The Irish Warrior

“Aye, well, I got wind of Turlough’s fate while in Rardove’s care.”

“And did the rendezvous yourself.” The king looked at him. His bearded head nodded, the traces of a smile evident. “Well done.” He paused. “You missed the wake, Finian. ’Twas a worthy one.”

Finian nodded roughly. “I wish I’d have been here.”

“I know.”

Finian swept on. No time for mourning past losses, else there’d be many more to come. “Without that”—he indicated the manual—“Rardove cannot make the dyes. Not unless he has a dye-witch. And he doesn’t.”

He didn’t bother to point out that they did. That he had brought back both the dye manual and a dye-witch.

The first breach in his wall. He felt the crack of disloyalty shiver down his bones.

The king reached for the bound booklet. “Hundreds of years,” he said reverently, “and we have the Wishmé recipe again.” He cracked it open and touched the scalloped and tattered edge of a page. “Saint Brendan, Finian, this is well done.” He looked up. “What else did Red say?”

“Not much. He died in my arms.”

The room exhaled a reverent breath of male air, filled with the heady juxtaposition of murmured prayers for his kin and descendents to the fourth generation, fervent signs of the cross, and a boatload of creative curses, which seemed like they ought to cancel out the prayers.

“Which brings us to the only other thing we’ve got in our favor,” the king said finally. “Rardove will not want anyone to know about this recipe. Can you fathom a hundred rebellious Englishmen in on the hunt for the legendary Wishmés?”

He looked around the room at the grim and angry faces.

“No,” The O’Fáil said firmly. “He shan’t even want it breathed about. Which means, if we return his excuse for a war, we’ll buy much-needed time.”

Finian looked over slowly. “What do ye mean, return his excuse?”

“I mean Senna de Valery.”

He shook his head. “Not a chance. Not if my head were on the block.”

“’Tis.”

He looked over. “Chop it off, then.”

“’Tis all our heads, Finian. Every Irishman living in northern Irela

nd.”

“Christ’s blood, man,” Felim, a noble, muttered. “What would ye have us do? We haven’t the men, our castles are in disrepair. Ye said yerself that Rardove was amassing troops. We’ve no way to hold them back. We need time.”

“Time for what?” Finian asked sharply.

“Jesus, O’Melaghlin, what don’t we need time for? To call up allies. To placate, negotiate, convince him we’re not wanting to fight.”

“Well, we haven’t got that kind of time,” Finian said tightly.

Everyone was quiet a moment. Then the king said what they all were thinking.

“We do if you send the woman back.”

Finian ripped his gaze away. Firelight flashed off his sword hilt as he leaned his spine against the wall and kicked out his booted feet, crossing them at the ankles.

“What do ye expect from us, Finian?” someone demanded. “That we fight for our lives to save an Englishwoman?”

“Nay,” he retorted. “Fight to save yer own.”

“They’d be in little enough trouble if it weren’t for her,” Brian, an Irish warrior with a sullen frown on his face, observed.