The Irish Warrior

by Kris Kennedy

  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 coarse, 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). 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 passed. 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, God, 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, assessing 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 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 Wishmé mollusks. I need the dye they create.”

  “Oh, my lord, the Wishmés 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?”

  Her mother? What did Rardove know of her mother? And what did her mother know of treatises? She’d known nothing but immoderation. Overweening fervor. Passion. 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 documents, nothing about managing things. Corraling and harnessing the frightening forces of the world. She knew only about running away. And she certainly knew nothing about documents.

  That was Senna’s realm.

  “And Senna?”

  She jerked her attention back.

  “The Wishmés 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 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 Wishmé 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 associated 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 mus
t 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 Wishmés can do.”

  That was all he said, all he needed to say. Everything else came from the scrap 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 God.

  “’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 hoarse.

  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.

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

  He gestured impatiently to Pentony, who scanned the document 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

  “That is not possible!”

  He looked at her with something approaching mild curiosity. “No? And yet”—he pointed to the parchment—“here is the document, and”—he moved his fingertip her direction—“there are…you.”

  “Oh, no, this is not possible.”

  “So you say.”

  Her mind spun away from coherent thought. This was madness. And yet…And yet, forced betrothals happened all the time. Simply not to her.

  She’d spent the last ten years ensuring no one could do anything to her ever again. She’d built a business, created a world, where she would never be beholden again. Never need again. Where she was in complete control.

  It was crumbling to the ground.

  She could feel her heart beating, hard in her ears. Thud, thud, thud.

  “I will not sign,” she said dumbly.

  He blew out a small breath, an impatient sound. “Certainly you will.” He drew close enough for her to smell the leather of his hauberk. It creaked with newness.

  “But why?” she asked, almost in a whisper. “Why marriage?”

  “To ensure you stay. Or rather,” he added in a fit of clarification, “to ensure my rights in retrieving you, were you to decide to leave.” He took a step closer. His gaze slid slowly down her skirts. “And you must know, Senna, you are very beautiful.”

  “I—I cannot. Make dyes.” It was fully a whisper now.

  “Have faith.” His body was almost touching hers. “You can do anything I tell you to do.”

  She smelled sweat and drink, ale perhaps. He lifted a hand to brush by her cheek. She jerked away. He stilled, then very deliberately rested one knuckle against her jaw. She stood rock still, but a strand of hair by her cheek trembled.

  He smiled, very faintly. The moment stretched on. Sweat began to dribble down her chest. She had to actually will her gaze to stay on his, the muscles in her eyes straining to break free. She started to feel dizzy.

  But something about the whole strange, silent encounter seemed to improve Rardove’s humor, because he smiled. Taking her by the hand, he pressed his lips to her skin.

  Senna stared at the back of his head, bent over her hand, stunned and reeling. She was saved the need for a response by a soldier approaching the dais.

  “My l—lord?”

  The baron paused, mouth still over her hand. “What is it?”

  “We found a second contingent of Irishmen. Small, like O’Melaghlin’s. Headed south. They appeared to be scouting out villages along the way.”

  Rardove’s body stiffened. His pale eyes were blank as they passed hers and settled on the soldier, who appeared ready to empty his bladder in fear.

  “Where is Balffe?” Rardove asked softly.

  “He sent me, my lord…to tell you…we captured one, but there’s something afoot. Balffe said to”—he gulped audibly—“to remind you we’re not prepared to withst—”

  “You’ve captured one?” the baron interrupted.

  The man-at-arms nodded. The iron rings of his hauberk glittered dully in the firelight.

  “Question him. Find the others.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  “Then kill him and send his head back to The O’Fáil in a chest, to show what I am prepared for.”

  The soldier nodded and hurried out of the hall. Senna stared after, disbelieving her senses. This was lunacy. She could not survive here. She wouldn’t last a month. A week. Another hour.

  She slowly withdrew her hand from Rardove’s.

  He levered his gaze up to her face. “It doesn’t do to let small insurrections grow into large ones, does it, Senna?”

  It was probably for the best she was struck completely mute. She shook her head, her gaze riveted on his chin. An act of will made her lift her eyes to his. He watched her in silence. Predator. She felt like a creature much smaller than he, and the sensation made her angry.

  “We understand one another, Senna?” he asked quietly.

  She nodded.

  Rardove gestured to the dais table. “Be seated, then, and indulge yourself. The meat was slaughtered just this day.”

  He barely inclined his head and a knight materialized at her side. Strong arms propelled her inexorably toward the table, where she seated herself and fussed with her skirts, her breath coming short and shallow.

  The trestle before her was heavily laden. The scents of warm duck and butter with cooked greens wafted into her nostrils, but the thought of eating made her ill.

  A goblet of wine was placed at her hand. This I will drink, she decided, desperate for something in her belly. She inhaled the ruby liquid, but the rich color belied its true nature. It was bitter and greasy, and she grimaced as she swallowed.

  Murmured conversations buzzed through the hall, punctuated by bursts of gruff laughter, knives banged against wooden plates, and scuffling boots. She became aware of the prisoners standing shackled on the floor in front of the raised dais. Chains creaked as they shifted in their irons. The baron stood at the edge of the dais, talking to his guards and one of the prisoners below them.

  Senna glanced down at the doomed Irish warrior standing with chains around his wrists and ankles. His beaten face held a handsomeness that could not be disguised by the bruises.

  High cheekbones and full lips. Dark, dark eyes. Her
gaze trailed down. Firm, contoured neck, broad shoulders, long, tangled hair. His muscular legs extended beneath the Irish léine, the short tunic he wore, and his feet were planted firmly on the rush-covered floor. Well-defined arms were folded over his chest, his shoulders thrust back defiantly.

  But, most captivating of all, at the edges of his lips danced a smile. His mouth moved, and the baron scowled. The Irish grin grew.

  Although nearly motionless, this warrior emanated energy and life. The intelligence and nobility brimming in his eyes made her want to cry.

  No. This was not right. Nothing in this sordid castle was right and she wanted no part of it.

  “Eat, Senna,” Rardove threw over his shoulder.

  And with that, something inside her snapped like the thin, frozen edge of a pond that has borne too heavy a boot, too many times.

  She lifted her chin up the smallest bit. “No.”

  Chapter 6

  Finian turned, his brows up, the corners of his mouth creased down. The angles of the Englishwoman’s face were thrown into sharp relief by candlelight dancing through the hall. Oil lamps hung from the walls and amber rushlight glinted off her hair, making her glow in a gold-red halo.

  This was the lamb?

  He was impressed. Indeed, the entrance of the emerald angel was noteworthy enough, sufficient to draw his attention from the pain of his wounds and the baron’s gloating. When she removed her hand from Rardove’s sweaty grip, he’d been even more intrigued.

  That she would now gainsay him was worth an exchange of shocked glances between him and the other Irish prisoners.

  Certainly, here was bravado deserving of respect. It would not go well for her, of course, but that did not diminish the act, and was not what he would have predicted from the English, woman or man, foul race that it was. But here was spirit and defiance. And great beauty.

  And she was no lamb. She was a bhean sidhe, glowing fire and defiance and wielding her disdain with a quiet dignity that made Finian blink. Twice.

  How could God, in His infinite wisdom, have given the worm Rardove a thing of such value? This must be due the devil.