The Irish Warrior

“Happens it may bedevil you the more if Senna is not returned in pristine condition.”

Rardove set the pitcher down. “And there we come to the heart of the matter. The Irish are a changeable race, untrustworthy and as likely to turn an alliance as to spit.”

De Valery’s jaw flexed. “What is your plan, then?”

“There is no way around it. I’ve summoned my vassals to the muster. The justiciar Wogan is coming. Edward, too.”

De Valery stared. “The king of England is riding here to rescue Senna?”

“The king of England is riding here to prevent a rebellion on his Irish borders while he tries to quell the one in Scotland.”

“A rebellion? Senna is out there.”

“I know. We march for the Irish come three days.”

De Valery paused long enough for several thoughts to have flickered through his young mind. Rardove waited, wondering which he would choose. If he was anything like his sister, William de Valery was probably not going to make a wise choice, a political choice—

The cub leaned forward until the tip of his nose was practically touching the baron’s. “Be assured of this, Rardove: I’ll march straight over your bones if anything happens to my sister.”

No. Not politic at all. Rardove ground his teeth.

He could cut this one to the ground with a few deft words if he wished, fling out a few memories of his mother, here in Rardove Keep, bending for Rardove, but for now such things needed silence. De Valery would not be pleased to learn his mother had been here, died trying to escape. And he preferred de Valery’s alliance to his enmity. For now.

De Valery gestured to his knights and the troop moved out of the hall. The sound of booted feet on stone thundered through the room as the herd of armored men ascended the stairs.

“I can count on your presence at the muster?” Rardove called after.

De Valery paused with one foot on the top step. He half turned to glance over his shoulder, mail basinet clumped around his neck. “I think you know what you can count on from me, my lord.”

Rardove smiled thinly. “Twenty-four knights and their retinues.”

De Valery swung away. “I’ll be there,” he said without looking back. The mud-soaked knights disappeared in a swath of golden sunlight as the door swung open, then slammed closed again, leaving the great hall in blue-black shadows and moldy intrigue.

The de Valery horses were assembled outside the covered stairwell leading to the keep. As the men dropped down the stairs, puffs of dirt billowed in small clouds. Low-angled dawn light mingled with the hazy grit floating in the air, making amber swirls of grime that rose around their steel-encased legs.

Will dragged his mail hood over his head and stuffed a padded layer of cloth between his hair and the protective iron links, then swung up into his saddle. He shoved the helm onto his head and latched the slotted visor upright with a twist of his fingers, exposing his face.

His men watched him in silence. With a curt nod, the cavalcade moved off, riding slowly across the bailey.

Will held himelf straight and silent as they passed under the rusted fangs of the raised portcullis. The gate was slung so low he would have lobbed off an ear if he’d risen in the stirrups. The squeal of grinding winches lifted the draw after they’d passed.

His hands held the reins as lightly as ever; his words, the few he used, were as impassive as a monk’s upon hearing the tally of the rectory’s in-kind offerings at Michealmas. Indeed, nothing about him betrayed anger. He could have been a wooden wagon-wheel, rolling across the land. But he was far past anger. Nigh onto a noxious rage that needed to be tempered to prove useful.

Christ’s mercy. Senna kidnapped by an Irishman. Only Senna. She’d come to conduct a business deal, and was caught up in an intrigue so large it would rock this war-torn land for a generation to come.

And now, the land Will had earned with a great deal of blood was at risk. He said frequently that he cared naught for land, but that was only because he had no land to care for. The manor would have come to him, of course, but he would never have taken it away from Senna.

Not that he could now in any event. The business was hers, ever since she bought out her father’s debt with her very own dowry, after her husband died. With a blade through his heart.

Robbers, she’d said, and had called out the hue and cry. The culprit had never been found.

Will would gladly have done the deed himself if Senna hadn’t. The way her face looked after a single night wedded was enough to bring murder to anyone’s mind. It was more than sufficient to spur Will into teaching Senna every skill of blade and bow he had in his considerable repertoire.

But now, Will had land. Land. And despite his nonchalant claims to the contrary, he wanted it badly.

He was quite conscious of the fact that he did not know much about Ireland, certainly not enough to know if Rardove was telling the truth about the Irish and their lack of honor. It mattered little. They had Senna, and he would run his sword through them, every one, to get her back.

With a gentle prick of his spurs, he lifted his horse into a canter. His men followed suit and the land fell away under the smooth, rocking motion as they made for the de Valery keep.