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The sun was almost too bright, filled with petulant, gray-bottomed clouds. They gathered in small, patchy bunches, like young, angry men posturing and rumbling to themselves. They had a greenish tinge to them, and roiled within; a low rumbling sound they sent out made the ears hum. The three of them mounted up swiftly and reined toward the gate.
“So, do you know where this sortie is, the one that captured Senna?”
“Aye. By now, easily two hours north. Their leader is Balffe, and for the next few hours, we’ve need to worry about him much more than Rardove.”
“You know Senna’s captor?”
“Aye. I know Balffe.”
“You know Balffe,” de Valery echoed. “Why do I trow that has some significance?”
They passed under the small inner bailey gate. De Valery’s men followed behind.
“Balffe has a wicked temper, and the temptation to right what he sees as an old wrong may prove too tempting for his conscience, which is a skinny thing in the best of times.”
De Valery’s glance moved to Finian slowly. “What old wrong has Senna done him? She can be more vexing than an infection, but she’s only been here a week.”
Finian shook his head. “’Tisn’t her. She’s been with me, and Balffe knows it.”
“And?”
Finian plucked his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger and tugged before responding. “We’ve a score to settle from years back.”
“Plague take me,” he snapped. “’Tis like a hornet’s nest out here, all this swarming of secrets. Is it not possible to meet someone who has no old scores to settle?”
“Aye.” Finian tossed him a level look. “Yerself.”
“Ah.” He settled back and ran his hand over the hilt of his sword. “Well.”
“Aye.”
“So tell me: what did you do that knocked—what’s his name? Balffe?—off his oats?”
“Bedded his sister,” Alane piped in.
De Valery froze. “Do you do that a lot?”
Alane cocked an eyebrow, a weary, faint smile on his face. Finian shook his head and looked away, unamused.
“Balffe’s sister was a waif, sad and slender, with less color than wheat powder. Years ago, when Rardove and my king still pretended to be allied, The O’Fáil hosted a feast. Rardove and his minions came. Balffe came. He brought his sister.”
“And you slept with her?” de Valery finished incredulously. “By the arm of St. Peter, O’Melaghlin, couldn’t you—”
“I did not bed her. I talked to her. She’d been betrothed to a man who was harder than Balffe. And I mentioned to her that her face need not be beaten at each mealtime to serve some dim-witted man’s notion of knighthood, and that there were men who did not whip their women as a prelude to their evening entertainment.”
De Valery considered this. “And?”
“She chose to not return with the rest of Rardove’s party.”
A smile crooked up the corner of Liam’s mouth. “And?”
Finian shrugged, but Alane spoke up into the dark air. “She found a husband who does no’ beat her, bore five children, all of whom have lived, and she gives Finian a hand-dyed cloak every Yuletide, smiling through her tears.”
De Valery was quiet a minute. “Well, I cannot see why Balffe—what an ungodly name—would be angry with that.”
Finian glanced over. “Because we are Irish. Because his sister defied their father. Because the father then proceeded to die an hour after the wedding, no doubt from horror.”
“No doubt,” he murmured as they rode under the outer gates. “So, you stole his sister and killed his father.”
