The Irish Warrior Part 44

But seeing as she hadn't a blade, a horse, an ally, or a plan, she wasn't quite sure how she would do it.

She rested her palm on her belly and, bending over the pages, started reading.

In the main hall, soldiers were lying down for the night, curled up against the walls and spread across the floor.

The hall was shadowy and warm. Pentony strode quietly across the room, nodding briefly to any sleepy eyes that he met. He froze when he spotted Rardove, bent over, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

He looked dead. Then, a small groaning sound came from the lump of him. He didn't look up.

Pentony went into motion again, swift and silent. There was much to arrange before the dawn. He slipped outside and inched open the portal gate in the bailey wall. He nudged a rock in front of it with the toe of his boot, scratched a thick-armed Celtic cross into the wooden door, then walked back inside.

He'd have to hope that something inside him was aligned with something inside the man who'd already risked as much for Senna as Pentony had for her mother.

Hours pa.s.sed. The strange, uninvited music drifted away. The night grew ebony and the moon set. Stars glistened and pale scents were carried on the rising wind.

Chapter 58.

The dark of night was dislodged by the pearly gray of predawn. The bells in the chapel were beholden to another hour of silence before they rang out Prime. Down in the inner bailey there was a flurry of activity and sound, muted by the thin mists of night: hooves and hushed, masculine calls of one man to another.

Senna heard the heavy thud of a boot outside the door. She shot to her feet, pages in hand. Slow listening. Heartbeats thudding. Cold sweat shivered down her spine. A mouse could not have scurried by without her hearing. But there was nothing. Nothing.

She swallowed thickly and turned to the brazier, building it into a wild flame, not at all like a brazier was intended to burn. But then, it hadn't been intended to burn military secrets.

She leaned close to blow. The flames flared higher. She reached for the pages.

Rusty hinges creaked behind her. "So. You did it." Rardove stepped into the room.

She spun and tripped over the hem of her skirt. The pages went flying, but she couldn't look away from Rardove. His hair was in disarray, tufted and dirty. His face was flushed from drink, but it was his eyes that terrified her. They were mad. They looked coated in pottage, mealy and thick, but when they caught sight of the dyed fabric on the counter-the shimmering b.u.t.terfly wing she'd made-they cleared.

He picked it up. Felt it all over, then set it down again and looked at her blankly. "These are the pages?" He gestured to the sheaves of parchment scattered across the floor.

She didn't reply. He unslung his sword and extended it, twisting the tip gently back and forth, as if admiring it. In the flickering candlelight, it cast flashing points of fire all across the room.

Her voice, despite all intention, dropped to a whisper. "What are you doing?"

He looked up. Mad, staring eyes. "Taking care of an inconvenience that has plagued me far too long."

He was between her and the brazier. Between her and the door. He lifted the sword.

Senna took a running leap, flinging herself past him. He wrapped an arm around her waist as she flew by and slammed her to the ground. Senna fell, but as she landed, she threw her knee between his thighs.

He grunted and his eyes glazed over. The respite was sufficient, allowing her to roll away. She banged into the brazier. It toppled over. She scrambled backward and flung handfuls of the pages toward the stream of chunky orange coals. The pages scattered like small birds, an arc in the air. They fluttered to the ground. None made it into the coals.

"You b.i.t.c.h, b.i.t.c.h," Rardove snarled. He staggered to his feet and lifted his blade. She was still on the floor, trying to kick sheaves of parchment into the flames. His shadow rose up.

"No!" she screamed and threw up her hands to block the blow of his sword.

"If you do it, you will die," said a voice from the doorway.

Rardove's head snapped around. "Pentony," he rasped in amazement. "Get out!"

"No."

"Get out!"

"No."

Senna scrambled away, hyperventilating and staring in amazement at Pentony, who stood in the doorway with a sword. Rusty, aye, but lifted for a blow.

Without removing his eyes from the baron, Pentony reached behind him and locked the door. Senna almost cried.

A second later, from outside the door, loud shouts exploded, and fists pounded against the wood. "Lord Rardove!" a soldier shouted. "Are you a'right?"

No one even looked at the door. Sweat dripped down between Senna's b.r.e.a.s.t.s and made her palms slippery against the floor as she tried to scuttle backward another inch.

