspections to the packs and wagons entering the town for the fair. Someone jostled them from behind and then, there they were, standing in front of the porter.

Every muscle in Finian’s body was stiff, ready to fight or flee. He nodded, opened his mouth to say God knows what, when the warden waved his hand impatiently, already looking at the minstrel group behind.

“Get on with you, Irish dog,” he barked, and for once, Finian wasn’t overcome by the urge to smash a vulgar Englishman’s face into a wall.

He hurried them through the winding, crowded streets of the town, Senna close as a skirt hem. The sun was high and hot, heating the busy, bustling world inside the timber walls. Dust rose up under the boots of men and women. The main street was partly cobbled, and lined with shops. Everywhere craftsmen peddled their wares. Leather saddles and embroidery needles, candles and silverwork were on display. In the distance, the distinctive sound of metal striking metal rang out; the blacksmith was hard at work.

Finian propelled them past all these riches, hoping Senna wouldn’t stop to haggle simply to stay in practice. He hurried them into the town square.

A riser stage was set at the far edge of the cobbled area. In good times, outdoor feasts were held here, the stage serving as the scene for great tricks and storytelling. In bad times, it served as a gallows. Right now, there was a crier strolling by it, calling out who was selling new wine today. No one appeared to be listening. Perhaps they already knew. Perhaps they had already imbibed.

“Wait here,” he said to Senna, motioning to one of three mounting blocks near the town well.

It was shady there, positioned out of the line of slop buckets and chamberpots that might be emptied from second-and third-floor windows, but still within the shadow that projected out from them.

She nodded and slipped wordlessly over, attracting no more attention than the flies. There she stood, hands crossed in front of her waist, feet slightly spread, looking blankly over the crowd. A young, dullard squire, waiting for his master.

He wanted to kiss her.

A line of storefronts ran behind them, in front of which a line of human traffic moved like a winding serpent. In the center of the clearing before them were jugglers telling bawdy jokes, packing people in around them. Pasty makers walked in and out of the crowd, selling meat and cheese. Anyone might stop in this shady spot, idling away an afternoon, for hours at a time. He would be back sooner than that. She would be unnoticed.

If anyone so much as breathed on her…

“I will be back,” he said grimly.

She gave a confident, careless nod without looking over. Such insouciance must have taken a great deal of effort, considering how tightly her jaw was clenched. Affecting to lace his boot, Finian bent over, motioning for her to follow him down.