The Irish Warrior Part 25

The next day, they crouched outside the town of Hutton's Leap when the sun was at its highest, just inside treeline where the shadows were their shortest, and watched the steady flow of people in and out of the town.

"Do you know this town?" Senna asked quietly.

"Somewhat," he evaded. It probably sounded like an answer. "I've had a few meetings here."

"Certainly there are people here who are friendly to the Irish? Sympathetic?"

"Not friendly," he a.s.sured her.

"But there are Irish people here," she protested. "We're in Ireland. eire eire. These are your people, Finian. They must be sympathetic. Given sufficient," she paused, "cause."

He angled her a flat look. "Ye mean coin. Given sufficient coin. Senna, for most souls, money does not weigh more on the scales than their lives. And to abet me, 'twould be their life."

She gave him a derisive look. "I do not believe money matters more than one's life. And I do not say others think so, either. What I am saying is, I believe people can be persuaded."

"I know exactly what ye're saying." He reached over and smashed a wide-brimmed hat down on her head. He'd pinched it off a rouncy pony left by his owner outside a village hut.

She adjusted it with a swift, unconsciously feminine move. "How do I look?"

He glanced down. "Ye look like a crystal, flashing fire. So keep yer head down."

"Will do," she whispered. "You too. You shall likely draw more attention than I. You look important. Or at least," she eyed him, "tall."

"Och, well, I'm training to be a king."

She snorted.

They walked nonchalantly to the road and joined the steady stream of fair-goers entering the town. At the gates, there was a throng of people bustling in and out.

"It's so loud," she murmured.

Finian eyed her, satisfied with her disguise. The hat covered her face admirably. A few wipes of river mud across her cheeks, and the cloak draped around her despite the warmth of the burgeoning day, and the disguise was complete. She looked like a tall young squire.

Not that Finian expected any problems this far south and west, not so soon. Rardove would expect them to go directly north, to the O'Fail king, not detour south to this small but bustling English town. And truly, so many many Irishmen might have been moved to kill four English soldiers beside a river. There was no certainty Rardove would place Finian near the crime. Irishmen might have been moved to kill four English soldiers beside a river. There was no certainty Rardove would place Finian near the crime.

But even if he did, Finian had no choice. Red was waiting, with the precious dye manual.

"Loud?" he repeated distractedly. He turned to study the sentries patrolling the walls. His heart beat strong, pumping blood to the parts of him that would most need it: legs, arms. He forced himself to look down at Senna. "Ye're always traveling to towns, are ye not? Signing contracts, breaking townsmen's hearts."

"I try to avoid towns." Her gaze was darting around. "As I said, they're so...loud." She glanced up into a flood of sunlight illuminating her face. She squinted into it and gave a stiff smile.

"Keep your head down," was all he said.

Behind them another party of fair-goers arrived, clogging up the gate path. Good. The more distractions, the better. This group looked like entertainment: minstrels dressed in bright, beribboned, flowing clothes, and a monkey perched on one of their shoulders. They'd have stories to tell and tricks to perform.

Senna looked around, her eyes wide. "Is that a monkey?"

Her words were low, but while probably intended to disguise her voice, succeeded mostly in making her sound throaty. Seductive.

The minstrel overheard and laughed.

"Indeed, 'tis, mistress."

Finian groaned inwardly. Senna's disguise would work only if a man didn't come within ten feet of her. Any closer, and Finian could hang her with leeches and a man on the hunt would still know she was a woman to be hunted.

"Come to our show this evening, in the market square," said the minstrel, smiling. He was more interested in a customer than a woman, Finian realized, the tension lessening somewhat. "You'll see a fine show. Half a denier."

Then he bent forward slightly at the waist and winked. "And we're always needing pretty volunteers, maiden. No deniers required for them."

So he was somewhat somewhat interested in a woman, Finian amended dourly. interested in a woman, Finian amended dourly.

A smile tugged her lips upward. She shook her head shyly and turned back to Finian. "I've never seen a monkey," she whispered, grinning at him from under her half-tipped hat.

He resisted the urge to kiss the tip of her exceedingly dirty nose. Wouldn't do to draw attention by kissing his squire.