"Get out of here, Pentony," Rardove said, sounding tired, and turned to Senna. The appearance of Pentony's sword, lifted to hover, edgewise, just at the vein on his neck, stopped him short.

A bubble of foamy mucous gathered in the corner of the baron's mouth. The spittle from his lips flicked into the air and exploded in invisible bursts. "I will kill you," he wheezed in fury.

"I know."

Rardove began choking on his words. They squeezed out in meaningless sounds of rage. His face burned a fiery red, his fingers twitched on his sword, but he dared not move.

"I gave you everything, everything, Pentony," he spat. Senna could feel his eyes following her as she scrambled to her feet and stood behind the gaunt seneschal. "Money, a free hand with the finances, direction over all my lands-" Pentony," he spat. Senna could feel his eyes following her as she scrambled to her feet and stood behind the gaunt seneschal. "Money, a free hand with the finances, direction over all my lands-"

"I found I had lost my soul," Pentony said in a quiet, dignified way.

Rardove's face contorted. "You lost that some thirty years ago, when you trussed up the skirts of that nun and defiled her-"

"She was not yet a nun," he whispered hoa.r.s.ely.

"You escaped punishment, of course, due to your royal connections, but I heard hers was severe indeed. More like torture, with the stones and the-"

Pentony's face lost all semblance of being a blooded thing. "She was my wife."

"Nay, priest. priest. She was to She was to become become your wife, if only you could have waited. Waited for her to leave the nunnery, for you to renounce your vows. But you could not, and I was told the baby's screams could be heard at all five Cinque Ports, if the peasants can be believed." your wife, if only you could have waited. Waited for her to leave the nunnery, for you to renounce your vows. But you could not, and I was told the baby's screams could be heard at all five Cinque Ports, if the peasants can be believed."

Pentony's blade twitched against Rardove's throat. "She was my wife in mine heart, and I have carried her there all these years."

Rardove barked in laughter. "She must have been a rare beauty, then, for the only thing I have seen you hold tight to in all the years I've known you is money, steward."

Pentony paused. "In truth, she looked like Lady Senna. And her mother." He half turned his head to her. "Go. Go now."

Senna's chest started heaving, holding back the sobs of fear and sorrow punching at her heart. Tears blocked her vision; she could barely see the floor. Her head was roaring, her heart hammering. She stared at Pentony, slowly shaking her head.

Rardove struck without warning. He took a sidearm swing at Pentony's torso. The blade cut true, and it split open the tunic and the flesh beneath. Pentony's b.l.o.o.d.y body collapsed on the floor.

She screamed, her hands by her cheeks, unable to believe what had just happened.

"Get out!" Pentony called hoa.r.s.ely to her. Rardove kicked him flat onto his back. Pentony's head lolled to the side. A trickle of blood seeped from his lips.

For a moment she and the baron stood there, staring at the steward, then Rardove turned, sweat rolling down his cheeks and neck.

"You're next," he rasped.

She leapt back, spinning, trying for the door. She crashed into the table instead and fell, her legs tangled in the wooden posts. Rardove lifted a foot to step over Pentony and towered above her p.r.o.ne body.

She pushed backward. He stopped her by planting a boot on her belly.

"No," she screamed, thrusting her palm outward. "No! The baby! The baby!"

Rardove faltered, his face bleached white.

Then, with a tumultuous, thundering racket, the door suddenly cracked and was flung open. A black silhouette stood in the battered frame with a drawn sword.

It paused for the briefest moment, then Finian vaulted over the threshold and into the room.

Chapter 59.

Finian wrenched Senna away by her wrist just as Rardove's blade came whizzing by in a horizontal swipe that would have severed her head from her shoulders. Flinging her behind him so she fell and sprawled on the floor, Finian turned to the baron.

Rardove stared at him with red-rimmed eyes. Finian bent at the knees and reached behind him. Grasping Senna's arm, he yanked her to her feet. "Go. Now."

She didn't. Instead, she reached down, felt along Finian's thigh, and yanked out a blade-the long-handled knife she and Finian had stolen from Rardove's armory, a hundred years ago.

"Had I known you were planning a visit, O'Melaghlin," Rardove snarled, his gaze trained on Finian, "I would have arranged a more fitting welcome."

