The Irish Warrior

Which is why he wasn’t entirely at ease, riding ever closer to the Irish keep. Finian O’Melaghlin was in there, but he would come out, too, and when he did, it would be at the head of an army. An army that might be poorly equipped, but would be outfitted with a commander who possessed the keenest leadership abilities and the most impressive warrior skills known in the Irish marches.

Balffe was all too aware of these particulars. He had come out on the losing side of too many encounters over the years to underestimate either the Irishman’s intentions or his abilities.

Aye, O’Melaghlin would come out, he decided with a quick righting of his codpiece. And Balffe would be waiting.

No one escaped a castle of which he was guard, at least not without sacrificing a few vital body parts as payment. Certainly not the Irish dog who had debased Balffe’s very own sister some ten years earlier with his contaminated charm. My, yes, their history went back some, and O’Melaghlin would die with a slow twist of a knife plunged in his chest.

Balffe would

see to it himself.

But first, he would take Senna de Valery, more witch than woman, back to Rardove with a malicious pleasure.

And if she caused him any trouble, any at all, she would be pitifully sorry. As would anyone close enough to hear him extract her useless screams for mercy.

Chapter 46

The men stood in the king’s chamber just as the runner stumbled in, sweaty and harried. It was half a minute before they could get the news out of her. During that time the men stood, the silence dense. She clutched her side, doubled in half and panting.

“The king’s governor of all Ireland is marching north with a massive hosting.” She gasped for another breath.

“Wogan?” The shocked murmur swept through the room. The justiciar? The governor of all of Ireland? The hand-picked servant of Edward, Hammer of the Scots and bleeder of the Irish, was marching north?

“They must be over four thousand strong.”

Someone cursed. It seemed to come from far away. Finian said hoarsely, “How long until they get here?”

“Two days, mayhap half of another.”

Two days to muster as many divergent, loosely allied Irish and any loyal English they could to their cause. A cause which was looking more bleak as news of the English arrayed against them grew. Not only Rardove and his vassals. Now ’twas the governor of the isle, King Edward’s lieutenant, John Wogan.

And that about does it, thought Finian.

“There’s more,” panted the messenger, folding to her knees. “The Saxon king is coming, too. His muster is in Wales, waiting for a good wind. When they get it, Edward Longshanks will march on Ireland.”

The room dropped into shocked silence. Everyone turned to Finian, who was staring at the far wall. He could feel every ponderous beat of his heart as it slowed, as his body closed in on itself, as everything went cold.

“Leave us,” he heard The O’Fáil say.

The room cleared of men until it was only Finian and the king, who stood staring at him with sad eyes.

A clamor outside the window made Senna start, drew her out of her simmering reverie. The hem of the dark blue undertunic Lassar had given her picked up stray bits of rushes as she walked to the slitted window and leaned her elbows on the knobbly ledge.

People were laughing and exchanging friendly insults as they darted across the bailey from one doorway to another, dashing to and fro, readying themselves for the evening entertainment. New people meant new ideas, new conversations, new stories, new dalliances, most of all. And that the fine-looking, charismatic Finian O’Melaghlin was one of them was almost too thrilling to imagine.

Better than stories, Finian himself, in all his glorious flesh, was to be there, to flirt and entertain.

My, how did they bear it? she thought acidly.

Down in the bailey, someone pulled open the door to the main keep. Yellow light and laughter spilled out into the chilled blue twilight.

“Come see Finian!” someone shouted, laughing. “He’s already here!”

People scurried in and the door slammed shut.

Come see Finian, indeed.

He’d come to see her, when the mood had moved him. But Senna was simply not capable of sitting like a rocking horse in the room, for Finian to come and ride when the mood spurred him. And this I’ll ruin you notion of his, that was madness. He was simply not capable of ruining her, nor, for that matter, protecting her. These things had already been done, by Senna herself.