Chapter Seventeen
The Squire and The Tart Tavern
Wrexham
“Why are we stopping here?”
“Because no one ever comes to this place.”
“Why not?”
“They have the ugliest women in town.”
Paris’ features screwed up in confusion at William’s statement. “And you are bringing us here?” he scoffed. “You are supposed to be our dearest friend.”
“Shut up and go inside.”
With a heaving sigh and a roll of the eyes, Paris stomped through the entry door to a low-ceilinged, small, and smelly tavern.
Because of the market in Shrewsbury the following day, most of the taverns in Wrexham were full, and William had selected this one for a brief respite in their search for the Irish, banking on the fact that it wouldn’t be particularly full.
He’d been right.
The moment they entered, three women rushed the knights, grabbing hold of arms and hands and pulling them over into a semi-private alcove that faced the street.
Paris wasn’t thrilled that he was being clawed by women who didn’t seem to care what they smelled like, and he kept trying to pull away, only to be grabbed by another one.
There might have only been three women, but it seemed like there were thirty.
They were everywhere. Kieran wasn’t paying much attention to them, but rather walking toward the alcove with Dermot in his grip.
That left William bringing up the rear.
In truth, he was having a difficult time keeping a straight face as the women pawed at Paris.
He was blond and handsome, flashy and pretty for a man, so he tended to draw the women to him quickly.
This was no exception. But he wanted no part of wenches who were, in fact, the daughters of the tavern keeper.
They were loud and quite tall for women, big-boned, but not heavy.
They were, quite simply, big women and not delicate flowers.
When one tried to sit on Paris’ lap, the chair collapsed and they ended up on the floor.
William laughed so hard he thought he was going to choke.
But Paris wasn’t amused. He heaved the woman off him and stood up, pushing the other women back and demanding another chair. All three ran for one and then fought over who was going to bring it to him. Paris turned to William in a panic.
“Please let us leave,” he demanded quietly. “I cannot take much more of this.”
William glanced at Kieran, who was fighting off a grin, before answering. “We cannot leave,” he said. “In fact, I want you to ask your admirers if there have been any Irish visitors.”
“Must I?”
William sighed sharply. “We have been all over this town and have yet to even see a sign of them,” he said. “Mayhap a place like this would be preferable to visit because they are trying to stay out of sight.”
“You have gone too far this time, William.”
He shot Kieran a pointed look. “Good,” he said. “I’m sure they’ll tell you anything you want to know, so ask when they return. That is not a request.”
Several feet away, the three sisters had resorted to slapping each other, and Paris was genuinely appalled. “Please, William,” he whispered. “Show pity.”
“They’re returning.”
“Then I am a dead man.”
“I will remember you well at your funeral.”
As William sat down to enjoy the show, two of the sisters came up to Paris, each of them tugging on the same chair.
But one sister, the brunette with hair that looked like a horse’s tail, yanked hard to get it away from her red-headed sister and ended up slamming the chair into Paris’ chest. He grunted with the force of the blow and stumbled back into the wall as William and Kieran burst into laughter.
Paris pushed himself off the wall and pulled the chair from the brunette’s grip, sitting heavily on it but kicking the redhead away when she tried to sit on his lap.
“Stop!” he boomed. “God’s Bones, ladies, bring my friends and me some food and drink. I am too weary for your attentions! Go!”
They did, arguing and slapping all the way. William had tears streaming down his face, and Kieran was so far gone with laughter that his head was on the table, face-first. Dermot was the only one not laughing, for obvious reasons, but Paris was furious with his friends.
“I am so glad I could be entertaining,” he said sarcastically. “How kind of me to give you such joy.”
William couldn’t stop laughing as he wiped the tears from his cheeks, and Kieran sat up, putting his hands over his face and struggling not to burst into giggles again.
“Only you would have that effect on women,” William said, taking a deep breath. “You are so beautiful and alluring.”
Paris had no patience for his taunts. “You are a horrible man, and I hope you die alone,” he told him. “And this place is hell. I hope the food is good, at least.”
William shrugged. “It is better than most,” he said. “But now you can see why it is hardly full. That trio causes men to stay away in droves.”
“I would like to stay away in droves.”
As William and Paris went back and forth, Dermot’s attention was off toward the common room.
He didn’t care about the bickering knights.
The tavern, in general, was fairly dark, with a few open windows allowing the midday sun to illuminate the common room, and beyond that room he could see another chamber.
There were people in that distant chamber, and his gaze lingered on them for a moment, but his mind was turning toward his throbbing hand, tightly wrapped and lashed to his chest. His entire right arm was completely useless, and the physic that William had taken him to at dawn, an old man who was well known in the village, had given him a poppy potion for the pain that was starting to wear off.
