The Irish Warrior

Senna scrambled away, hyperventilating and staring in amazement at Pentony, who stood in the doorway with a sword. Rusty, aye, but lifted for a blow.

Without removing his eyes from the baron, Pentony reached behind him and locked the door. Senna almost cried.

A second later, from outside the door, loud shouts exploded, and fists pounded against the wood. “Lord Rardove!” a soldier shouted. “Are you a’right?”

No one even looked at the door. Sweat dripped down between Senna’s breasts and made her palms slippery against the floor as she tried to scuttle backward another inch.

“Get out of here, Pentony,” Rardove said, sounding tired, and turned to Senna. The appearance of Pentony’s sword, lifted to hover, edgewise, just at the vein on his neck, stopped him short.

A bubble of foamy mucous gathered in the corner of the baron’s mouth. The spittle from his lips flicked into the air and exploded in invisible bursts. “I will kill you,” he wheezed in fury.

“I know.”

Rardove began choking on his words. They squeezed out in meaningless sounds of rage. His face burned a fiery red, his fingers twitched on his sword, but he dared not move.

“I gave you everything, Pentony,” he spat. Senna could feel his eyes following her as she scrambled to her feet and stood behind the gaunt seneschal. “Money, a free hand with the finances, direction over all my lands—”

“I found I had lost my soul,” Pentony said in a quiet, dignified way.

Rardove’s face contorted. “You lost that some thirty years ago, when you trussed up the skirts of that nun and defiled her—”

“She was not yet a nun,” he whispered hoarsely.

“You escaped punishment, of course, due to your royal connections, but I heard hers was severe indeed. More like torture, with the stones and the—”

Pentony’s face lost all semblance of being a blooded thing. “She was my wife.”

“Nay, priest. S

he was to become your wife, if only you could have waited. Waited for her to leave the nunnery, for you to renounce your vows. But you could not, and I was told the baby’s screams could be heard at all five Cinque Ports, if the peasants can be believed.”

Pentony’s blade twitched against Rardove’s throat. “She was my wife in mine heart, and I have carried her there all these years.”

Rardove barked in laughter. “She must have been a rare beauty, then, for the only thing I have seen you hold tight to in all the years I’ve known you is money, steward.”

Pentony paused. “In truth, she looked like Lady Senna. And her mother.” He half turned his head to her. “Go. Go now.”

Senna’s chest started heaving, holding back the sobs of fear and sorrow punching at her heart. Tears blocked her vision; she could barely see the floor. Her head was roaring, her heart hammering. She stared at Pentony, slowly shaking her head.

Rardove struck without warning. He took a sidearm swing at Pentony’s torso. The blade cut true, and it split open the tunic and the flesh beneath. Pentony’s bloody body collapsed on the floor.

She screamed, her hands by her cheeks, unable to believe what had just happened.

“Get out!” Pentony called hoarsely to her. Rardove kicked him flat onto his back. Pentony’s head lolled to the side. A trickle of blood seeped from his lips.

For a moment she and the baron stood there, staring at the steward, then Rardove turned, sweat rolling down his cheeks and neck.

“You’re next,” he rasped.

She leapt back, spinning, trying for the door. She crashed into the table instead and fell, her legs tangled in the wooden posts. Rardove lifted a foot to step over Pentony and towered above her prone body.

She pushed backward. He stopped her by planting a boot on her belly.

“No,” she screamed, thrusting her palm outward. “No! The baby!”

Rardove faltered, his face bleached white.

Then, with a tumultuous, thundering racket, the door suddenly cracked and was flung open. A black silhouette stood in the battered frame with a drawn sword.