Then she would escape. Because Senna had no intention of dying here.
But seeing as she hadn’t a blade, a horse, an ally, or a plan, she wasn’t quite sure how she would do it.
She rested her palm on her belly and, bending over the pages, started reading.
In the main hall, soldiers were lying down for the night, curled up against the walls and spread across the floor.
The hall was shadowy and warm. Pentony strode quietly across the room, nodding briefly to any sleepy eyes that he met. He froze when he spotted Rardove, bent over, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
He looked dead. Then, a small groaning sound came from the lump of him. He didn’t look up.
Pentony went into motion again, swift and silent. There was much to arrange before the dawn. He slipped outside and inched open the portal gate in the bailey wall. He nudged a rock in front of it with the toe of his boot, scratched a thick-armed Celtic cross into the wooden door, then walked back inside.
He’d have to hope that something inside him was aligned with something inside the man who’d already risked as much for Senna as Pentony had for her mother.
Hours passed. The strange, uninvited music drifted away. The night grew ebony and the moon set. Stars glistened and pale scents were carried on the rising wind.
Chapter 58
The dark of night was dislodged by the pearly gray of predawn. The bells in the chapel were beholden to another hour of silence before they rang out Prime. Down in the inner bailey there was a flurry of activity and sound, muted by the thin mists of night: hooves and hushed, masculine calls of one man to another.
Senna heard the heavy thud of a boot outside the door. She shot to her feet, pages in hand. Slow listening. Heartbeats thudding. Cold sweat shivered down her spine. A mouse could not have scurried by without her hearing. But there was nothing. Nothing.
She swallowed thickly and turned to the brazier, building it into a wild flame, not at all like a brazier was intended to burn. But then, it hadn’t been intended to burn military secrets.
She leaned close to blow. The flames flared higher. She reached for the pages.
Rusty hinges creaked behind her. “So. You did it.” Rardove stepped into the room.
She spun and tripped over the hem of her skirt. The pages went flying, but she couldn’t look away from Rardove. His hair was in disarray, tufted and dirty. His face was flushed from drink, but it was his eyes that terrified her. They were mad. They looked coated in pottage, mealy and thick, but when they caught sight of the dyed fabric on the counter—the shimmering butterfly wing she’d made—they cleared.
He picked it up. Felt it all over, then set it down again and looked at her blankly. “These are the pages?” He gestured to the sheaves of parchment scattered across the floor.
She didn’t reply. He unslung his sword and extended it, twisting the tip gently back and forth, as if admiring it. In the flickering candlelight, it cast flashing points of fire all across the room.
Her voice, despite all intention, dropped to a whisper. “What are you doing?”
He looked up. Mad, staring eyes. “Taking care of an inconvenience that has plagued me far too long.”
He was between her and the brazier. Between her and the door. He lifted the sword.
Senna took a running leap, flinging herself past him. He wrapped an arm around her waist as she flew by and slammed her to the ground. Senna fell, but as she landed, she threw her knee between his thighs.
He grunted and his eyes glazed over. The respite was sufficient, allowing her to roll away. She banged into the brazier. It toppled over. She scrambled backward and flung handfuls of the pages toward the stream of chunky orange coals. The pages scattered like small birds, an arc in the air. They fluttered to the ground. None made it into the coals.
“You bitch,” Rardove snarled. He staggered to his feet and lifted his blade. She was still on the floor, trying to kick sheaves of parchment into the flames. His shadow rose up.
“No!” she screamed and threw up her hands to block the blow of his sword.
“If you do it, you will die,” said a voice from the doorway.
Rardove’s head snapped around. “Pentony,” he rasped in amazement. “Get out!”
“No.”
“Get out!”
“No.”