The Irish Warrior

“Aye, well, I need her.” He leapt down the small set of stairs and started across the bailey.

Alane, who had paused outside the door, said in a low voice, “I’ll watch out for him, my lord.”

The O’Fáil turned dully. “It hardly matters now, does it?”

“We’ll catch up with the slogad at the muster,” Finian called over his shoulder.

“You will not,” The O’Fáil said. He didn’t bother shouting.

Finian was already halfway across the bailey and didn’t stop. “I will.”

Senna made her way toward the sound of running water. The thunder of the powerful watercourse grew loud, drowning out everything else. She picked her way amid the wet rocks, slippery with moss, intent on the ground lest she slip and tumble into the frigid water.

She did not note the shadowy figure tracking her. Kneeling on a boulder, she did not notice it creep up behind. They stifled her scream when they seized her from behind, a wide palm slapped over her mouth, the other sweeping her legs off the earth.

They lifted her over the large boulders that formed a makeshift bridge across the river and carted her away under the pines.

Chapter 52

She was half dragged, half carried, for about five minutes, then dumped in a small clearing where ten equines and an equal number of armed men milled about. In the center of the gathering was a fire, a circle of soldiers, and block-shouldered Balffe.

Senna’s heart crashed into the pit of her chest. She kept her eyes down as she was shoved in front of him. She could see his boots and the stained breeches he wore. The tip of his sword dangled down beside these things.

“Mistress Senna,” he said, his voice guttural. “Are you unharmed?”

Just keep your mouth shut, she counseled herself.

Clad in mail and as solid as a brick, Balffe’s hand suddenly appeared before her downturned eyes. He lifted it to her face, pressing the links of metal against her jaw. The river of fear moved lower, pushing against her groin.

“Perhaps you did not hear my query, lady. Are you unharmed, happy and well?”

She gave a curt nod.

Pressing his fingers deeper into her skin, Balffe jerked her chin up and examined her face as if he were inspecting a horse. “Your eye is not so blackened as ’twas a few days ago. That is too bad. Do not give me cause to bring it back to life, woman,” he murmured, his words drawn out slowly, like a dagger being pulled from its sheath.

She nodded again, staring at the tarnished hook on the shoulder of his hauberk, bleak terror foaming on the shores of her heart. Another gust of odious breath gusted by her face. “You look well enough to ride.”

“I am fine,” she snapped. “Now unhand me.”

He went still. “What?”

“You have captured me. There is nowhere I can go. Unhand me.”

His hand slid farther along her face, until her chin was forced into the webbing between his thumb and forefinger and the flat of his mailed hand pressed against her throat. She tried to swallow but the heel of his hand was pressing hard. Any more and it would be difficult to breathe. He bent near her face.

“Say please.”

Senna stared over his shoulder. Balffe tightened his hold.

“Please,” she whispered. She had no idea how she’d accomplished it, but likely it was because pride was no longer an issue. Everything had narrowed to a small, bright band of purpose: retrieve the pages and save Finian.

Seconds ticked by, extending into a grim silence. “Do you know what my lord bade me do when I found you?”

At this scant distance, Senna could see the blotches of discoloration pockmarking his skin; huge, craterlike pores clotted with dirt and grime. Close-set eyes huddled together beside a misshapen nose. A score of old scars were seared across his face, shallow gutters of white-fleshed skin no sun could darken.

“I know nothing of what your lord bids or disallows.”

He gave his hand a shove, pushing her against the tree. “Know this, lady: you are mine.” Then he released her and stepped back, turning to his men, shouting.