Amazing. She was amazing.
“I was not the thief caught in a hold in the company of her four-footed kin,” he reminded her gruffly.
“Aye, fortune turned against me at the last.” Deirdre straightened her shoulders. “But not, I think, the lady Orna. She is on her way to a Welsh monastery with the fisherman you so thoughtfully provided.”
Alric stiffened in alarm. “You there!” he barked at the guards watching warily from the dock. “See what has become of Wimmer and the other captives.”
“So much for the worth of your guards,” Ricbert jibed.
“I’ll deal with them later.” His head was a roar of hot blood and anger, mixing, boiling to the point of explosion. Or was that his stomach? Maybe both.
“That beguiling mix of fire and ice puts me in mind of your mother,” Lambert observed with a contrary mix of melancholy for his loss and admiration for the captive.
“She’s nothing like Orlaith.” Alric’s sharpness afflicted no one but himself. He pressed his fingers to the spot on each temple where blood and thunder were sure to erupt at any moment. He dared not give it sway, lest it embolden the rebellion in his gut.
“Gone!” one of the guards shouted from the deck of the Wulfshead.
“No one but the priest,” the other chimed in.
Next to them, a sluggish Wimmer shook his head back and forth in disbelief.
Slashing a disparaging look at Deirdre, Alric was met with yet another twist of the knife to his pride.
“I told you as much,” she gloated.
“So the wolf has been outwitted by the church’s little dove,” Ricbert chided. “And one who is far more fetching in that shirt than you ever were.”
“This one is no dove.” Alric was sorely torn between punching his half brother and shaking the satisfaction from his captive’s face. With a low growl, he slung Deirdre at Ricbert. They deserved each other. “But she’s yours if you have coin enough. Guards!” Humiliation did not sit well with his nature, and Alric had had his fill of it.
“Then you shall be dealt with,” Alric added, his promise stopping the wash of relief on his men’s faces.
Suddenly, a slap resounded, jerking Alric’s attention to where Ricbert held his jaw in open astonishment.
“Touch me like that again, sir, and I will serve your liver to you on your own blade.”
“Why you impudent—”
Alric caught Ricbert’s fist a breath short of the defiant jaw Deirdre presented. She wouldn’t last long. Life or that spirit, one of them would be beaten out of her. “Don’t bruise the merchandise until you own it,” he warned lowly.
Lambert raised a brow. “I wouldn’t be too hasty, Son. She might be worth keeping for yourself.”
“I’d rather keep this pounding head.” Alric seized Deirdre by the arm and half-dragged her to the gangway, then shoved her into the custody of the guards rushing up to meet them. “Take her to the slave quarters. She’ll serve in place of the other, even if she’s God’s own daughter, though I think she’s more likely to be Lucifer’s kin. Try to stay alert until she’s under lock and key this time.”
“Aye, Cap’n.”
“I can walk without your help,” Deirdre announced, surprising the guards by pulling away with more strength than they’d given her credit for.
Embarrassed, they looked to Alric for advice.
“Best bind her and keep her on a leash.”
“That’s a bit harsh, don’t you think?”
Alric turned to his father. “Father, trust me. You have no idea. The sooner she’s gone from Galstead, the better for the kingdom.”
“I disagree.” Ricbert’s eyes glittered. “I’ll buy her for my sweet wife tomorrow.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Alric shot back in annoyance—annoyance at Ricbert and, perversely, at himself for hastily pronouncing her fate. The idea of Deirdre in his half brother’s hands was worse than the thorn she’d be in Alric’s side.
He clapped his father on the back, dismissing the thought before it obsessed him. “Come along, Father. Join me in breaking the fast, and then we’ll see together just exactly what treasures await in the hold.”
Gold wasn’t nearly as troublesome as a woman.
EIGHT
I stopped by the Frisian’s compound and had another look at your wily captive. I think I will purchase her on the morrow.” Ricbert tossed the words at Alric as Lambert mounted for the return journey to Galstead.
