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Balffe didn’t wait to see the outcome. He urged his horse on, bending low over his withers, until they crossed over another bridge, under another gate. Another bellowing shout, another phalanx of grunting soldiers, and the portcullis gate crashed down behind them with a reverberating thud.
And there Senna sat, swaying in the saddle, back in the center of the baron’s bailey, ringed by iron and steel and armed guards.
Chapter 56
She threw her hand out reflexively as Balffe propelled her to the top of the stairs outside the great hall. It was so brilliantly light outside, and so densely dark inside, she was blinded for a moment. Balffe dropped down the stairs into the hall, herding her before him.
Rardove sat in his chair on the dais, wrapped in a cape that grew his shoulders out like a crow’s wings, watching their approach. His cold features—nose, chin, cheek—were set in a pinched, translucent mold. Whatever had been golden about his presence before was now tarnished. Only his eyes revealed life.
He rose from his seat like a bird taking flight. Senna wanted to fling herself at him, scratching and clawing. Or, preferably, throw a knife into him. Instead, she forced herself to stumble. Appear weak.
Balffe bent to her, hand extended, but a sharp glance from the baron drew him upright again.
It was utterly silent. Silence seeped from the walls, a wicked, waiting thing. No one spoke. The clatter of a dropped mug brought a clumsy maid to tears. The baron’s furious gaze fell on her, which only made things worse. It took two varlets and a strong tincture to get her huddled, weeping figure out of the middle of the hall floor.
The hall was almost empty now. Only Senna, Balffe, and Rardove. And Pentony. She sensed him there, in the shadows.
“Sir,” Balffe said, stepping forward. He pushed Senna out in front of him. “As ordered.”
Rardove’s gaze slid over her, from head to dirty yellow skirt hem. “Where?”
“Near The O’Fáil encampment, by the old barrows hill. No escort. She’d escaped, or left, or something. She won’t say.”
Rardove looked her over, his eyes glittering. “Certainly she will,” he murmured, coming around the table and down the dais stairs.
She stared at the far wall, where a faded, limp tapestry hung behind the dais.
“So much trouble, over one small woman,” Rardove mused, striding around her. Suddenly, his breath was on the back of her neck, sliding over her like smoke. His hand slid up under her skirts, up her thigh. She shuddered, but his fingers found the blade she’d lodged in a band there. He slipped it free and stepped back.
“I do not know why you came back, Senna—or were sent back—but I will learn. And you shall not like my methods.”
She stopped breathing.
Balffe cleared his throat. Rardove’s eyes darted from Senna’s determined profile, still angled toward the wall behind the dais, to his captain, who obviously had more news to relay. “What is it?”
“They attempted a capture. Just outside your gates.”
“Did they?”
“Aye. The Irishry. And her brother.”
Rardove twitched slightly. “De Valery?”
“Aye. With O’Melaghlin.”
Rardove contemplated this a moment, then swung out his arm. “So be it. De Valery has made his choice. He shall die with the rest of them.”
Senna swallowed thickly, her jaw set.
Rardove nodded to Balffe. “Ready the men. The plain is fat with villagers and their whelp. Gather every male over twelve and put him on the castle walls. Siege measures to be enacted, in the event. Send a messenger to the sortie we sent to intercept Wogan. Tell them to shoot de Valery on sight, should he try to establish communication with Wogan. Come dawn, the rest of the troops will arrive, and we shall be ready for battle.” He looked down at Senna. “By then, who knows what my dye-witch will have done for me?”
No one moved. Balffe glanced at Senna. He shifted uncomfortably.
Rardove turned slowly. “Balffe?”
The soldier’s gaze snapped from Senna.
“Why are you still standing there like a dolt? Round up the men.”
