The Irish Warrior

“She’s been abducted by an Irishman.”

“Abducted?” His voice was incredulous.

“Aye. This is a brutal land, and—”

“What the hell are you talking about?” William demanded, his hand flexing over his sword hilt, brushing against the simple clasp at his left hip. Rardove dropped his gaze to the sight, then lifted it deliberately.

“Nigh on a week ago, while I was sickened in bed, an Irish prisoner I was holding in the cellars escaped. He took Senna with him.”

“Took Senna with him?” de Valery echoed, his face a study in confusion and anger.

“Snatched her up and took her away.”

“Why?”

Rardove spread out his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “’Tis unfathomable.”

“To where?”

“Finian O’Melaghlin is councilor to the O’Fáil tribe. We assume they went there. We’ve men out searching, but the castle…it’s unassailable.”

“Finian O’Melaghlin?” de Valery asked, his gaze sharp. “I’ve heard of the man.”

“Ah, yes.” Rardove exhaled in a disappointed sigh. “He’s gaining quite a reputation. But the Irish are a twisted race and do not abide trust well. Upon a time, I tried to make an alliance with them, which they spurned. One cannot rely too much on alliances in these dark days.”

William paused through the length of a breath. “No, my lord. One cannot.”

They held one another’s gaze, then Rardove broke contact and reached for a tray of mugs the servant had just set on the table.

“You know little of this land, Sir William,” he said over his shoulder. “You might find it burdensome to scorn what friends you have.”

“I will recall that to mind.”

“Be sure you do.” Wine gurgled from the flagon into his cup, the sound of splashing loud in the quiet hall. “As for your sister, let me assure you, I am doing everything I can to secure her return.”

De Valery’s reply was pitched low and harsh, carrying no farther than the two men. “Let me assure you, Rardove, I will see someone pay in blood if anything happens to Senna.”

Lowering the cup, Rardove placed it on the table with deliberate slowness. “Alas, your dear, docile sister is not in my keeping at present, so I’ve little to say on the matter.”

Rardove elongated the word docile to a number of extra syllables. De Valery’s jaw tightened. He swiveled and looked to the circle of knights, who stood watching him with hooded eyes.

De Valery turned back. “I cannot see for what reason the Irish would take her,” he said with a mistrustful glance down at the cup of wine on the table.

“They are fiends,” Rardove explained in a magnanimous gesture, then followed de Valery’s gaze to the goblet. “Care for some?” He raised the flagon. De Valery said nothing. “Your men, perhaps?”

Rardove held the vessel higher so the knights in the background could see. Ten pairs of eyes stared back, five armored knights an

d five muscular squires, none a day under seventeen. Not a muscle moved. Rardove cleared his throat and set the pitcher down.

“Explain to me why O’Melaghlin would take my sister,” de Valery said grimly.

“Because they are savage barbarians,” Rardove snapped. “All of them, with as little honor or sense of right as a sheep. I had a few of their men in my prisons and I expect when O’Melaghlin saw a chance to escape, he saw taking her, too, as a matter of pride.”

De Valery’s gaze slid slowly up Rardove’s robes, to his face. “Aye. I expect he did.”

Rardove’s face grew hot at the insolence, but the cadre of sword-bearing knights kept his tone quiet as he leaned forward and spoke near William’s ear.

“Woe to you, young cub, if you become the object of their enmity as have I. You know nothing of this land, and happens your arrogance will bedevil you as much as the Irishry.”