The Irish Warrior

“Where are we going?” she asked, stumbling beside him.

“Nuns.”

“What?”

“To the nuns.”

But they weren’t, in fact. A quick detour by the back gates of the miniature abbey allowed Finian to see the abbess standing grimly aside as three soldiers shoved by her, into the warm golden light inside.

Finian slunk back to where Senna was waiting, a shadowy, lithe figure, kneeling amid the sharp branches of a yew tree.

“Not safe?” she asked.

“Not quite.”

Footsteps sounded. He put his hand on the top of her head and pushed her down farther. He crouched beside her, under the copious foliage of the tree. A moment later boots marched by, their ankles at knee level. Three soldiers passed, lanterns held high, Rardove devices on their tunics, grimly surveying everything they passed.

Finian and Senna held their breaths until they passed.

“Come, then,” he murmured. “Let’s get out of here.”

She took the hand he extended and got to her feet. Small and slim, her hand fit perfectly. Her cool fingers curved around the outer edge of his palm. A wisp of hair slid out from her hat, and even that was like tamed fire in the twilight. He tucked it back up with his free hand, and she followed him through the dim evening.

Every so often a page would hurry by, holding a lantern high in the air, while behind would follow rich burgesses. From shuttered windows, candlelight shone down, making pale yellow stripes on the ground. But soon, all over the town, wicks would be pinched out, to prevent fire.

A few shops remained open, alehouses and whorehouses, open by special license and a hefty fee. Finian hurried toward one, its wooden sign THISTLE swaying in the breeze. They ducked inside.

Chapter 35

“This is not what I thought you meant when you said Let’s get out of here,” Senna murmured.

They were in a tavern. A whorehouse. It was clear as anything.

“Is this the sort of place a king-in-training ought to spend his time?” she inquired.

“I’m educating my squire,” he retorted, and propelled her toward a small table in the shadows at the back.

The room was wide. At one end ran a long series of boards, set upon trestles. Behind them, wine barrels sat on their sides, corks plugged on one end. Ale ran freely, too. A few rickety tables were scattered about the room, joined by a few even more precarious-looking stools, but as a general rule, men usually stood and drank until they passed out or won enough in bets to purchase an hour or two with one of the prostitutes.

The place was absent patrons, except for one other table. It was early in the evening yet, and Rardove’s pronouncement had ensured most of the town’s inhabitants were at present bobbing through alleys, hoping to find the fugitives and earn coin they could spend here, no doubt.

That other occupied table was wreathed by a group of three loudmouths, talking about the bounty laid on the Irishman, and of their earnest, enthusiastic dedication to finding him and kicking his teeth in.

Yet here they sat, in a tavern-cum-whorehouse, tossing back ale until their bellies must be small, alcoholic lagoons. Soon enough the three of them stumbled to the rooms upstairs, a woman with swaying hips guiding them. Two other women followed behind. A few moments later another woman approached with a tray with two mugs for Finian and Senna.

Senna kept her head down until the waitress left, but it was a pointless effort. Even with a dirty, pale face, her hair tucked up under the floppy brimmed hat, smeared with dirt and sweat, to him, she would always be the brightest thing about. She was a woman from her booted heels to the knotted ends of her hair, and she terrified Finian in a way the prospect of death never had.

And she was a dye-witch? Madness.

But of course, it was true. Now that Red had said so, ’twas clear as anything. She was filled with fire, passion. A dye-witch could not be made from a lesser woman.

“So, what do you think of Eire, Senna?” he asked suddenly.

She shifted her gaze back. “Do you mean the marauding soldiers or the mad barons?”

He crossed his arms. “I mean the rivers.”

She laughed, quiet, circumspect. Intimate. “They’re long and wide and deep. And they make my belly spin.”