by Alexa Aston
“The Council spoke with them prior to this ceremony. They have decided ’tis their wish to reside in Tamescombe as husband and wife. Accordingly, they pledge their loyalty to our people and consent to abide by our laws and traditions, with one exception,” he said, throwing a glare at Elrik’s braies. He cleared his throat. “We have approved. ’Tis our way that rights within the marriage be the same for both, and that each comes to the union in equality. Since Yrsa owns no material wealth, Elrik, who has much, agrees to yield half to her, which she may use as she deems fit until her death. They also give assent that should a time of extreme need arise among our people, the wealth that is theirs will be surrendered to the Council to utilize for the good of all, as is our law for all.
“If there be any here who do not accept this union, speak now.”
If any did, Uckdryd gave them no chance to challenge, for he immediately turned to Branwen. “Lady, you may offer the blessing of health.”
He sat.
Branwen rose. Mabina and Grania each grasped one of the silver goblets and handed them to her. She raised the cups toward the ceiling and murmured words in a tongue Yrsa knew not.
When she finished, she stepped from the dais and offered a cup to Elrik and one to Yrsa. “Please face each other and look into each other’s eyes.” When they complied, she lifted her voice so all could hear and said, “May your bodies be sound, your loins fertile, your home a haven, your days together upon this earth long and your lives blessed. Drink!”
The cups held but a small amount. Yrsa’s first sip startled her, and apparently Elrik as well, for his eyes widened. The liquid hit the tongue with sweetness but rapidly induced a tingling and left a bitter aftertaste. Warmth curled in the pit of her stomach and spread outward.
“You must drink it all,” Branwen whispered, and then she spoke aloud. “By the drinking of this cup, you accept the offering of the blessing of health and peace.”
She returned to her chair, and Mabina and Grania went to find seats among the people.
As Yrsa faced the dais with Elrik, Uckdryd stood. “’Tis time for the blessing of music. Oran, if you will.”
Oran got to his feet, though not without difficulty. Age had tightened his joints along with stealing his sight, but still his smile was wide. He strummed his instrument and began to sing.
As with Branwen’s prayer, Yrsa understood not the ancient words, yet the power and purity of his voice deeply moved both mind and heart. She gained a sense of much love and thankfulness, for the valley, for peace, for kindred and for life. When the music ended, she wiped away tears.
Branwen and Uckdryd joined Oran as they stood.
The three looked first upon Yrsa and then Elrik, whose thumb rubbed across her fingers in a simple gesture of accord.
Uckdryd nodded, as if satisfied, then said, “I would hear your pledge, Elrik of Breda, to Yrsa of Ottham. Will you agree of your own will and by the life and spirit within you to take Yrsa within your heart as your chosen one, to cherish, care and provide for her and the children conceived of your body, to desire and rejoice in her without constraint until the days of your life on earth are complete?”
Elrik’s bare back straightened. He looked at her and though he had yet to speak the word ‘love’, it shimmered in his eyes. “I do so agree of my own will.”
She gasped at the strength and conviction in his tone and never took her gaze from his as Uckdryd repeated the vow for her. “I do so agree,” she said, “of my own will.”
He clasped her hand within the warmth of his grip.
She felt the pulse of his heart and it beat in time with her own. A sense filled her of having finished a lengthy and taxing journey only to set out on another, most wondrous. The feelings that now suffused her were too many and varied to sort, at least until later. But gladness surely counted as the one most obvious she shared with Elrik of Breda.
For the first time, Uckdryd of the fractious temperament smiled. He seemed to hold insight into her thoughts, for he said, “Go then, children, and begin your new journey. May it be blessed.”
Many voices cried as one, wishing them joy, fertility and peace.
’Twas over. She caught the gaze of her new husband and grinned.
He laughed and lifted her off her feet to clasp her against his naked chest. With his left arm around her waist and his right hand thrust into the hair at her nape to cradle her head, he kissed her and kissed her, and kissed her some more. Only when Betek roared a mirthful ‘Enough!’ in their ears did he desist.
