Free Flight of the Earls by Michael K. Reynolds Page B

hadn’t noticed. At least one of her prayers was answered.
    They raced forward toward Cork, as if wolves were clipping at their heels. Soon, an increasing density of homes and busy fields appeared on either side of the road. They passed more and more travelers on foot, some alone, and others in small groups or large caravans, pushing handcarts and guiding pigs and goats before them as they approached the outer boroughs of the city.
    As Finn and Clare continued to get closer, buildings large and plentiful began to rise around them. The pavement shifted abruptly from divot-filled dirt to smooth cobblestone, polished by hundreds of years of transport.
    Although the sun was setting on the city, it was still bursting with commerce, with street vendors selling fruit and vegetables, skinned pigs hanging from hooks, live poultry in wire cages, clothing and fabrics from afar, parasols and cookware.
    Barkers competed for the attention of the streams of visitors, advertising their wares with booming voices rising and falling depending upon the class, or apparent gullibility, of the prospects walking by them.
    The bustling activity was so captivating and invigorating, Clare nearly forgot her misadventure on the road. Yet when the sky cracked with waves of thunder, the darkening clouds spoke to her of the difficulties of the day and of those looming yet ahead.
    As they entered a particularly spacious and active plaza, Finn slowed the cart and locked the brake. His face was already swelling and bruises were beginning to show. “This is the marketplace.”
    She looked at him blankly, not understanding the significance of what he was saying.
    â€œYou’ll find a place to rest here.”
    Panning her gaze around, she saw heavy horse-drawn traffic in both directions, a flush of merchant activity, and old rock-hewn buildings, green in hue from moss and blackened with time. But she didn’t notice anything that would indicate lodging was available.
    Finn read through her confusion. “You won’t need to find an inn. Here, the inns find you.”
    She didn’t understand, but when he winced in pain as he raised his arm, Clare’s concern shifted back on Finn. “What about you?”
    â€œI’ll be fine.” He put his hand to his chin and rubbed it. “But I think they kicked out all me teeth.” He paused for a moment and then opened his mouth wide in full, unbridled laughter.
    She was flabbergasted that the battered old man was laughing at his own calamity. But laugh he did, intermittently slapping his legs and then holding his ribs as if in pain. Had the blows to his head caused some kind of madness? But soon she couldn’t resist the draw of his mirth, and she joined him in laughing.
    The fear and angst eased from the core of her being. Yes. They’d both be fine.
    She gave the wiry, old man a hug and got down from the wagon, and he handed Clare her canvas bag. After brushing off the straw, she tossed the pack over her shoulder. The weight of it reminded her how grateful she was when Finn’s wagon first slowed to give them a ride. It seemed like months ago.
    Abruptly, as it was accustomed to do in Branlow, and apparently in Cork as well, rain started to fall in sheets of frigid water. People in the streets shrieked as they scattered for cover.
    â€œTake good care of yourself, Mr. Finn.”
    â€œThat I will. Good luck to you, young lady. May there be better roads ahead.”
    With that, he snapped his wrists and the cart tugged forward and wheeled its way down the city corridor, passing through frantic people retreating from the rain, some with umbrellas and others simply covering their heads with their hands.
    Sadness swept over Clare as Finn and the wagon disappeared from her vision, leaving her wet, cold, and entirely alone in this crowded square.
    But tugging at her as well was another emotion that began to rise from the depths of her being. Although frightened and feeling