They drew nearer the gates. The porter stood, an armed guard on either side, giving desultory inspections to the packs and wagons entering the town for the fair. Someone jostled them from behind and then, there they were, standing in front of the porter.

Every muscle in Finian's body was stiff, ready to fight or flee. He nodded, opened his mouth to say G.o.d knows what, when the warden waved his hand impatiently, already looking at the minstrel group behind.

"Get on with you, Irish dog," he barked, and for once, Finian wasn't overcome by the urge to smash a vulgar Englishman's face into a wall.

He hurried them through the winding, crowded streets of the town, Senna close as a skirt hem. The sun was high and hot, heating the busy, bustling world inside the timber walls. Dust rose up under the boots of men and women. The main street was partly cobbled, and lined with shops. Everywhere craftsmen peddled their wares. Leather saddles and embroidery needles, candles and silverwork were on display. In the distance, the distinctive sound of metal striking metal rang out; the blacksmith was hard at work.

Finian propelled them past all these riches, hoping Senna wouldn't stop to haggle simply to stay in practice. He hurried them into the town square.

A riser stage was set at the far edge of the cobbled area. In good times, outdoor feasts were held here, the stage serving as the scene for great tricks and storytelling. In bad times, it served as a gallows. Right now, there was a crier strolling by it, calling out who was selling new wine today. No one appeared to be listening. Perhaps they already knew. Perhaps they had already imbibed.

"Wait here," he said to Senna, motioning to one of three mounting blocks near the town well.

It was shady there, positioned out of the line of slop buckets and chamberpots that might be emptied from second-and third-floor windows, but still within the shadow that projected out from them.

She nodded and slipped wordlessly over, attracting no more attention than the flies. There she stood, hands crossed in front of her waist, feet slightly spread, looking blankly over the crowd. A young, dullard squire, waiting for his master.

He wanted to kiss her.

A line of storefronts ran behind them, in front of which a line of human traffic moved like a winding serpent. In the center of the clearing before them were jugglers telling bawdy jokes, packing people in around them. Pasty makers walked in and out of the crowd, selling meat and cheese. Anyone might stop in this shady spot, idling away an afternoon, for hours at a time. He would be back sooner than that. She would be unnoticed.

If anyone so much as breathed on her...

"I will be back," he said grimly.

She gave a confident, careless nod without looking over. Such insouciance must have taken a great deal of effort, considering how tightly her jaw was clenched. Affecting to lace his boot, Finian bent over, motioning for her to follow him down.

When they were both bent well below the eye level of the crowd, he leaned forward and kissed her lips, swift and hard.

"Ye're stronger than ye know, la.s.s, and I'll be back for ye sooner than ye know."

He straightened and, without looking back, started for the abbey where his spy was waiting.

Chapter 33.

It was cool inside. The k.n.o.bbly stone walls of the abbey kept the heat at bay, and the dim, chilled air wafted like vapor over his forearms and face. There was a short nave, the chancel at the opposite end. Finian bent to one knee, lowered his head and crossed himself, kissing his fingertips lightly. Then he rose and turned to face the small sound that had hissed behind him.

A robed figure moved closer.

"Mother."

The abbess briefly touched his bent head. "This way."

Finian followed her through the nave, through a small door, and out into a sunny courtyard. They crossed it and entered another building. The door slammed shut behind them. It took a moment to adjust to the darkness, but when he did, Finian saw they were in a large room, strewn with fresh rushes. This is where the nuns transcribed and ill.u.s.trated their magnificent illuminated ma.n.u.scripts.

Mother Superior turned. "My son, you are late."

"I was delayed."

"Mayhap too late."

"I couldn't help it."

She eyed him severely. "What matters that, to the Lord?"

"It mattered to me," Finian muttered, and glanced around.

Her square-cut veil framed an impressively stern face. Tanned, from working outdoors in the gardens, he a.s.sumed. "They came."

He looked back sharply. "Who?"

"Someone who wanted whatever he had as much as you do."

"Mother, where is he?"

She pointed to a doorway on the other side of the room. The wide sleeve of her robe gaped open, revealing a surprisingly muscular forearm. Finian was taken aback. "Down the stairs, through the cloister, straight across to the dormitory. Last door on the right."