He was looking forward to copious amounts of wine to at least help him forget the ache, but here he was, sitting in a tavern with the very bastards who broke his hand.
Life was ironic sometimes.
And then he heard it.
An Irish accent met with his ears, and his head came up, turning toward the common room again.
There were people in there, just a few, but the buzz of conversation could be heard.
He listened closely, trying to pick up the Irish accent again, but more than that, he was studying the figures hunched over tables or sitting against the walls, trying to see if he recognized any of them.
And then he heard it again.
Someone was laughing, and he heard “tá do bhéal chomh láibeach le feirm mhuice.” That meant that a man’s mouth was as muddy as a pig farm, which was a saying sometimes used to accuse a man of telling a tall tale.
“Tá do bhéal chomh láibeach le feirm mhuice.”
That was one Irishman calling another man a liar.
Dermot had heard it before. It took him back to the days of his youth, carefree days that seemed so far away from the man he’d become.
An English servant who fought for English causes.
It occurred to him that the laughter, and the accent, was coming from the group on the other side of the tavern in the chamber off the common room.
When one man turned to another and laughed, he swore he recognized a cousin he’d grown up with.
He turned to the table.
“I want you to listen to me carefully,” he said steadily. “Do not react to what I am saying. Do not look around. Look right at me as I am speaking, for the very men we’ve been looking for are here. They’re in the small room just off the common room, directly across from us.”
William, Paris, and Kieran did as they were told. They looked straight at Dermot, very casual about the revelation.
“Are you certain?” William said.
Dermot nodded. “I am,” he said. “I think I see a cousin I grew up with. They must not have seen me, because if they had, they’d be in our laps right now.”
Paris yawned and sat back in his chair. “How many do you see?”
Dermot scratched his head. “Four, at least.”
“Is it possible there are so few?”
Dermot shrugged. “There could be more we simply do not see, of course,” he said. “I’ve no way of knowing unless I ask. What do you want to do?”
William thought on that quickly. He glanced over his shoulder because he could see the three daughters bringing out trays from the kitchen, so whatever they did, they would have to do it fast. They didn’t want the women involved, and they didn’t want to bring attention to themselves, so he would have to move swiftly.
“Paris, Kieran,” he muttered. “Quickly—out through the back now. I will follow you. Dermot, you are going to go over to the table and talk to your friends. I want to find out how many there are and what their plans are.”
“Wait,” Dermot said, and they all came to a halt, midway out of their chairs. “Then what?”
“Then you will tell them you will bring the lady to them,” William muttered. “Set up a rendezvous. I do not care where it is, but set up a future time and place with them where you will deliver the lady.”
Dermot frowned. “Why am I doing that?”
“Just do it,” William said, waving Paris and Kieran on.
“The chamber they are in has windows, just like this chamber. We are going outside to listen to everything you say beneath those windows, so if you think to betray us, know that I can catch you before you leave this tavern and your throat will be the first one I slit.”
Dermot knew he meant it. Not that he’d planned on betraying the knights, because he knew to do such a thing would be futile, but he was an Irishman at heart.
He was a rebel and a spy. William could threaten and Dermot could comply, but if there was a chance to turn on the English, he would take it.
It might cost him his life, but he simply couldn’t go down without a fight.
He hadn’t come this far to fold, and now might be his only chance to take back the control he’d lost.
He might have the last word in all of this after all.
“You needn’t worry about me,” he said.
“I’d better not,” William growled. “Now—give us a moment to clear the tavern, and you will go over there and speak to them. Tell them you’ve been looking everywhere for them. And make it good.”
William slipped away, toward the rear of the tavern, and Dermot could hear the tavern keep’s daughters cooing and praising Paris as he tried to push past them and out into the livery yard.
Unfortunately, they wouldn’t let Paris go easily, and it was apparent they might attract attention, so William and Kieran pushed all of them out into the livery yard as they went around the side of the tavern, to the small ventilation windows that lined the wall of the chamber where the Irish had been sitting.
As William mentioned, they were just like the windows in the chamber facing the street.
While Paris kept the tavern keep’s daughters busy purely out of necessity, William and Kieran hunkered down to listen.
They heard, clearly, when Dermot introduced himself.
What they didn’t see, through all of the greetings and conversation, was Dermot taking a knife and carving words into the table that was littered with bread and empty cups. When he was finished, the Irish were well informed of the situation. Six simple words said it all:
Tá a fhios ag na Sasanaigh.
The English know.