Imagining Ricbert owning Deirdre was enough to make Alric cringe, but he simply shrugged. “Your money is as good as another’s.”
The inventorying of the Mell’s cargo had gone smoothly. Lambert applauded Alric and his importance to Galstead as the value of the cargo mounted. Torn between satisfaction and a twinge of pity, Alric had watched Ricbert grow more dour by the moment. Eventually his half brother sulked off and rejoined Lambert only when they were ready to leave.
“She’ll bring a high price, Ricbert, and she’s clearly not accustomed to taking orders,” Lambert objected. “Use your head, man. You can find a fine Saxon maid to do a better job.”
Ricbert ignored his father’s derision, looking beyond to where Alric’s second in command recorded the number of kegs bound for Galstead—the king’s portion of the privateer’s take. “At least if she attends my wife, ’twill make Helewis’s company more tolerable.”
Gunnar turned and handed the log to Alric. “All there,” he said flatly.
“Then I’ll see you at the auction, Brother.” Alric smacked the flank of Ricbert’s fine gelding, then offered his hand to his father. “Father, farewell and see if you can talk some sense into your son. We’ll all profit if the Irish wench is sold in the Mediterranean. Her fair features are much in demand there.”
“I might as well talk to my horse’s hind end,” Lambert muttered, nudging his steed after Ricbert’s.
Watching the king drive his horse until he caught up with his eldest, Alric couldn’t decide if the sick curl in his belly was due to the thought of Ricbert owning Deirdre or his pity for Gunnar and Helewis. Sent to escort the lady from Kent for the wedding to Galstead’s heir, his friend had fallen in love with the princess bride. Usually an example of moderation, Gunnar drank himself into oblivion at the wedding festivities and had pretty much been that way since, at least in port.
“You’re not going to let Ricbert have her, are you?” Gunnar broke his grudging silence as Lambert’s entourage crossed the river bridge.
“She’s nothing to me,” Alric observed with typical pragmatism. It was more comfortable than the nagging twinge of guilt Gunnar played upon. “Besides, she’ll bring a higher price than Ricbert can afford. You know his weakness for gambling.”
“And his resourcefulness when he sees something he wants,” Gunnar reminded him. If a woman he loved were subject to Ricbert’s abuse, like as not, Alric might be as bitter. He wouldn’t wish that on his worst enemy. Unbidden, the memory of his captive’s rebellious face looking up at him from the hold rose to plague him. Surely someone would outbid Ricbert. And then what? Abuse by a stranger? With her temperament, she would invite more beatings than kindness.
Shaking her tear-stained, bedraggled image from his thoughts, Alric checked the total of the numbers he’d recorded and smiled. Gunnar had come within the price of an ox of determining the cargo’s value just by estimation. “I don’t know why I bother to do this.”
“Because you are a heartless and distrusting son of Thunor.” Gunnar clapped him on the back. “What say we open this keg, since it’s already been tapped, and share it with these hearty fellows?”
Alric ignored the good-natured taunt. “Are you certain you are up to it?” He’d already put the keg aside for just that reason. It had been tapped, probably for use on the voyage, and his men deserved a respite after their hard work.
Gunnar took his cup from his belt and turned the tap. “Up to it, down to it, and ready for it.” When nothing came out, he kicked the small barrel.
“That always works,” Alric quipped wryly.
Grimacing, Gunnar put down his cup and lay the barrel on its side, shaking it. “It’s heavy enough to be full, but I can vouch that there’s no liquid in it, unless it’s thick as grain.”
Alric tested it himself and heard no friendly sloshing sound. Whatever was in the container had been packed solid. He stood back as Gunnar took a small axe and split the top.
The splintered wood gave way to a landslide of blue wool, followed by the jingling of coin and scatter of velvet purses. Gunnar shook the barrel more, eyes rounding as more spilled out.
“By Woden’s eye, will you look at this!”
