The Irish Warrior

A small band of horsemen appeared on the far hilltop. At its head rode Will, flying through the butchery, seeking Wogan.

His one-eyed captain looked over as they galloped up the hill. “Sir? Is this the wisest thing to do?”

“No.”

He kicked his horse into one last gallop. At his side rode his squire Peter, the king’s crest prominently displayed. The pennant snapped in the morning breeze. Hands were raised, pointing at them. The justiciar’s guard turned their horses and unsheathed their swords. Two men wearing Rardove’s livery lifted longbows and aimed them at William’s head.

The justiciar threw out his arm and shouted something. The bows hovered a moment, then lowered.

“Wogan!” Will shouted, hauling on his horse’s reins as they crested the hill. The stallion slid in on his haunches, tossing his head.

“Who the hell are you, and what the hell is going on?” the justiciar demanded.

Will swung off the horse, ignoring the battle behind them and the swords angled at his neck. “I’ve a story to tell, my lord.”

When Finian walked out of Rardove Keep with Senna, Wogan, the king’s governor, stood atop the hill, his pennants blowing in the breeze. He was not on his horse. Senna’s brother Liam and The O’Fáil stood beside him, talking. There was no fighting. Everything was quiet. Even the birds flew away when battle came.

Finian stopped, stared at the sight of the men talking on the hill, then simply dropped to the ground where he stood, holding Senna’s hand. She sat down beside him. It was a long time before anyone spotted them.

Senna dragged Finian to Wogan’s tent, not so much because she wanted Finian to meet the governor, but because he would not let her out of his sight. And when it became clear Senna was going to speak to the justiciar come a plague of locusts, it became evident Finian would be meeting the king’s governor, too.

“There is no such thing as Wishmé dyes,” she insisted, after every moment of her time with Rardove had been explored and exhausted in excruciating detail. “Lord Rardove was mad, I am sorry to say. The Wishmés are mollusks, not some mythical dyes. And certainly”—she gave a tinkling laugh—“not weapons.”

Wogan did not have a hard time believing her report. But after an hour of nonstop conversation and a few cups of wine, he did see fit to say, “You’re not quite what I expected from a wool merchant.”

Finian, sitting in the governor’s tent beside The O’Fáil, replied with feeling, “Ye’ve no idea.”

Wogan nodded at Finian, a slight smile lightening his somber visage. “I’ve found some women can hide many layers.”

“Have you found that to be a problem?” Senna interjected brightly.

“I have found it,” he said, shifting his gaze her direction, “to be invigorating.”

She smiled even more brightly. “The highway back to Baile Átha Cliath is a long one, my lord governor. If I may, I would suggest a small detour. To the town of Hutton’s Leap.”

Wogan lifted a cup of wine to his mouth. “And what might I find in Hutton’s Leap?”

“Oh, anything the lord king’s governor wants, I should imagine.” She smiled. “Jugglers, fine embroidery needles, and the most delicious ham pasties. And a…shop”—she stumbled very slightly over the word—“called Thistle, I believe, with a proprietress from the south of France who I suspect has many layers. Tell her I sent you.”

Over the rim of his cup, Wogan watched her a moment, then smiled.

Within half an hour, the English army was wheeling out of the valley, leaving only bird calls behind them as the sun set.

Epilogue

Winter, Scotland, 1295 A.D.

Will de Valery stood before Robert the Bruce. A pithy Scottish winter sunset had come and gone before they finished the wine in their wooden cups.

“I think we’re safe from the threat for now,” Will said.

The Bruce looked at him thoughtfully. “No secret weapons for Longshanks, then?”

A fireplace roared in the far wall, but most of the heat went sailing up the chimney or into the stone walls. Both men wore fur pelts, even inside.

Will shook his head. “Legends. That is all the Wishmés are.”

And, really, Will had decided, that was all anyone needed to know. Senna was the only person on earth who could craft the deadly dyes, and she insisted she had no interest in doing so.