"This will do nicely." Finian circled the perimeter of the room, keeping Senna tucked behind him as he maneuvered her toward the door. Rardove followed their progress, turning in a slow revolution.

"But now that you are here, I shall give you a choice much like the one you offered me: you can stay and have my men slay you slowly-"

"Which men would those be, cruim? cruim?"

Rardove flicked a wary glance at the door. Two armored bodies were slumped one on top of the other, swords not even drawn. The edge of a third boot nudged in the doorframe. It was attached to a body bathed in blood.

"Or," Rardove finished slowly, turning back, "you can leave now and meet the armies at my gate for a quicker death."

Finian kept backing toward the door, Senna behind him. "I would weep for yer soul, if I thought ye had one."

While the men taunted one another, Senna squinted an eye and lifted her arm, testing the weight of the blade versus the weight of the hilt, shifting it between her fingers. Rardove's neck. That was the only thing not armored. No. Too narrow. Move lower. Rardove's neck. That was the only thing not armored. No. Too narrow. Move lower.

The baron smiled thinly. "English rage will be murderous."

"Ye're about to get a taste of Irish rage."

Rardove glanced over Finian's shoulder. She had the blade up, her arm c.o.c.ked. Their eyes met. Rardove's mad gaze didn't leave hers as he said to Finian, "Your woman is going to try to kill me." He sounded amused.

Senna couldn't see Finian's face, but she felt him grin. "She's not going to try. try."

Rardove lunged. Senna snapped her arm down, launching the blade. It sank into his belly. The force of her throw through his armor was not quite equal to his furious momentum, but it slowed him down. And he no longer looked amused.

Finian pushed Senna away and crashed his sword against Rardove's, smashing it aside. The baron lifted his again and their blades met in a V V in the air, holding. Finian moved relentlessly forward, propelling his weight against the baron, then suddenly stepped to the side. Rardove went stumbling forward. in the air, holding. Finian moved relentlessly forward, propelling his weight against the baron, then suddenly stepped to the side. Rardove went stumbling forward.

"Quickly it is," Finian muttered and, taking his sword in two hands, he spun in a full, howling circle, sword outstretched, and swung it into Rardove's torso.

Rardove staggered back a few steps. A bubble, a wet gurgle. Gasping for air, he dropped to his knees. His hands clutched to his belly. He stared down in amazement, then tumbled in a heap to the ground, dead.

Senna looked to Finian, who stood watching Rardove and slowly fell to her knees. It was dark in the room; the candles had all blown out. All she could see was his gleaming eyes. Just as in the prison, when she'd first truly met him.

His gaze shifted to her. Slowly the haunting gleam dimmed and he went down on a knee. One wide hand reached out to her, stretching across the shadows. She reached for it.

"Well, you have, in truth, rescued me," she announced in a wobbly voice, then gestured to the shattered door frame. "But that was purely showing off. I could have managed better."

Finian knelt on his other knee and folded her into his arms. He rested his chin on the top of her head for a brief second. "I know, la.s.s. Ye do everything better."

Then, because it was needful, he pulled her to her feet, placed a hard, swift kiss on her lips, and led them away from the dead bodies and blood.

They crept through the dim castle. At times he jerked on her hand sharply, and they would both halt and press their backs against the wall, their eyes wide, breath stilled, as from another corridor they heard fragments of rough conversation, heavy boots pounding, frenzied cursing. The search was on.

Shouts and the sound of hurrying feet bounced and echoed throughout the stone and wood castle, making Senna feel crazed. They rounded another corner. Finian threw his head into the air and froze.

At the end of the corridor stood Balffe. Armored, sword in his grip, and he stared directly at them.

All the breath left Senna's lungs. The world slowed, each moment ticking by like an eternity. Colors were surprisingly bright; the fiery glow of torchlight, the black of Balffe's scuffed boots, forest green breeches, the dull, sand-colored tunic under the red Rardove surcoat. Balffe's belt buckle and sword gleamed dimly, and the vein on his neck pulsed.

It was silent. Someone held their breath, someone let theirs out in a long, slow hiss. There was a single intersecting place in the corridor, a point where the lines of their sights crossed. Invisible vectors ran at odd angles across the stony s.p.a.ce.

A scuffle came from behind Balffe on the curving stairwell.