Alric was looking, but instead of the treasure consuming his mind, it was the face of his crafty captive that seized it. Now he knew why the ornate treasure chest had been empty.
Gunnar glanced up. “Our captive again?”
“The mistress of deceit.” A mix of anger and admiration filled his voice as Alric picked up one of the pouches. Emptying into his palm were jewels enough to bedeck a royal family—assorted shades of red, blue, amber, and purple. “And I think ’tis you who owe me the round of drinks. This must be where she hid the treasure that had been in the chest.”
“Resourceful little nun, isn’t she?”
“If she’s a nun, I’m Woden himself.”
He helped Gunnar shove the coins back into the barrel. They’d count it in the warehouse, away from the curious onlookers who’d begun to gather about them. Carefully, he picked up the blue wool and shook the remaining coins out of its folds. A brilliant flash caught the sun and threw it in his eyes, nearly blinding him. It was a brooch … a lady’s brooch.
He felt a blow in his chest—hard and without warning—as if his stallion had kicked him soundly. The sun beamed warmth onto his torso, yet ice surely formed in his veins as he stared down at the piece, his thumb tracing the shape and texture of it. Set in the pure gold, heart-shaped circlet were sapphires and rubies …
The arrangement—the large ruby followed by smaller tiny ones set in the tapered pin—crossed the sapphire-studded circlet in exactly the same pattern that was on his cloak.
“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” Gunnar teased.
Alric shook himself. It couldn’t be, but it was. “I’m not sure I haven’t. Look at this closely. Where have you seen it before?”
Gunnar picked up the keg as if it weighed nothing, glanced at the cloak, and shrugged. “I haven’t. Believe me, if I’d seen a piece of workmanship like this, I’d have remembered.”
“Not in the gold and jewels themselves,” Alric snapped, accompanying him into the warehouse. “It’s the pattern on the cloak my mother made for me. I showed it to you once … never mind. You were probably too drunk to remember.”
But Alric had not forgotten. The image and his mother’s words were indelibly etched in his mind …
“God also revealed to me your earthly kingdom. Its colors are the royal blue of a sky lighted by the moon and its full consort of stars … and the gold of your hair.”
Just like the cloak he now held. He examined it more closely, its royal soft weave and the gold fringe undoubtedly belonged to a noblewoman, perhaps a queen or princess—surely not the troublesome waif who posed as a nun? But then, hadn’t he suspected as much from Deirdre’s behavior? She was clearly accustomed to having her own way, to giving orders rather than receiving them. Humility was not part of her demeanor nor of her vocabulary.
“And the symbol on the cloak I made for you. You will know it by that.”
It matched the brooch exactly What were the odds of that happening by chance? He’d scoffed at such things … until now.
“And your earthly kingdom, Son, will be won by love.”
Alric chuckled humorlessly. Therein lay the determining factor. He had no love for his captive; she was more worrisome than a gnat.
So it was all nonsense, and this similarity between brooch and cloak nothing more than coincidence. It had to be.
Yet … he traced the design of the brooch and heard his mother’s words, heard the promise he had given her.
Another frisson of ice skimmed his spine, his scalp. Prophecy aside, was he willing to dishonor his mother by dismissing her beliefs?
His own doubts and lack of beliefs aside, was he willing to allow Ricbert to own Deirdre? To use her? To break her spirit, irritating though it was? He’d successfully ignored that question all day … until now. And now …
Now it was impossible.
“I knew you wouldn’t let Ricbert have her,” his friend called as Alric hastened out of the building.
NINE
The stockade was dusty and filled with the scent of the unwashed bodies of Britons captured during a border raid and of a few Saxon miscreants. The women, separated from the men by a wattled wall, were fewer in number. Deirdre learned that the majority of the females had been taken in retaliation for a cattle raid on Galstead’s border.
“That’s outrageous,” she exclaimed to her talkative cellmates upon hearing what had transpired. Her opinion of her captors sank lower—something Deirdre hadn’t thought possible.
