The Irish Warrior Part 27

He nodded toward one of the numerous small alleyways all around, like warrens. They slunk into its dark closeness, hands skimming the wicker-and-wattle sides of homes to guide them straight.

"Where are we going?" she asked, stumbling beside him.

"Nuns."

"What?"

"To the nuns."

But they weren't, in fact. A quick detour by the back gates of the miniature abbey allowed Finian to see the abbess standing grimly aside as three soldiers shoved by her, into the warm golden light inside.

Finian slunk back to where Senna was waiting, a shadowy, lithe figure, kneeling amid the sharp branches of a yew tree.

"Not safe?" she asked.

"Not quite."

Footsteps sounded. He put his hand on the top of her head and pushed her down farther. He crouched beside her, under the copious foliage of the tree. A moment later boots marched by, their ankles at knee level. Three soldiers pa.s.sed, lanterns held high, Rardove devices on their tunics, grimly surveying everything they pa.s.sed.

Finian and Senna held their breaths until they pa.s.sed.

"Come, then," he murmured. "Let's get out of here."

She took the hand he extended and got to her feet. Small and slim, her hand fit perfectly. Her cool fingers curved around the outer edge of his palm. A wisp of hair slid out from her hat, and even that was like tamed fire in the twilight. He tucked it back up with his free hand, and she followed him through the dim evening.

Every so often a page would hurry by, holding a lantern high in the air, while behind would follow rich burgesses. From shuttered windows, candlelight shone down, making pale yellow stripes on the ground. But soon, all over the town, wicks would be pinched out, to prevent fire.

A few shops remained open, alehouses and wh.o.r.ehouses, open by special license and a hefty fee. Finian hurried toward one, its wooden sign THISTLE THISTLE swaying in the breeze. They ducked inside. swaying in the breeze. They ducked inside.

Chapter 35.

"This is not what I thought you meant when you said Let's get out of here, Let's get out of here," Senna murmured.

They were in a tavern. A wh.o.r.ehouse. It was clear as anything.

"Is this the sort of place a king-in-training ought to spend his time?" she inquired.

"I'm educating my squire," he retorted, and propelled her toward a small table in the shadows at the back.

The room was wide. At one end ran a long series of boards, set upon trestles. Behind them, wine barrels sat on their sides, corks plugged on one end. Ale ran freely, too. A few rickety tables were scattered about the room, joined by a few even more precarious-looking stools, but as a general rule, men usually stood and drank until they pa.s.sed out or won enough in bets to purchase an hour or two with one of the prost.i.tutes.

The place was absent patrons, except for one other table. It was early in the evening yet, and Rardove's p.r.o.nouncement had ensured most of the town's inhabitants were at present bobbing through alleys, hoping to find the fugitives and earn coin they could spend here, no doubt.

That other occupied table was wreathed by a group of three loudmouths, talking about the bounty laid on the Irishman, and of their earnest, enthusiastic dedication to finding him and kicking his teeth in.

Yet here they sat, in a tavern-c.u.m-wh.o.r.ehouse, tossing back ale until their bellies must be small, alcoholic lagoons. Soon enough the three of them stumbled to the rooms upstairs, a woman with swaying hips guiding them. Two other women followed behind. A few moments later another woman approached with a tray with two mugs for Finian and Senna.

Senna kept her head down until the waitress left, but it was a pointless effort. Even with a dirty, pale face, her hair tucked up under the floppy brimmed hat, smeared with dirt and sweat, to him, she would always be the brightest thing about. She was a woman from her booted heels to the knotted ends of her hair, and she terrified Finian in a way the prospect of death never had.

And she was a dye-witch? Madness.

But of course, it was true. Now that Red had said so, 'twas clear as anything. She was filled with fire, pa.s.sion. A dye-witch could not be made from a lesser woman.

"So, what do you think of Eire, Senna?" he asked suddenly.

She shifted her gaze back. "Do you mean the marauding soldiers or the mad barons?"

He crossed his arms. "I mean the rivers."

She laughed, quiet, circ.u.mspect. Intimate. "They're long and wide and deep. And they make my belly spin."

"I mean me."

Her lips curved into a smile that would send a monk running for a brothel. "Long," she replied, her voice deep with the burgeoning mischievousness he liked so much. "And wide."

He grinned back. "And deep?"

She pursed her lips and shook her head. "Shallow as a stream."

He scooped up his mug and tipped it her direction. "I'll show ye shallow, later."

She flushed a deep shade of pink and looked away.

The room was deserted now, but for a handful of women cl.u.s.tered at the far end of a high counter, a long flat board set on trestles. Behind it on a high stool sat a tall, striking, but tired-looking woman who had been eyeing them suspiciously since they entered.

"What are we doing here?" Senna asked.

"Rardove's men are searching all the homes. We'll wait here until some fat, rich merchant comes, then we steal a few of his things while he's otherwise occupied upstairs."

She lifted an eyebrow. "Have you always been so enamored of thievery?"

"A lifelong dream."

"What sorts of things things?"

"Cloaks, coin. Whatever might allow us out of these gates at night, appearing to be someone other than ourselves. We'll not last the night within the town walls."

She scowled. Finian sat back, kicked his boots out under the rickety table, and crossed his arms over his chest. "Ye have a better plan?"

"Well, not a plan, per se."

"Desperate straits require desperate measures, Senna."

