The Irish Warrior

“These were taken from the prisoners, my lord.” He dumped two broadswords and three daggers onto the floor. The light tinkle of the wickedly sharp misericorde clattered last.

De Valery’s gaze lifted from the mound. “Finian O’Melaghlin.”

Finian nodded briefly. Alane stood as still as a boulder beside him.

“I admit to being surprised to see you here.”

Finian glanced around the room where more soldiers had grouped themselves. “But appear no worse for yer amazement.”

De Valery smiled faintly. “I am not a fool.”

“And I am not a prisoner. I came to talk, not be bound and stripped of my weapons.”

“Weapons are allowed in my castle only with my permission and good cause.”

“I have cause. Traveling over a hostile countryside to meet with ye in good faith.”

“Where is my sister?” He flung the question like a knife across the room. Alane steeled himself. This was not going well.

“She’s with Rardove, or soon will be.”

Liam de Valery repeated in incredulous humor: “Rardove? Jesus Christ, O’Melaghlin, if she were back with Rardove, I’d have had you horsewhipped before you made it through the outer bailey.”

“Be that as it may, she is on her way back to the baron.”

De Valery let out a bark of laughter. “Indeed?”

They stared at each other. One moment ticked by. Two. Harsh, male breathing echoed against the stone walls. The Englishman stared hard, then snapped his fingers.

“Lock them up in the cellars.”

Shite, thought Alane.

“And send word to Rardove, to see if, by some madness, what this Irishman says is true, that my sister is safely returned. If so,” he added a small, grim smile, “I’ll have them swinging from the walls by morn.”

Finian shook his head. “That will be too late. Rardove’s going to have yer sister back by evening, and by my reckoning, she’ll be dead come morn.”

De Valery took a step forward, leaving ten feet of rush-covered stone and a wall of disbelief to separate them. “What the hell are you talking about, O’Melaghlin?”

Alane straightened his spine. His right hand flexed around air, because his sword was distressingly absent.

“Mayhap you ought to tell me what is going on,” de Valery snapped.

“Mayhap ye ought to call off yer dogs.” Finian glanced at the men still planted a few inches away, their blades even closer. “And I’ll tell ye everything.”

De Valery paused, then made a gesture with his hand. The armed men reluctantly dropped back some thirty feet to line the walls of the cavernous but crumbling hall.

“Sit.”

Finian dropped onto a bench lining one side of a rough-hewn table and casually met Alane’s eyes with a brief but significant glance. The message was clear: it would be best if they were not in exactly the same spot if all hell broke loose.

Alane inclined his head the barest inch and locked his gaze on the leader of William’s household troops. Clad in scarlet and gray, he was the size of a small mountain and had one eye sealed shut, whether from royal retribution or ruthless healing, Alane did not know. Nor did he care. The mountain was the closest thing to Finian and his dagger was drawn.

Backing up a few steps, Alane positioned himself by the wall and stood, silent and vigilant, legs planted wide, arms crossed.

Darkness was the most noticeable thing about this hall; tallow candles sat at crooked angles in a series of holders along the wall, casting a dim, unwieldy light, and one off-center one graced the oaken table. It was a narrow, cold room, unlived in for a long time.

De Valery considered Alane’s retreat to the wall in silence, then turned his attention back to Finian. Retreating to the far side of the table, he dropped onto the bench and crossed his arms with exaggerated leisure. “You have a tale?”