He lowered her slowly to her feet.
She could not have spoken had her life depended upon it.
With the most gentle of touches, he rubbed his thumb across her lips. “I will finish later what I just began, my innocent rose.”
’Twas a promise.
Chapter Thirteen
“By the saints, I cannot believe the man has eluded us again.”
William echoed Estienne’s thoughts. They had tracked Dugald the Scot since they spotted him leaving the hall earlier that day. As the sun began to set, those signs disappeared as if a great bird swept him into the air and carried him away with the wind. They continued for a while in the direction he went, but night now fell.
“If Dugald turned off, we missed it,” Estienne said. “We are both tired, hungry and—” He sniffed first at his armpit, then at William and wrinkled his nose. “Sorely in need of a bath. Our duty now is to get back to the vale and report to Elrik or Betek. I like not these signs we continue to encounter of a large number of men arriving from the north and moving about out here. Dugald is up to mischief, and methinks ’tis naught of good for Tamescombe or our Brábanter allies.”
“I could do with a hot meal,” William said, lifting his face to the sky where the evening star shone. “Or even a cold one. Aye, and a soft bed would not go amiss. Think you we will find either with the folk of the valley?”
“There is but one way to find out.”
“Then lead the way, Captain. I am but your First, no less faithful, but certainly less testy than your horse.”
Estienne snorted but went ahead. They made it to the eastern escarpment without incident. He sought the dark ribbon of the path but paused when not far away, atop the summit halfway between the north and east cliffs, the light of the moon revealed moving silhouettes.
He sank to the ground, pulling William with him. “Look.”
The shadows, many of them, descended the cliff face into the valley.
“We live simply,” Keir said, “and call few possessions our own, but as you see, we live well.”
Elrik speared a mouthful of tender mutton with his eating knife. Seated at the chief’s right hand for the wedding feast, he faced Branwen across the table. Yrsa was tucked close against his side. Pryderi, commander of Tamescombe’s fighting forces, sat beside the healer.
At the table’s other end, Betek ate too much, appeared to drink more than was wise and thoroughly enjoyed the merriment. Oddly enough, his friend’s companions were blind Oran and the prickly Uckdryd.
He shifted on the bench and his shoulder and arm brushed those of Yrsa. Her hand sought his. Fingers entwined, they shared food, drink and hot, lustful glances. Her warmth, intoxicating scent and the overt desire in her eyes provoked his senses almost beyond bearing. He wanted to carry her from this crowded cavern to their private bower and love her through the remainder of the night…and the next day, and—
Howbeit, the meal had only begun. They could not yet leave. Not with courtesy.
“Still,” he said in answer to Keir’s comment about living well, “this is an exceptionally isolated community. It lies a goodly distance from Carleol, Toresbi or Penrhudd. How do you obtain that which you need but which you cannot make and is not supplied by your animals?”
Keir tore a hunk of roast venison from the bone with his teeth and then proceeded to talk around the mouthful of meat. “There is a village downriver a league and a half to the west. We trade with them for some things
.”
“Aye, and twice a year,” Branwen said, “a peddler and his son come through. They bring many useful items. On occasion, our youth travel south to visit our combrogi, our kindred, those who remain in Cymru, or theirs come here. There is profitable commerce between us. Also, the sharing of knowledge enriches our lives and sometimes, our bloodlines are enhanced through marriage.”
Keir grinned. “We also trade our special mead for their very fine wine.”
“Aye,” Elrik said. “I cannot remember when I have tasted better of either.” Or more potent.
The wine drawn from the casks against the far wall was good. He glanced at his goblet of chased silver in a pattern of intertwining leaves and birds adorned with gilt. In fact, it seemed the people of Tamescombe, like folk everywhere, brought out their best for celebrations. Earlier, in the hall, he noted the sturdy but unexceptional quality of the clothing, utensils, and other articles utilized by the people. But here in the cavern evidence of extraordinary wealth was everywhere arrayed. Vividly hued wall tapestries woven in silk thread. Gold inlaid plates at the head table. Dishes at every table crafted in silver, bronze, or copper. Serving pieces, very old, fashioned of beautiful glass in hues of green, yellow and blue. Expensive cloth. Jewelry of costly metals and fine beadwork, such as the unusual medallion of gold around Keir’s neck and the purple and red beads in Branwen’s necklace. Aye, including the jewels in Yrsa’s hair.
