The Irish Warrior

The coldness went deep, into his bones. He hadn’t brought Senna to the king. But she was his now.

And yet, just now, another matter wanted his attention…Senna’s mother had been a dye-witch for Rardove? How much worse was this going to get?

“She died,” the king went on, “trying to escape. Nineteen years ago.”

Finian nodded silently as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He stared at the rushes on the ground. He could hear the people in the hall below, the loud buzz of their conversations coming up the stairs. Someone said something about Rardove, and there was a chorus of male shouts. He heard someone say “the Englishwoman.”

“Bring her to me,” the king said quietly.

A low fire was all th

at burned in the trough at the center of the hall at this late hour, but Senna’s eyes were well adjusted to the dim light. She’d been waiting for a long time. Seen the men tromp through the hall to a guarded office chamber. Seen them come out again. Waited while some came in to make their beds on the floor.

Now the hall was a huddled mass of sleeping male bodies, snoring and farting, scattered across the benches and rush-covered floor. A few men sat on a far bench beside the fire, talking in low tones, but otherwise the castle seemed to sleep. She couldn’t stand in this corner all night, and was finally ready to admit defeat and leave, when the masculine voices by the fire rose in slightly slurred tones, just enough to be heard.

Light from the dying flames did not shine far, and while the fireside conversants were cast in flickering shadows, the rest of the hall was drenched in darkness.

Senna paused, her cheek by the wall.

“Och, and ’tis only the whole English army he’s bringing down on us, it is.”

“Ye’re right. But I’ll be glad of a reason to wield a sword well enough, whatever the cause.”

“And this thing with Rardove has been going on a fine long time. O’Melaghlin says the Englishwoman has nothing to do with it.”

“Naught to do with it, and naught to do with him, that’s what he says all right,” complained a younger, higher-pitched voice. “But still, we’ve an army marching for us sure as anything, and ’tis because she’s here.”

“Ye’re right,” agreed an older voice. “Maybe she t’ain’t the reason, but she’s sure enow the cause.”

“Naught to worry on,” said another voice. “O’Melaghlin loves the ladies, but he’ll not endanger our lives and lands over one. They’re for bedding, not politickin’, and he knows that as well as anyone.”

“Better.”

“Still,” said the young one, his voice a dark, drunken snarl. “We should go teach her what we think of women who start wars.”

He rose unsteadily and tripped over his feet. The small group broke into predatory snickers and yanked him to his feet.

Senna backed up through the darkness, her hand at her chest. She waited until they were gone, then crept through the darkness, out of the hall, her heart and blood pounding. She staggered into the bailey and the autumn night.

She didn’t belong here. They didn’t want her.

The thought was so familiar it almost had taste. Metal, cold, rusty.

Now what?

She turned and slammed directly into Finian’s chest.

Chapter 47

“What are ye about, Senna?”

She kicked herself backward, but he already had a hand on her arm, and stopped her completely.

He was frowning. Burnished black hair hung unfettered over his shoulders, one small braid dangling near his eye. Beneath the layered maroon léine, his powerful legs, covered with dark hair, disappeared into high boots. His wrap was belted at the waist, and a blade dangled at his side.

“I told ye to stay in the room. ’Tisn’t safe out here.”

She gave a wild laugh. “No. Not by half.”