“And that bloody Ecfrith claimin’ to be a Christian.” The young Welsh woman seated against the wall of the compound next to her swore, rolling her pale eyes heavenward. Ainwyn was typical of her people, with wild raven black hair, fair complexion, and fire in her heart. “’Twas not just unsportin’, but outright heathenish.”
Cattle raiding had been a way of life among the Celtic peoples since the earliest of times and was often considered an art form of wit and daring more than a crime. With the general peace in Erin—for there were always minor wars between this faction or that—such excitement helped keep the warriors in practice. But war or sport, no king worth his royal bench would tolerate the taking of the members of the offending clan as anything more than hostages to be held until the livestock was returned. If blood was shed, which sometimes came to pass, then high justice promptly intervened to settle the matter according to the law.
“May the good Lord have mercy on us.” Ainwyn crossed herself. “For all the churches they build, these men are no more Christian than the devil ’imself.”
And this was the entrance to his world, Deirdre suspected. The auction was to take place on the morrow. Meanwhile, any prospective buyer had the right to inspect the captives ahead of time. Prisoners not sold to local lords would be transported by ship to Gaul, and then on to Rome. She closed her eyes. Had Cairell been treated any differently, since his captors knew he was a prince?
Deirdre prayed so. She’d seen swine fed better fare than the dried bread and sour wine passed to them during the noon repast. By focusing on the tantalizing scent of the food stalls nearby, she’d managed to take a few bites before the sight of something crawling in her portion did away with her appetite altogether.
Nearby, the door to the prison yard opened, and two of the Frisian guards entered. At least Deirdre thought they were. To her, Frisians and Saxons were no different, although they seemed to enjoy a friendly disdain for one another, like siblings from the same womb. They looked alike and spoke a similar if not the same language.
Ainwyn pulled herself to her feet. “Faith, here we go again.” The woman inadvertently touched the bruise on her cheek, her punishment for rebelling against being examined and fondled. Deirdre had endured it with cold dignity, but if looks could kill, there were three less men who would exploit the plight of her sisters in bondage—including one Prince Ricbert.
Of all the vermin, it was he who made her feel the filthiest. His very touch felt like violation of the crudest manner. It was he who broke her silence.
“Crown a pig, it’s still a pig.”
But for the Frisian’s intervention, she, too, would have been bruised. The trader warned the prince that one of the slaves had already been marked that day, and no more would be tolerated. Instead, Ricbert knocked the wind from Deirdre with a promise. “Consider this one sold, si
r,” he drawled, running the tip of his manicured finger along the curve of her face and down her neck to where her chest stilled. “Perhaps lying with a pig will teach the wench humility.”
Deirdre shuddered as the words played again in her mind. God spare me. I don’t think I can bear this again. She ached all over from the ordeals of the last few days. Lack of rest and an empty belly gave her body a loud voice of protest at any exertion.
But rather than a prospective buyer, it was Father Scanlan who approached with the guards. Surely Alric had not taken his ire out on the priest as well. Renewed by her ever ready hostility toward Alric of Galstead, she shoved herself upright against the wall and made her way toward the father.
“I thought the pirate captain’s respect for his sainted mother forbade his enslaving a priest,” she remarked dourly.
Scanlan was grim. “I am a visitor, not a prisoner, Prin—”
Deirdre put her finger to the priest’s lips to silence him. “Give the thieving scoundrels no opportunity to increase their reward.”
Cairell’s ransom was lost. Now so was she … at least until the opportunity came to escape. The attempt could cost her her life, but better death than bondage to Alric’s foul brother.
“I came as soon as I heard what happened.”
She led the priest over to the wall, where Ainwyn moved away, affording a spot of privacy, although curious eyes followed their every move. Overwhelmed by the sight of Scanlan’s familiar face, Deirdre abandoned her reserve and hugged him.
“Father, I am so glad to see you! Even if you remind me that you were right and I wrong in trying to retrieve Cairell’s ransom.”
“You did what you thought best.”
Deirdre Page 8