She regarded him somberly. Her finger rotated and indicated Finian's sword. "That stays with me."

Finian handed it over without protest. The three other blades tucked in various folds of his clothing and buckled to his arm should serve at need.

He pa.s.sed swiftly through the open-aired cloister, where nuns moved like floating blue bells in the bright sunshine, murmuring in quiet conversation. One swept the stone-laid walkway with a whisk broom. She glanced over, then quickly away. Finian leapt up the short stairwell to the dormitory and strode down the corridor.

He gave a perfunctory knock, already pushing open the door. "Red?"

He slammed to a halt.

Red was lying on the floor. A trail of drying blood marked a narrow stream that flowed directly from his bashed head.

Finian dropped to a knee.

"Red?" He slid his hands under the man's head, disregarding the blood that smeared his palms. "Jesu, Red. What are you doing out of bed? Red!"

He went cold in the silence that followed. A fly buzzed by the small window. He could smell the old, cold wood of the shutters. Finian's bootheel slid across the grainy floor of the chamber, gritting loudly as he lowered himself to the floor. He hauled on Red's torso, pulling him into his arms. "Red!"

Red's eyes flickered open.

"Oh, Jesu, man," Finian exhaled. He lifted him up farther, stretched his own legs out and rested his compatriot on them, cradling his head.

"Are you a'right?"

"Good G.o.d, Irish," Red croaked. "No, I'm not all right. I'm about to die. I'm just waiting on you." He swallowed around what was obviously a parched throat. "Trust the Irishry to be late." He squinted at him. "Why you? Where's Turlough?"

"Dead."

"Poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

Finian reached to his side and yanked free the leather skin of water. He held it to Red's mouth. He drank deeply, but slowly. Most of each suck went sliding down his cheek and chin. He was fading fast.

"Haven't the sisters been seeing to ye?"

"For whatever good it's done, aye. The Mother Superior though," Red gave a grim smile. "She was b.l.o.o.d.y wonderful." Red's eyes met his, half-lidded from weariness and pain, but sharp as ever. "Five days ago, when I got here."

"Forgive me." Finian shifted him and he groaned. "I was captured."

"I suppose that'll do. Quickly, now. I was out of bed, trying to get it before I go to meet my Maker. You'd never have found it otherwise. It's over there." He pointed to the wall. "There's a spot, low. Dig it out."

"The recipe?"

"In all its fatal glory."

Relief heated Finian's limbs. It felt like the old days, when he and Red would meet, their interests crossing paths; and trading intelligence, Finian for Ireland, Red for Scotland, both against Edward. Ever against Edward's insatiable appet.i.tes for kingdoms that weren't his.

Finian lowered Red to the ground when it became obvious he could never endure being lifted back to the cot. Then he dug where Red had directed him, with careful movements, excavating a small hollow in the stone walls that separated the dormir dormir rooms. A stream of rubble funneled onto the floor, making a little dusty pile. He shoved his hand into the hole, the skin of his wrist sc.r.a.ping against the sharp, gritty stone. He pulled out a small ma.n.u.script, like a miniature treatise, bound between thick wood covers. rooms. A stream of rubble funneled onto the floor, making a little dusty pile. He shoved his hand into the hole, the skin of his wrist sc.r.a.ping against the sharp, gritty stone. He pulled out a small ma.n.u.script, like a miniature treatise, bound between thick wood covers.

"This is it?"

Red nodded weakly. His eyes had been shut, but he opened them. "Aye. The recipe, coded."

"How did you find it, after all these years?"

Red closed his eyes again. "Doesn't matter. Open it."

A strange reluctance stayed Finian's hand, then he swept the bound pages open.

The colors. .h.i.t him first-the reds and yellows and blues of the illuminations filled not only the margins, but entire pages, bright and brilliant. Images of plants in all shapes and colors, beaches and sh.e.l.ls. Birds. Deep bowls and pestles and huge vats. Oak trees and burl wood, and tiny insects crafted with lines so small and precise he had no idea where they found a brush so fine. And...dancing.