The Irish Warrior Part 2

Senna backed away, her hand at her throat. The room smelled like an old summer memory, rustling-soft and comforting. Potent, like garlic cooked too long at the bottom of an iron pot. Memories of Mama at her work, crafting dyes, but always a soft smile for Senna whenever she crept in to sit beside her. Mama's hair, braid coming loose and trailing down her back like a red stream, her cool hand on Senna's small, hot head.

Senna's breath came short and clipped, little choppy waves overtop an ocean of awfulness.

Her hand went unconsciously to the small, loose pages tucked into a pouch at her side. The only thing left of her mother's, this packet of letters. Senna had given up trying to recall her mother-given up wanting to-twenty years earlier, at the moment she'd understood what had happened: she'd been abandoned.

It beggared the imagination, then, the cost of understanding why these penned notes and sketches of her mother's were the only things she'd brought with her. And the abacus, of course. That That held no surprises. held no surprises.

It struck Senna now that perhaps she ought not to have sent her small, armed escort back to England. But it might take weeks, a month, to complete the arrangements with Rardove, and she paid by the day for such men. She'd not even brought a maid; but then, that was because she didn't have one. Not anymore.

Even so, what good could her small escort have done? How many soldiers had she seen patrolling the walls? Far too many to resist whatever Rardove might wish to do.

Do not be foolish, she chastised herself. Foolish to think Rardove would endanger this highly lucrative business venture. The trunk of gold and silver coins she'd espied under the trestle table was not so valuable as the deal she was offering him: wool. she chastised herself. Foolish to think Rardove would endanger this highly lucrative business venture. The trunk of gold and silver coins she'd espied under the trestle table was not so valuable as the deal she was offering him: wool.

Still, such logic did little to allay the anxiety crawling through her belly. She started gnawing on her fingernails, her mind engaged in terrified pirouettes.

"Mistress Senna?"

She spun to the door, teeth at her thumbnail.

"Lord Rardove has returned. He wishes to see you in the hall."

Her hand fell limply to her side.

Muted revelry drifted up to the small bedchamber Senna had been shown to. A small, thinly cushioned bed mattress hung by straps of leather from the aging bedposts, for support. Two armless chairs, a table and a fireplace bespoke comfort, but in reality it was a small, unkempt room smelling faintly of rot.

This would not be her room for long, so it hardly mattered. She took a deep breath and ran her hand over her tunic. It was dark green with a mist green overtunic, designed to fit her upper body snugly. Ten years old, it had been worn for every contract signing she'd done in that time, and was starting to show the strain. The elbows were worn and the st.i.tching at the waist and wrists badly frayed. Embroidery of pale hues bound the worst offenders, but still, it was old. Plain. Perfect.

A wave of raucous laughter came rolling up the stairs. Bawdy curses rode within like flotsam. "Are they always so...jubilant?"

The maid met her eyes. "Always, miss."

The maid st.i.tched the thin sleeves tight, then pinned her hair up, creating a soft but complicated pile atop her head. She draped a veil of the palest green over the concoction and corded it with a slender silver circlet, and they stared together at Senna's dull reflection in a small, polished metal handheld mirror.

"You look as fine as a queen," avowed the maid, then added, a bit less firmly, "if you are a bit pale."

"I am as wan as an undyed tablecloth," Senna agreed sourly.

No matter her looks. This was about business. And that is what she did best.

She picked up the most recent ledger of accounts, cradled it in her arm like a babe, and swept down to the great hall, ignoring the way her breath came speeding out in unsteady little gusts. She had a great deal of experience keeping such panic at bay. She would do so now as well. Everything was manageable, given time.

She lifted her chin, crossed the threshold of the riotous hall, and froze like ice.

The room was smoky and crowded. A burst of laughter exploded from one of the crowded tables. A barely clad woman tumbled off a soldier's lap and the drunken group roared again. Arcs of mead curled into the air as their tankards crashed down on the rough-hewn tabletops. One of the coa.r.s.e, leather-clad barbarians spit something wet and copious into the rushes, then leaned down to haul the woman up by her elbow.

Senna sucked in a breath. Numbers. Think of numbers. The number of coins Rardove was offering (a thousand French livres livres). The number of months left to pay off her shipping debts (not a one). The number of years she'd waited in an empty hall for someone, anyone, to walk through it and save her.

To her relief, a knight approached and, extending his arm, nodded toward the dais. Curious but detached faces watched, and the hum of activity dimmed as she pa.s.sed. Blanching under the unfamiliar scrutiny, her step faltered. Angry with herself, she jerked on the arm imprisoned in her escort's grip, digging his ribs in the process. The knight grunted and released her.

