The Irish Warrior

He didn’t look at her. He was scanning the crowd. His hand was on her upper arm, turning her slowly away, when a ruckus disrupted the pleasant, bustling mood of the square.

A group of armored soldiers climbed the platform. A well-dressed, portly man hurried up ahead of them, as if he was being herded. Likely the head of the largest merchant’s guild, de facto mayor of the town. Finian’s fingers tightened around Senna’s arm. He guided her backward, until they were up against the corner of a chandler’s stall. The scent of warm wax was strong.

In the square, people stopped chattering and turned. One of the soldiers nudged the mayor, who stepped awkwardly forward and unscrolled a document.

“Lord Rardove has pressing need of this town’s service,” he announced in a loud voice. “Six nights ago, an Irish prisoner Lord Rardove was holding on charges of treason escaped.”

No one seemed particularly impressed with this, Senna decided, looking around. But then, no one knew how terrifying the whole thing had been.

“This Irishman abducted Lord Rardove’s betrothed when he went.”

This got the crowd’s attention in a more riveting way. Senna and Finian stared at each other.

“Lord Rardove is offering a bounty for the return of the Irishman and his betrothed.” Senna noted the order of those events. “Any goodman who brings them back will receive a gold coin.” The crowd was getting excited, elbowing each other and nodding. A few youngsters ran from the square, likely to spread the news to all the destitute and ambitious of the town.

The mayor was wrapping up his appalling, instigating decree. “News alone will earn pleasure for any past debts or allowances owing to his lordship.”

One of the soldiers stepped forward, elbowing the mayor aside. His loud, commanding voice rose over the crowd. “Lord Rardove wants them above all things. Find them. If someone does before we do, this night, five marks to him.”

Now it was like a celebration. People pushed closer, tossing questions at the soldiers. A few farther back hurled insults, then quickly melted into the background.

Finian squeezed Senna’s arm and they backed away from the square, while others pressed forward. Once clear, they turned down the main road, toward the west gate. She could feel the breeze rush by her flushed cheeks.

“Not too fast,” Finian said, his fingertips on her arm, “or we’ll draw attention.”

Just then, a soldier wearing a Rardove surcoat stepped out from an alleyway. A hot stream of fear swept up Senna’s throat. She smashed her hat down farther on her head and stared at the ground under her boots as they walked along at a screamingly sedate pace.

The soldier crossed the road and disappeared into the deepening purple-blue shadows behind another row of homes. Night was coming up fast.

“Finian?” she murmured.

“What?”

She tried to keep panic out of her voice. “They’re going to close the gates.”

“I know.”

If they closed the gates, whether to trap them or for couvre-feu, they’d be locked in the city all night. With Rardove soldiers on the prowl. All the citizens, too.

They ducked around people and two-wheeled carts, increasing their pace, moving forward with intent focus, keeping to just under a trot. Finian bent his head beneath eaves when they had to walk close to the buildings. A horn suddenly sounded, a long, sustained note that rose at the end.

It sounded again.

They broke into a run, dodging a crowd that was suddenly streaming drunkenly out of a tavern. They spun to the right, turning onto the long, partly paved hill that led steeply down to the southern entrance. Then they skidded to a halt and watched as the huge oaken gates, studded and banded in iron, swung shut. They crashed with a resounding shudder.

Senna wanted to scream.

Soldiers stepped forward to slide the long bolts across its width, locking the gate with a huge, four-inch-thick wooden bar. The guards stepped back to their posts, small stone alcoves beside the gates. Above the gates, on the walls, was the alure, the stone walkway where armed sentries went on their ceaseless patrols.

Senna stood in the middle of the road, stunned and disbelieving. People flowed around her.

“Come,” Finian murmured, putting his hand on her arm. She spun toward him.

“We can pay them,” she said urgently. “I have money. For a small bribe, they’ll let us through.”

“Aye. And for a larger one, they’ll turn us over to Rardove.”

He nodded toward one of the numerous small alleyways all around, like warrens. They slunk into its dark closeness, hands skimming the wicker-and-wattle sides of homes to guide them straight.