Keir’s goblet took first notice as the most incredible item of all. ’Twas fashioned of some form of glass in which a raised image was formed of an ancient warrior doing battle with a coiling, mythical beast. But when Keir raised it for the toast and the torchlight caught it, the glass changed color from milky green to translucent red. All glass was rare and costly, but to his knowledge and experience this piece was unique and thus its value reckoned beyond price.
From whence had come such riches?
He bent to Yrsa, who had at that moment turned to him from speaking with Branwen. Her eyes were wide and happy but appeared a little dazed.
His lips twitched. He already felt a definite tingle from the wine. Mayhap it made his bride purely sotted.
When she reached for her goblet, he laid a palm over it. “Methinks you have had enough, wife.” She frowned, but before she could speak, he said, “The wine is very strong. Do you wish to sleep through our wedding night?”
“Nay!” At his grin, she moderated her tone. “I will drink no more, husband.”
His voice quiet so as not to be overheard, he said, “Observe, Yrsa. Have you noticed aught of special interest here this night?”
She blinked as if attempting to clear her thoughts and obediently gazed around the cavern. “Beyond that we celebrate under the ground instead of on the surface as reasonable folk would do, nay. Why do you ask?”
“Examine Keir’s goblet and the other items on the tables. The clothing. The tapestries. What do you see?”
This time, she really looked. “Freya’s tears!”
“Aye, and I do suspect many tears were involved in bringing these things here, but very long ago. They are old and very precious and methinks, all that remains, except for tradition, of the life left behind by the ancestors.”
A sweet smile graced her lips. “I am glad for their sakes they have something good to remember, to hold onto out of the pain of their past.”
“As am I.” His heart leapt, for her kindness charmed. She had not consciously registered the wealth laid out before her in this place but now, aware of it, no greed tainted her gaze. He loved her for that all the more.
He turned to Keir to find the chief’s gaze upon him. “Of what do you think, Elrik of Breda? Were I you, my thoughts would be on naught but bedding my woman, yet you seem…distracted.”
Elrik ran a finger around the rim of his gold inlaid glass plate. Deliberately, he let his gaze linger on the medallion at Keir’s throat and the priceless goblet in the chief’s hand. “Did Dugald the Scot ever join your people for a celebration?”
Keir’s eyes narrowed. “He did not. He visited here oft, but he was not of us.”
The proffered trust astounded him, that already these people considered him, with Yrsa, so much a part of them as to reveal so potentially perilous a secret.
“Elrik!” The shout came from Betek.
Elrik raised one brow as his friend stood—if weaving on his feet could be considered ‘standing’—and raised his goblet. “A final toast,” Betek said loudly, “ere you retire with your beautiful wife.” He paused until certain he had the attention of all at the table. “To the best friend a man could have.” He belched, looked momentarily confused by the sound and then leered at a lovely, buxom, brown-haired lass seated at the next table. “And to the women in our lives.”
The lass blushed but also laughed and frankly eyed him up and down.
Betek turned back to Elrik, steadied by Pryderi’s hand on his elbow. “And to the most special woman here this night, Yrsa of, of…ah, never mind. To Yrsa!”
Elrik raised his cup to his wife and then rested his elbows on the table to enjoy her happy response to the acclamation. Others had spoken of contentment, but their meaning always escaped him. Until now. This marriage, like the decision to spare her life, was right. Only a fool would fight it. He leaned toward her, intent on withdrawing to their bower.
An urgent bellow from the door, followed by a piercing feminine scream, brought him hastily to his feet, instead. The unmistakable clash of battle echoed through the doorway.
Pandemonium erupted. Chief Keir roared commands.