Lord Rardove stood talking with his men at the far end of the dais. Even facing away, he was an imposing figure. Tall and wide-shouldered, he wore a midnight blue shirt and chausses that burned a dark background against his blood red tunic: the colors of Rardove. One hand went to the sword belted at his waist, toying idly with the hilt. Rardove might be nearing fifty, but any gray hairs were undetectable amidst the blond. He looked every inch the warrior lord.

She swallowed a ball of fear. Perhaps it was the Irish warriors shackled on the floor in front of the dais that made him puff out his chest and strut so. Please, G.o.d, let it not be for her.

Her nerve liquefied in her gut at the exact moment Rardove turned to her.

"Mistress Senna," was all he said, and his gaze held hers for half a moment, in a perfectly civil pause. But to Senna, it felt as if he were ripping apart her gown, a.s.sessing her like a mount, deciding if she was worth the cost.

Then a smile cracked the surface of his handsome face, and it was as if a window had splintered. He went into motion, crossing the dais.

"My deepest apologies I could not greet you myself earlier," he said, his voice rich and low with chivalrous smoothness. He took her fingertips. "I shall have to make it up to you."

She fought the crazed urge to slip her hand free and run screaming from the room. "There is no need, my lord," she murmured.

"I hope you have been made comfortable." He released her fingers. "Your trip was pleasant?"

"Quite." She tried to smile back. "The mists are thick."

He nodded. "Ireland." He spread out his hands, palms up. The smallest smudge marred his broad hands. It was dark red. Like dried blood. "Ireland holds many things behind a veil."

Her smile became more genuine. If he had the sensitivity to speak suchly, mayhap 'twas not all bad. Mayhap the Irishry were were rebels, as Pentony said, unlawfully defying their overlord. Mayhap she could engage in business with this man without too much trouble- rebels, as Pentony said, unlawfully defying their overlord. Mayhap she could engage in business with this man without too much trouble- "I hear you do not wish to see the mollusks."

Her smile faltered. "Nay, my lord. 'Tis just, I do not know that business."

"Is it not yours?"

Her smile collapsed entirely. "No, my lord."

Rardove said nothing.

"I deal in wool."

"Oh, I am interested in your wool, Senna. Quite. Exceedingly."

No sense of relief followed these softly spoken words. Quite the opposite: a shiver walked down her spine. So, he was a harrier, was he? One who preyed on smaller creatures. She had had ample experience with such men. Squaring her shoulders, she said firmly, "Well good, my lord. Just so we understand, then. I deal in wool. Not dyes."

"That is too bad, Senna. For you."

"My lord?"

"I need a dye-witch."

Chapter 4.

The shiver became a cold chill down Senna's spine. 'Dye-witch,' people had said for a thousand years, as a way to insult. Or, depending on the whims of the local parish or lord, as a way to get a person killed. But, for those who knew such things, 'dye-witch' was a term of respect bordering on awe.

Senna so desperately wished she was not one of the ones who 'knew such things.'

"Oh, dear, my lord," she said briskly, "I believe there has been a misunderstanding. I am here about the wool." She extended the account ledger in her arm.

His gaze lowered briefly, then came back up. "There is no misunderstanding, Mistress de Valery. I have the Wishme mollusks. I need the dye they create."

"Oh, my lord, the Wishmes are legend. Only legends." Ones she recalled her mother telling her by firelight. "Nothing about them is true-"

"They are real, Senna. Your mother's treatise clearly outlines that."

She practically recoiled. "My mother's treatise? treatise?"

Her mother? What did Rardove know of her mother? And what did her mother know of treatises? treatises? She'd known nothing but immoderation. Overweening fervor. Pa.s.sion. She left the family because of it, ran away when Senna was five. Left Senna in charge of a one-year-old brother and a father descending into the vortex of heartbreak and gambling that had been slowly killing him all the years since. She'd known nothing but immoderation. Overweening fervor. Pa.s.sion. She left the family because of it, ran away when Senna was five. Left Senna in charge of a one-year-old brother and a father descending into the vortex of heartbreak and gambling that had been slowly killing him all the years since.

She'd left it all to Senna and never come back.

Her mother knew nothing of doc.u.ments, nothing about managing things. Corraling and harnessing the frightening forces of the world. She knew only about running away. And she certainly certainly knew nothing about knew nothing about doc.u.ments doc.u.ments.

That was Senna's realm.

"And Senna?"

She jerked her attention back.

"The Wishmes are real. They are valuable. And I need you to make them into a dye for me."

