The Irish Warrior Part 40

Brian shook his head, rubbed at his eyes, and took the mug of ale a sleepy servant was pa.s.sing around the impromptu council meeting. "We'll be better off without her troublesome meddling. I don't know why ye're going after her."

"And I don't know why I don't kill ye," Finian retorted amiably, bending to tug on his riding boots. Alane elbowed his way into the room, already dressed in armor and a grim smile when he saw the men crowded in the room.

Brian scowled and sat down on a small bench by the wall. "So ye're to start sniffing at bent gra.s.s blades, while the rest of us march to war?"

Finian ignored him, his hands taking unconscious inventory of the a.r.s.enal of blades strapped across his body as he strode toward the door.

Brian snorted before tipping the mug into the air. "I say good riddance."

Alane kicked the leg out from Brian's bench as he pa.s.sed by. The bench overturned and the ale spilled. Brian sprawled on the ground a moment, then got to his feet, scowling.

Alane dropped onto another bench and swung his heels up on the small table, his gaze trained on the shadowy young warrior. Finian s.n.a.t.c.hed up his gauntlets and headed to the door. "I'm off."

Ten heads dropped into twenty cupped palms.

"And the men?" someone shouted after. "The muster?"

"I'll be there."

"Ye cannot go without the king's leave," complained Felim. He was dressed in a long tunic whose hem was lifted by errant drafts surging through the darkened tower room.

"Who said 'tis without his leave?" retorted Finian. But he didn't look at the king. "And," he added as he elbowed through the men, pausing as he pa.s.sed Alane, who, for all Finian knew, thought him as mad as everyone else did, "ye'll have Alane's gracious good company until then, so I don't know what ye're all complaining about."

"Och, they'll not have me," Alane demurred, still sitting with his boots up on the table.

"And why not?" Finian asked, glancing down at his lounging friend. "Ye're going to be real busy, are ye, these next few days?"

"I am."

"With what?"

"Guarding your sorry a.r.s.e. Again." He started getting to his feet. Finian clasped his forearm and dragged him the rest of the way up, relief and grat.i.tude rushing into all the cold hollow places that had formed when he realized Senna was out there alone, on her way to Rardove.

"My thanks, friend," he said in a low voice.

"You've saved my sorry a.r.s.e a few times, friend, for much less n.o.ble reasons than rescuing an innocent. And anyhow," he said, nodding to the king, "The O'Fail will no' let me leave you."

The king watched them but didn't say a word.

Amid the cries of their countrymen, they strode out of the room.

The O'Fail tracked him and Alane down the stairs, past the flickering circles of torchlight and down into the darkness. When they reached the doorway to the bailey, he put a hand on Finian's arm. Alane ducked out the door.

"She said to say you would make a fine king."

Finian was running his hand over the various hilts and blades one last time, checking. He glanced up. "Ye told her?"

"Listen to me, Finian, ere you risk your life and the outcome of this war over a woman. You've been waiting for this moment for years."

Finian lifted his gaze from the hand wrapped tightly around his forearm. Long hair hung over the king's shoulders, but there were strands of gray shot throughout. Careworn wrinkles lined his face, and there was a light tinge of bluish haze in the eyes regarding him. In the dim, wayward light, his foster father looked old for the first time.

"You cannot go after her."

"I can, and I am."

The O'Fail's voice dropped to a baritone whisper. "Finian, I'm asking you as a father."

The whetted edge of despair sliced a thin sliver off the surface of Finian's heart. Throwing up his chin he clamped a palm on the king's shoulder.

"Don't, then," he said thickly. "She's my debt."

"You haven't a bigger one than her?"

Finian's fingers tightened on the king's shoulder. "Would ye have me dead?"

"I'd have you recall your loyalties, Finian. She chose chose this. Let it be." this. Let it be."

"And I choose this." He said it loudly, hearing the belligerence in his words. It blanketed the anguish.

"Finian," The O'Fail said sadly. "You could be a king."

Silence boomed through the small antechamber.

"So we're losing you for a woman," he said bitterly, when it was clear Finian had already given his answer. "Who did I raise you to be?"

"Ye didn't raise me to abandon women, sir."

Darkness turned The O'Fail's shaking head into a purpling transition of shadows, but there was no mistaking the warning in his next words: "I could stop you. Call up the guard, cut you down where you stand."

Finian turned and kicked open the door.

"She said she did not need you," the king called after.

"Aye, well, I need her." He leapt down the small set of stairs and started across the bailey.

Alane, who had paused outside the door, said in a low voice, "I'll watch out for him, my lord."

The O'Fail turned dully. "It hardly matters now, does it?"

"We'll catch up with the slogad slogad at the muster," Finian called over his shoulder. at the muster," Finian called over his shoulder.

"You will not," The O'Fail said. He didn't bother shouting.

Finian was already halfway across the bailey and didn't stop. "I will."