"Indeed. I simply don't like the idea of robbing merchants, no matter how fat fat or or occupied occupied they may be." they may be."

"Ye wouldn't, seeing as ye are one."

She gave him a level look. "As a last resort," she allowed. "If it proves necessary. But if there is some other way..."

Her gaze traveled over the room and settled on the proprietor and the circle of pretty, painted women cl.u.s.tered around her.

He hoped Senna wasn't getting ideas about wh.o.r.es. wh.o.r.es.

A loud clatter of something falling drew everyone's attention to the top of the stairs at the far end of the room.

A man stood there, glaring at the pitcher that had sailed over the edge and smashed, spraying shards of crockery all around the feet of the prost.i.tutes. He swung drunkenly toward the room he'd just left.

"Crazed wench," he shouted, his words slurring together. "I'll not come here again."

"That's for certain, ye won't!" shouted a female voice. "Not if ye don't pay for what ye took!"

The man staggered down the narrow hallway that paralleled the hall below. He pounded on another door, shouting vilely. The door ripped open. Two men came out, plucking at their tunics and hefting breeches up around their waists.

"Let's go," he snarled. The other men followed as their leader stumbled down the stairs, grasping the railing with a fat, white-knuckled hand. He threw up a palm as the tall, stately patroness took a step in his direction.

"I'll not be treated that way, Esdeline," he said in a pompous, drunken voice. It sounded like 'Ess-dull-leen,' and was followed by a violent belch. "Either that wench goes, or I do."

He waved his hand through the air, as if that would enhance the dire nature of his threat, when in truth it made him look like he was fanning away the belch. And with that, the men all staggered out the door.

The three girls who had been upstairs-the one who'd apparently thrown the jug and the two who'd been in the room with the others-came downstairs. Their faces were furious, although one looked close to tears, and not from anger. Finian could overhear them talking, their angry conference loud in the empty tavern. The defeated tone in their voices carried farthest.

"That's the third one in a sennight," muttered one. "Left without paying."

A few disgruntled ayes ayes followed. The statuesque owner, Esdeline, her name as French as her bearing, sat on a tall stool, presiding over the conference, silent and utterly still, her graceful features rigid and stony. followed. The statuesque owner, Esdeline, her name as French as her bearing, sat on a tall stool, presiding over the conference, silent and utterly still, her graceful features rigid and stony.

"With the regiment that's been about the past few days, things have been better 'an usual." That from the small one who'd looked scared coming downstairs. Finian heard Senna shift on the bench beside him. "They always pay, and good."

Another girl looked at her pityingly. "Aye, but they shan't be camped here forever. They'll move out, and just come back every now and then, like usual. Maybe once a moon."

"Balffe always comes back regular," said the shy one softly.

Senna's face shifted around to look at Finian. It was paler than a moment ago. Balffe, Balffe, she mouthed silently. Finian shrugged. she mouthed silently. Finian shrugged.

Esdeline reached out a long arm and brushed a wisp of hair off the girl's pale face. "Go wash, Maire," she ordered, but her voice was soft. She added, "Use my soap, the lavender."

Maire's face lit up. Senna shifted again, more sharply.

Someone else grumbled, not cruelly, but in an angry, disheartened tone, "Och, we could bathe in lavender every night and that wouldn't make 'em pay us."

More grumbles.

"I am not surprised to hear that," Senna said suddenly, quite loudly. "Sad, but not in the least bit surprised."

Chapter 36.

Finian turned in shock. Senna was already on her feet. He grabbed for her arm, but she started across the room before he could make contact.

He shoved his heels into the floorboards and willed himself to keep his seat. Leaping up and clapping his hand over her mouth as he dragged her upstairs would probably draw too much attention. And if he dragged her outside, they'd be captured in seconds.

Every one of the prost.i.tutes was staring at her as she marched across the room. They looked about two steps removed from anger, more shocked at the moment than anything.

"Sad?" snapped one of the prost.i.tutes. What was once probably a very rosy, bright complexion appeared gray and washed out. "What the 'ell are you to be sad over? What business is this o' yours?"

"None of it." Senna reached the bar counter. "And 'twill not be any of yours, either, given another twelvemonth."

"What are you talking about?"

"What I am talking about is that this is no way to run a business."

A few of the more experienced women formed a tuneless Greek chorus of shock. "What?"

From the background, the tall, regal-looking woman watched in silence.

"That is, if things keep up this way," Senna clarified. "If they deteriorate even a dram, I give the place six months."

"Some of us 'ave been 'ere three years," wailed one young woman plaintively.

"Six months," Senna said firmly, then looked at the owner, who sat regarding her with a graceful face that might have been carved from marble.

"Hush, Mary," said the woman who'd thrown the jug at the officious debtor. She turned to Senna, interested but wary. "I suppose you know a lot about running a business?" Finian, back at the table, groaned. "What would you have us do?"

"Charge more," Senna announced.

A dumbfounded silence swept the room. "What?" "What?"

"Most a.s.suredly," Senna said, and even from this distance, Finian could tell that her gaze went a little distant, as she started figuring. He settled back in his seat. There was nothing he could do to stop this from unfolding however it was going to unfold.

And truly, he admitted, his plan had very little chance of success. He had no idea how provoking these prost.i.tutes offered a better better chance, but, to his own surprise, found he was content to trust to Senna in this. chance, but, to his own surprise, found he was content to trust to Senna in this.