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She squeezed his shoulder. “We must bring Lord Aodh home again.”
His eyes rounded and he straightened his scrawny spine. “Aye! My lady, aye!”
Holding him by the shoulder, as much to comfort him as support herself, she hurried them though the baileys. They were in an uproar. Shouts and yells rang from one end to the other. People ran here and there, shadows cast huge against walls as they passed to and fro. Both baileys were lit with bonfires and soldiers stood at the ready.
“Run and get Ré and Cormac,” she said in a low murmur that cut through the chaos. “And then bring my cloak. And sword. And pistols. To the front door, now, swift as swift can be.”
Dickon darted off and she hurried through the mayhem toward the keep, throwing off her hood, speaking to the castle folk she passed, who plied her with questions and fears.
On the walls and in every corner of both baileys, Aodh’s men and hers had joined together as one. They worked together to haul buckets laden with wood up the walls, to keep the huge kettles of oil boiling, which could be poured on the heads of enemy combatants who might try to breach the gates. Men and women perched together in the gloom, their bows aimed down in the valley below.
Even as she flew through the bailey, cries of alarm turned to cries of confusion, as the English army began moving out, leaving a smaller contingent behind.
Wicker ran past her, directing men with a stretch of his armored arm and loud, firm commands. When he saw her, he flung back his head and closed his eyes, then made the sign of the cross over his chest and hurried to her side.
“My lady,” he said, his face grim, gripping her arm. “Praise God you are returned to us.”
“We are going to get him back,” she said grimly.
His hand tightened on her forearm and his eyes lit. He went so far as to grin at her, because Wicker’s blood fired as hers did, and he had always been her biggest supporter. “How?” was all he said.
“In the way we have done all the rest, Wicker, by hook or by crook.”
His grin grew. “I’ll ready myself—”
“You’ll stay here.”
His face fell.
Now it was her turn to tighten her hold on his arm. “Wicker, I need you here. As captain of the guard. You must lead the men. You must hold the keep. There is no one else I can trust so well as you.” She squeezed his arm. “I am depending on you.”
Taut lines rippled along his jaw, then he gave a clipped nod.
She hurried to the keep. The shadows of hurrying people were tossed, long and haggard, up across the walls. She charged up the stairs to the keep and reached for the door just as it was flung open by Ré.
He and Cormac stopped short. They stared at her, her bruised face, their own faces devoid of emotion, but their eyes… Their leader and friend had been stripped from them. On account of her.
It all shone in their eyes: they were not exceptionally fond of her right now.
Most especially Ré. From everything she’d been able to ascertain, Ré had been suspicious of her and her value from the start. Suspicious of how Aodh cleaved to her.
All those suspicions had just been proven well-founded, had they not?
“We are going to get him back,” she announced.
/> Astonishment lit their hardened faces. Cormac’s jaw dropped. “Why, I’d never have believed it of you, lady,” he said, wiping his hand over his face as if to clear it of a cobweb.
“Nor would I,” Ré echoed.
“And why not?” she demanded, as Dickon came bounding down the stairs, bundled under so many cloaks and weapons he looked like a pack pony. Behind him hurried Susanna, carrying several satchels and strapped with pistols.
Cormac looked at Ré, scratching his head. “Well, my lady, meaning no offense, but you’re English, and—”
“I am half Irish,” she retorted, reaching for the sword belt first.
Ré looked at Cormac. “And I am full English,” he said in faint rebuke, then took the cloak hanging over half of Dickon’s head and began fastening it around Katarina’s shoulders.
“Aw, I only meant the army out front and all,” Cormac muttered, taking a satchel from Susanna’s arms into his huge hands. “You’re a testy bunch.”
