The Irish Warrior

Red summoned energy from somewhere, enough to scowl at him and sit up a little straighter. “You hope for God, O’Melaghlin. I’ve learned we’ve to make our own means in such matters. Now, listen. I’m giving this manual to you Irish for one reason.”

Finian stiffened. “I didn’t know there were conditions.”

“I’m going to die. I make conditions if I want. You need to use that.” He pointed to the manual.

“What do ye mean?” Finian set the fabric down and stared at Red. “Why now? Why are ye giving this to the Irish now?”

Red sat up a little more. It must have taken great effort, because his words came out more harshly, his sentences broken up by short, pained breaths. “The Scots have signed a treaty…mutual aid with France. Longshanks is like a tornado touching down, he’s so furious. The Scots, straining at the bit. Come hell or high water, King Edward…will invade Scotland. Surely as I will die.” Red grabbed his arm. “Do not let him.”

“How am I to stop him?”

“Goddamnit, Irish,” he said with a sudden flash of anger. “I just gave you the ‘how.’ Set off a few explosions. Get his attention. Draw his eye, away from Scotland.”

“Draw his eye,” Finian repeated slowly. “Straight to Ireland.”

“Scotland will fall, O’Melaghlin. And then Ireland shall, too. Either Longshanks looks to you now, or he looks to you later, but look he shall, and one by one, we will all fall under his boot.” His eyes were furious. “Scotland is weary of going to the Continent for aid. France is a thousand leagues away. We need Ireland.”

“We?” Finian echoed. “Ye are English.”

In a rush, like air from a bellows, all the anger and its energy blew out of Red. His head dropped, the fire faded from his eyes. “My wife was Scottish.”

They sat in silence, Red’s breathing labored, until Finian said in a low, measured voice, “I will not promise a war to save Scotland, not if I have to offer up Ireland as payment. I cannot.”

“Bastard,” Red rasped. “Suspected that. One more. Condition. Most important.” His words were getting quieter, his sentences more abbreviated, staccato. “Rardove sent for…dye-witch.”

Finian’s body rushed with cold. Rivers of coldness, washing through his limbs. “Who?”

“From England…”

The rivers of coldness turned to ice.

“Get her out.”

“I think I already have,” he replied grimly.

“Good. Protect her above all else. Now, Irish…get out of here. The men who attacked…were Rardove’s. They’ll return.”

Shite.

“Get out. Now.”

“I’ll not leave you—”

“Christ on the cross, man, I’m already dead. Go.” Red’s eyes closed for the last time.

Finian lowered himself back to the ground and held the greatest English spy for Scotland’s cause on his lap until the life passed out of him in invisible ribbons of steam, dispersing his spy heat into the ether.

Chapter 34

The sun was dipping low by the time Senna finally broke. It was the smell of pasties that did it. Cooked food. Warm mashed bread crumbs and egg, with bits of pork, mayhap. Or ham. Which? She was almost frantic to find out. Someone walked by with one, and she leaned forward to sniff.

The man tossed her a startled look. She tipped back into position, practically in tears. It was ham. Salted, warm ham, with cheese, spiced perhaps with basil or sage. The wafting scent of warm pastry and hot cheese made her stomach clench painfully. Basil. It was basil.

She broke and bought four of them, taking coin from the purse tucked between her layers of clothes. Inhaling one, she ate the other more slowly, shoving the remaining two in a pocket for Finian. Calmer now, she stood as twilight deepened, smiling at the antics of a small boy doing handstands while his elders juggled beside him, occasionally tossing items for him to bounce off his feet. Tinkling music from a flute filled the bustling square.

Finian appeared beside her, sidling up like smoke. He pressed up close, his body warm, the urgency in his words chilling.

“We have to get out of here.”