Elrik reached for his sword, only to remember tradition required that during the ceremony, all weapons be left in the bower with the rest of his clothing.
He threw a look to Betek, from whom all indication of drunkenness had dropped, as one would release a cloak. As he suspected, his friend was far from sotted.
“I must retrieve my sword. Get Yrsa secured with the rest of the women and children.”
Betek leapt over the table, scattering utensils, and caught Yrsa’s arm. “Go, my friend!”
Groups of women with children in hand, surprisingly calm, hurried past him to the back of the chamber. By the time he donned his shirt and boots and caught up his sword to return, the fighting had spread into the cavern. He rushed to join battle and heard one of the attackers scream. He recognized the word, a Gaelic curse.
Scots.
Dugald was behind this, the blackguard. Where was the man?
His blade ran red as he fought beside valley troops to hold back the enemy, yet more advanced through the doorways.
He jerked his sword from the chest of a dying enemy and turned to seek another, but paused when he noticed several Scots fighting their way toward the rows of wine. Unlike the others, these bunched together around a single man with dark hair.
Dugald.
Forced back into combat by three soldiers intent on dividing his attention to finish him off, he lost sight of the group. With timely aid from one of the vale warriors, he dealt with them and then located Dugald and his men. They lifted a number of smaller casks away from one section of the cavern wall.
What did they do?
They surged together once more and then broke apart and rushed to join the fight.
All except Dugald. Where was the Scot?
Elrik glanced around. The skirmish had moved a little away from his position. He ran to the rows of wine and approached the empty section of wall between the displaced casks. He heard naught and risked a rapid glance around those still stacked together. Naught. Yet Dugald must be somewhere nigh. A man could not simply vanish.
He let his gaze roam the wall until an irregularity in the rock snared his notice. He moved to examine it. Ah, of course, a secret door. He pushed and then jumped back, sword at the ready when it opened soundlessly. It gave into a dark corridor.
No one attacked. He moved into the passage, wishing for a torch, but caution argued the dark was sensible. Mayhap no one at the other end woul
d see him coming.
He stalked along the corridor for some distance before he spied the first gleam of light. Then he hurried forward, slowing only as he approached the chamber at the end. From within drifted metallic clinks and jangles. The noises stopped abruptly.
Dugald stepped into his line of sight. A smile curved the Scot’s lips. He held his sword in one hand, a finely crafted knife with a jeweled handle in the other. “Come inside, Elrik of Breton. I admit I am not surprised to see you, though I had hoped otherwise.”
He obeyed, only to pause as the chamber came into full view. One rapid glance in the light of several lit torches revealed a space much larger than the bower room, but considerably smaller than the main cavern.
“What do you do, Dugald?”
He asked the question even as he recognized the answer. The Scot was a thief.
Dugald flung out his hand that grasped the knife. “Look around. I have come for the treasure, of course.”
Elrik had no need to look a second time. Light reflected off a thousand shining surfaces, shimmered against coin-filled chests, objects of precious metals, ancient glass, jewels and beads, and rich fabrics of many hues. The wealth on display in the main cavern comprised but a tithe of the principal horde. Treasure, indeed.
He repeated his question. “What do you do, Dugald?”
“Think not I seek all of this for myself, Brabáncon. I am merely an…ambassador, shall we say, of my king.”
“Malcolm? What has he to do with this attack?”
“Rumor of treasure reached him two years past.” Dugald shrugged and thrust the dagger into his belt. “You know kings. Never have they enough coin to satisfy them. He sent me in search of the truth behind the rumor. As you see, I found it. Now I prepare to take it to my sovereign, though he swore me to silence, and only a few of my most trusted men know the true reason we are here. The king wishes none to know he has gained this wealth until ’tis secured safely in his vaults. Truly,” he said, correctly interpreting Elrik’s raised brows. “’Tis my intent to insure Malcolm receives all of it. He has promised ample reward to me and my men.” The smile slid from his face. “You cannot stop me, Brabáncon. The people of this valley are fools, believing they can keep as their own what rightfully belongs to their king.”
