Throughout the castle, the story was passed mouth to ear. Soldiers and maidservants, livery staff and merchants on deliveries, guards and prisoners, everyone heard of Senna’s defiance.

Foolish, they said. Reckless. Unwise. And in the end, hopeless.

But Senna was not without hope. Nor was she without a plan.

She appeared the next morning, utterly transformed. Docile, compliant, quiet and meek, she appeared on her betrothed’s arm soon after the bells rang Prime, and seated herself quietly at the dais table.

Rardove grinned from ear to ear. “Eat,” he laughed in a bellowing sort of way, gesturing to the hall.

The gathering shifted uncomfortably. Senna was a bruised and battered wreck. Her smashed fingers were tightly wrapped, but the cloth was stained a pale rose color, the dainty shade belying the violence of the wound seeping below. Her lip was swollen, her cheek black-and-blue. Her hair was pulled back softly from her face, but it was hard to miss the angry red line around her neck. Almost as if she’d been choked.

But whatever the castle prophets said as they stood around the wash buckets that dawn, Senna had hope and a plan.

But, as she stood over Rardove’s prone, drugged body, where he’d fallen on the bed after leading her to his chamber, she wasn’t sure it was the best plan, but as it was the only one to hand, it held great allure.

Had Rardove no notion how many uses some of these herbs had, aside from mixing agents for dyes? And he’d left them all within her reach.

For the rest of the day he would have terrible stomach cramps, and be in and out of a drugged state. Come morn, he would be enraged.

By then, though, she would be gone.

She meant to explore the castle from bailey to dog pens today. She would befriend every person, overcome every fear, crush every opposition, and find a way to the prisons. Then she would free the Irish rebel who’d given her strength in a moment of weakness and have him get her to the Dublin quay.

She had hope, determination, and a plan. What she was running out of was time.

Senna’s younger brother, William, stared at the paper in his hand. “When?” He looked up at the servant, who cleared his throat before replying.

“Tomorrow ’twill be a sennight since she left, sir.”

Will looked down at the missive again, an indefinable disquiet unraveling through his body. Senna had been running the business masterfully for ten years now, so he wasn’t sure why he felt so uneasy. Yet he did. And after a year on the tourney circuit, and three hiring out his special services to lords with ambitions both noble and base, Will knew to heed such rumblings.

Still, this was simply a message from his quite-competent sister, outlining her current business venture. A much-needed one, in truth, after so much of the money flooding into the business went pouring back out again, to plug up the holes created by their father Sir Gerald’s ever-increasing need for coin.

Their father had been cold and distant and for the most part gone, ever since their mother left, when Will was but a year old. Servants had been present for a while, on and off, but mostly it was Senna who had raised him. Senna who had saved the business. Senna who took on abbots and royal clerks and shipping merchants, and spun the faltering wool business their parents had founded into something with the potential for true greatness.

Senna could manage this matter with Lord Rardove. And yet…Will couldn’t toss his uneasiness aside. It’s what had brought him riding north after a servant sent him a message with a query about a collapsed roof on one of the barns, anecdotally reporting their mistress had abruptly gone to Ireland.

To Lord Rardove. How odd.

He lifted his head and looked at his knobbly-shouldered squire. “Well, we’re off again, Peter,” Will announced. “You’ve always wanted to see Ireland, haven’t you?”

The boy blinked. “I have, my lord?”

“Good. Saddle Merc, put Anselm and Tooke on lead.” Will tossed the message on the table and looked at his men, the small entourage he had assembled for various and sundry—often highly sundry—purposes.

“Roger, look lively,” he said. One of the lightly armored men unraveled to his feet. “Find out what you can about Rardove’s activities of late. Attend any rumors in particular. Meet us at the dock at Milford.”

He glanced at the other men lounging about on stubby-legged benches while Roger tromped out, Will’s squire hurrying behind. The small hall of the manor house was suffused with afternoon light, speckled with shadows from the riot of rose vines draped over the windows and shutters. Will looked his men over thoughtfully. They peered back, mugs of tepid ale hovering expectantly before their mouths.

“Did I ever tell you louts I have a small piece of land in Ireland?”

His men exchanged glances, eyebrows raised. “No, Will, you never did,” said one.

Another grinned. “I don’t believe it. You always said you were landless and wanted it so.”

Will shrugged. “Did I? I talk a lot.”

“Who enfoeffed you, Will?”

“’Twas a grant from someone appreciative of a job well done. How could I refuse? ’Twas after that business up in the north of England.”

“That was Scotland, Will,” one man pointed out.

“So it was. In any event, I think it’s high time for a visit.” He looked at them pointedly. “’Tis in Ireland. Across the sea.” They just peered at him. “Get up,” he finally said in disgust.

They did immediately, although one shook his head as he set down the mug of brown ale regretfully. “We heard you, Will. Just didn’t believe it.”

“Oh, believe it,” he replied grimly, following them out the door. “Something is amiss in Ireland. I’m going to find out what it is.”

Finian knew something was amiss the moment he heard voices coming down the corridor. One sounded drunk.

From out of the darkness, two soldiers escorted a stumbling third down the narrow corridor that ran in front of the cells. They wrenched opened the squeaking iron door to his right, tossed the mostly limp body in, locked the door, and strode away.

Finian waited until the flickering torchlight faded to nothing. Only a thin band of pale gold, sunset light came in through a high, slitted window, but it made the chamber glow with a stony amber aura. He turned to his new prison mate.

“What the hell are ye doing here?”

The soldier shook his head blearily, as if he was shaking off sweat. Or blood. He lifted the back of his hand to wipe across the corner of his mouth. Blood.

“’Twash fightin’,” he mumbled. “And drinkin’. And sayin’ shtuff about his lordship. And then I hauled off and slugged—”

“That’s not what I paid ye for,” Finian said coldly.

“Know that,” he mumbled. “Wife left me t’day. For the miller. Sho sorry.” He waved his hand unsteadily. His legs gave out and he slithered to the floor. His head dropped forward, chin onto chest, then his entire body tipped sideways. He was snoring by the time his skull hit the ground.

Finian tilted his head back until it touched the stone wall. He stared at the shaft of golden light coming in through the slit.

“Now how am I going to get the hell out of here?”