Senna made her way toward the sound of running water. The thunder of the powerful watercourse grew loud, drowning out everything else. She picked her way amid the wet rocks, slippery with moss, intent on the ground lest she slip and tumble into the frigid water.

She did not note the shadowy figure tracking her. Kneeling on a boulder, she did not notice it creep up behind. They stifled her scream when they seized her from behind, a wide palm slapped over her mouth, the other sweeping her legs off the earth.

They lifted her over the large boulders that formed a makeshift bridge across the river and carted her away under the pines.

Chapter 52.

She was half dragged, half carried, for about five minutes, then dumped in a small clearing where ten equines and an equal number of armed men milled about. In the center of the gathering was a fire, a circle of soldiers, and block-shouldered Balffe.

Senna's heart crashed into the pit of her chest. She kept her eyes down as she was shoved in front of him. She could see his boots and the stained breeches he wore. The tip of his sword dangled down beside these things.

"Mistress Senna," he said, his voice guttural. "Are you unharmed?"

Just keep your mouth shut, she counseled herself. she counseled herself.

Clad in mail and as solid as a brick, Balffe's hand suddenly appeared before her downturned eyes. He lifted it to her face, pressing the links of metal against her jaw. The river of fear moved lower, pushing against her groin.

"Perhaps you did not hear my query, lady. Are you unharmed, happy and well?"

She gave a curt nod.

Pressing his fingers deeper into her skin, Balffe jerked her chin up and examined her face as if he were inspecting a horse. "Your eye is not so blackened as 'twas a few days ago. That is too bad. Do not give me cause to bring it back to life, woman," he murmured, his words drawn out slowly, like a dagger being pulled from its sheath.

She nodded again, staring at the tarnished hook on the shoulder of his hauberk, bleak terror foaming on the sh.o.r.es of her heart. Another gust of odious breath gusted by her face. "You look well enough to ride."

"I am fine," she snapped. "Now unhand me."

He went still. "What?"

"You have captured me. There is nowhere I can go. Unhand me."

His hand slid farther along her face, until her chin was forced into the webbing between his thumb and forefinger and the flat of his mailed hand pressed against her throat. She tried to swallow but the heel of his hand was pressing hard. Any more and it would be difficult to breathe. He bent near her face.

"Say please."

Senna stared over his shoulder. Balffe tightened his hold.

"Please," she whispered. She had no idea how she'd accomplished it, but likely it was because pride was no longer an issue. Everything had narrowed to a small, bright band of purpose: retrieve the pages and save Finian.

Seconds ticked by, extending into a grim silence. "Do you know what my lord bade me do when I found you?"

At this scant distance, Senna could see the blotches of discoloration pockmarking his skin; huge, craterlike pores clotted with dirt and grime. Close-set eyes huddled together beside a misshapen nose. A score of old scars were seared across his face, shallow gutters of white-fleshed skin no sun could darken.

"I know nothing of what your lord bids or disallows."

He gave his hand a shove, pushing her against the tree. "Know this, lady: you are mine. mine." Then he released her and stepped back, turning to his men, shouting.

"Mount up, sluggards. We're for Rardove Keep. Now! Now!"

Finian and Alane caught up just as Senna was carried into the clearing. They watched helplessly from their hiding place under a bush as she was dragged into the circle of the twenty men-at-arms bearing the Rardove device. Exchanging one swift glance, they knew they would succeed only in getting all of them killed if they charged in.

Finian crept from beneath the bush to his horse, motioning to Alane. With a swift kick, he lifted the horse into a ground-eating gallop, whisking him toward the only hope close enough and sympathetic enough to offer succor.

"Are we going where I think we're going?" Alane asked in a voice only loud enough to lift above the rhythmic hoof-beats hammering on the gra.s.sy earth.

"Very likely."

"This is a bit dangerous."

"A bit."

"Her brother's?"

"Aye."

"I counsel against."

"Do ye now?"

"Seeing as de Valery has probably learned his sister is no' with the baron anymore, aye. 'Tis pa.s.sin' likely Rardove mentioned she was kidnapped. By you."

"Aye, I doubt he'll have liked hearing that."

Their horses were loping easy now, side by side. "Your family's lands were taken by King Edward himself, Finian. Which means de Valery holds them direct of the king of England, who is now marching north to make war with us. And his justiciar's army."

"Aye, it's going to be a regular party. Have ye any other obstacles to throw in our path?"

"Oh, aye. I'm the one throwing obstacles." They slowed to navigate up a winding path. "Will we have enough time?"

"De Valery's manor is less than an hour's ride from here." Finian reined his horse up a low hillock. Alane kept his mount so close that muzzle touched rump as they climbed the small rise of land.

"I was no' worried so much about how long it would take us to get there," Alane replied dryly. "I was thinking more of how long it would take to convince him. Or to get killed."

"That shouldn't take long at all."