The Irish Warrior

“Perhaps the children,” she allowed when he’d demanded to know her plans. “But I will neither insist nor deny, Will. All I will do is explain. Never fear,” she’d added when he’d opened his mouth to protest that his concern was neither of those things, “I will always be here, so nothing, ever, will go unseen.”

And that, he decided, was perhaps better than a spy network. Senna being watchful could bring down a kingdom, if she wished it. Or save one.

And even so, Will thought, what benefit could come from a king of Scotland knowing about the thing?

The Wishmés had been lost for centuries, until their mother and father had resurrected them. For good cause, perhaps, but all that could come of them was evil. Scotland had enough perils facing her, without the dubious advantage of the Wishmés added to her strain.

“You told King Edward they were more than rumors,” The Bruce said, watching Will closely. “You told him Rardove had the dyes, that they were real, that they were weapons, and that he’d better hie himself over there right quick.”

Will gave one of his calculated shrugs. “I tell King Edward many things. ’Twas necessary to bring him hammering on Rardove’s door.”

Being a double agent for Scotland’s cause required saying many things to many people for many different purposes. The trouble came only in trying to remember it all.

“And why did we want him hammering on Rardove’s door?” The Bruce asked, his regard watchful.

“We did not, my lord. I did. My sister was there, and in danger.”

The Bruce lifted a cup in a mock toast. “I did not realize my spies used their contacts for personal good.”

“Then you are not very wise, my lord.” Will poured himself a cup of wine. “But I still think you ought be king.”

Robert laughed. “As do I.”

Will drank. He only thought The Bruce should be king because he could be king. ’Twas possible for this nobleman to rule the beautiful, scarred land of his heart, the country his mother and father had loved so well. But it was Scotland go braugh, not Bruce go braugh. Never for a man.

They were so fallible.

“And I do believe it benefited Scotland,” Will added quietly. “Edward turned his eye elsewhere for a few months. We might have been saved an invasion before we were ready.”

“And now, we are ready,” The Bruce said. He pushed open a shutter. The sound of sleigh runners hushed into the courtyard outside. Winter had come, cold and white and bright. “So, what of your sister?” The Bruce asked.

Will waved the parchment in his hand, the latest missive from Senna. “Rardove’s lands were taken back into the king’s hands, of course. And, oddly, deeded to a commune.”

Robert the Bruce raised his eyebrows. “Truly? A business commune?”

“So she says. I can hardly make it out,” he added, bending over the missive for perhaps the tenth time. He walked to the window and held the parchment under the spill of cold winter sunlight pouring into the room, but still it was hard to be sure he was reading it rightly. “A commune of…bellas? Can that be right?”

The next king of Scotland shrugged, but he was grinning while he did it. His beard gleamed brown and red. “I do not know, de Valery, but I would surely like to visit a commune of pretties.”

“Aye,” Will said absently. “An Italian word, is it not?”

The Bruce nodded. “Or Southern France, perhaps.”

“Indeed,” Will said, as baffled as ever. “Senna reports Wogan, the Irish justiciar, put in a word to Longshanks to give it over.” He shrugged and set the letter on the table. “No mind. I will go when I can, and figure it out.”

“Good. Because right now, we have an invasion to plan.”

Will nodded as they opened the door and strode to their horses. “And I must return to the king, ere he wonders why his spy is taking so long to reconnoiter the northern borders.”

Finian put his arm around Senna’s shoulder and pulled her closer to his side. They stood on a stone embrasure on the walls surrounding Castle O’Fáil; the day, while brilliantly sunny, was windy and chill. The O’Fáil, down in the bailey, glanced up and lifted his hand. Finian returned the gesture before bending to place a kiss on Senna’s head.

After two months among the Irish, Senna had almost memorized the array of names and faces and lineages stretching back far too long.

“Sooth, Finian, why do we need to know about poets from the fourth century?” she had asked in a fit of irritation earlier that afternoon, which is why he’d finally led her out to the walls, to stare down at the sea below and calm herself. They’d done this several times since they’d returned to O’Fáil lands and realized Senna was no longer quickening.

“It happens all the time,” she’d said, smiling through her tears on the night she understood.