She clutched the account ledger to her chest, feeble armor. She could not make dyes. They could offer her chests chests of gold that would save the business forty times over, and she would still not be able to dye. She'd spent her life avoiding it. of gold that would save the business forty times over, and she would still not be able to dye. She'd spent her life avoiding it.

The question was: what would the stranger before her do when he understood that?

At the moment, he was simply watching her, but with a hawklike intensity that did not bode well for creatures smaller than he. Senna figured she would come to his chin. In slippers.

"Have you a suggestion on how to proceed, Senna?" His voice was calm, as if they were discussing the menu for the evening meal. Perhaps...her.

She wiped her free hand on her skirt. 'Twas time to prove herself reasonable enough not to be splayed and boiled as a first course.

"Have you attempted dog whelk? Or mayhap woad. Its colors are deep and rich, well suited to the fibers. Surely it can produce what you are looking for."

By the look on his face, Rardove did not agree.

"Sir, 'tisn't possible for any person with a will to craft the Wishme dyes. Only a very certain few can-according to legend," she added hurriedly, then tacked on, even more hurriedly, "which I know only as a result of being in an a.s.sociated business, you understand, and hearing such things. But even if I wished to dye, I could not do it, just so." She snapped her fingers. "Such craftsmanship takes years of study. I cannot fathom why you think I can make them-"

He snapped his fingers back, right in front of her nose, then grabbed her hand, overturned it, and pressed his thumb against her inner wrist, over the blue veins that ran beneath her skin.

"Your blood makes me think it, Senna," he said in a low voice. "They say 'tis in the blood."

Her mouth fell open. Terrified, she yanked on her hand. He released her.

Continuing to back up, she put her hand on the edge of the dais table for support, ledger clutched to her chest. Fast, frantic chills shot through her, like small, darting arrows, poking holes in her composure.

"Sir." She swallowed. "Sir." She was repeating herself. That could not be good. She never even quoted prices more than once. "Sir, you must understand-"

"I understand. You do not." He turned so his back was to the hall, reached into his tunic, and pulled something out. "This is what the Wishmes can do."

That was all he said, all he needed to say. Everything else came from the sc.r.a.p of dyed fabric in his hand. Slowly, she set the ledger down and reached for it.

It was...stunning. Luminous, a kind of deep blue she'd never seen before, so brilliant she almost had to shield her eyes, as if it were emitting light.

Dog whelk could not create this. Neither could moss, or madder, or woad, or anything on Earth. This was straight from G.o.d.

"'Tis beautiful," she murmured, running her fingers almost reverently over the edge of the dyed weave. "On my wool, it would be something the world has never seen."

An odd look crossed his face. "Where will you start?" he asked, his voice hoa.r.s.e.

She moved her hands in a helpless gesture. "I do not know."

But she did. A churning hot spot in the center of her chest seemed to be actually pulling her back to the dye hut, to the room with mortars and pestles, the lichen and bark that could be magicked into things of such beauty.

Just like her mother. Shame sizzled thin, hot rivers of self-loathing down her throat.

He pulled at the fabric in her fingertips. She let it go and pushed back her shoulders. "Lord Rardove, I deal in wool. That is what we discussed in our correspondence."

"Indeed. Just so."

"Just so, then. I am here to strike a bargain that will be lucrative for us both. Perhaps if I show you some of the accounts I brought with me, you will see the benefits. Or," she added, not liking the way he was looking at her and not the ledgers, "perhaps you would prefer to simply reconsider the arrangement, and I can hie myself back to the ship."

"Or perhaps we ought to take care of this other little matter straight away." Rardove gestured toward the shadows.

Pentony emerged from within them somewhere-He is a wraith, Senna decided-with a scroll of parchment in hand. Her response spoke to her shattered emotional state though, for upon sight of the steward's cadaverous figure, Senna smiled. He looked at her somberly, without a hint of recognition. She might be a table cover. Or a blot of wax on one. A mess. Senna decided-with a scroll of parchment in hand. Her response spoke to her shattered emotional state though, for upon sight of the steward's cadaverous figure, Senna smiled. He looked at her somberly, without a hint of recognition. She might be a table cover. Or a blot of wax on one. A mess.

She looked back to Rardove. "Other matter, my lord?"

He gestured impatiently to Pentony, who scanned the doc.u.ment in his hands, then began reading parts of it aloud.

"Senna de Valery, merchant of wool...Lambert, lord of Rardove, on the Irish marches...union in wedlock...banns posted..."

Senna's mouth dropped open and she almost fell to her knees.

Chapter 5.