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“We don’t need smugglers,” Ré replied, reining about.
“Why not?”
“We are smugglers.” He cantered off down the hill.
Katarina started after him. “Where is he going?”
“To our boat,” Cormac said, gathering his reins. Bran followed suit, and Katarina reined around too, their hooves a low thunder back down the hill.
She’d forgotten they had a boat. How like Aodh, to have provided something that could assist in his own rescue.
Chapter Forty-Three
“HOW ARE WE EVER going to get in there?”
The five of them stood outside the English army camp as night fell. Campfires burned, bright punches of dancing flame amid the dark bodies of army soldiers, who were, without a doubt, celebratory.
For good reason. The English battalion had had an easy sailing across a notoriously shifty sea, after having accomplished their mission for the queen with surprising speed and no bloodshed. Even now, their commander had ridden on ahead to inform the queen of their successful accomplishment, leaving the army encamped outside this small town, as night fell and revelry erupted.
On the morrow, they would bring the queen her prize, the Irish rebel. They were understandably and intensely celebratory.
The nearby townsfolk seemed of a like mind. Merchants and vendors and whores streamed into the camp as it lit up under the night sky to sell goods, and a festive atmosphere reigned. An army marching into your town was bad news, but passing by it while on other, non-military business was an entirely different matter. The aspiring merchant—or whore—could make a lucrative showing.
But exultant and celebratory, the army had not entirely relaxed its guard: everyone entering was being searched.
“We shall get in as merchants,” said Ré firmly.
They all looked at the merchants walking by. Every one had a barrel or basket or wagon of goods. The only ones who did not were the tricksters and the whores.
“Can any of you do any tricks?” Katarina asked, watching a trained bear go by.
“I can juggle a bit, ma lady.”
Everyone turned to the great hulking mass of Scotsman.
“You juggle?” Incredulity stretched Ré’s voice as if it was on a rack.
A huge shoulder lifted in a nonchalant shrug. “Upon a time. Learned when I was a lad. Earned a penny by it here and there.”
“Cormac, every day, you become more of a revelation to me,” Ré said in an admiring tone.
“That’s just what ma mam said,” Cormac replied comfortably.
And finally, finally, Bran smiled. Bran who had not smiled, nor barely spoken, since leaving Rardove Keep. In response, she patted Cormac’s chest fondly. “Then juggle you shall, sir. With Ré and Bran as your assistants. And I… I think I shall make a credible whore.” She pulled up her hood and tugged down the laces of her bodice. “Do you think I look like a whore?”
They stared. She’d bathed briefly in the cove they’d sailed from last night, where the water came down over the rocks in a pool lit by reflected moonlight, so it seemed to be a home for nymphs more than men. She’d washed her tunic and her hair, and tucked it all back under the veil, but perhaps… Well, one could not be sure how one looked after several days of riding a horse, chasing an army.
“You’re the best-looking whore I’ve ever seen,” Cormac assured her in reverent tones. He sounded slightly choked up.
Ré smacked him on the back of the head and turned to her. “My lady, you should wait here. We will get Aodh.”
“Yes, with a great deal of bloodshed and attention, which will never do. In any event, you cannot stop me. I am going to be a whore.”
Ré wiped his hand over his face. “Aodh will have my head,” he muttered into his palm.
“I will stand for you,” she assured him. Then Cormac, ever helpful, reached out with huge, beefy hands, and puffed up her hair a little. “They like it a bit more tousled,” he informed her soberly.
She thanked him for the insight.
