Part 27 (1/2)

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 s.h.i.+fted 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.”