A dwarfish woman nudged him with a wooden cup, startling Caden from the nightmarish memory. “If you liked the song, a copper for milady’s cup will bring on another.”
“Aye, I did,” Caden said, fishing a copper from his purse, “though my understanding of Saxon is limited.”
Truth was, he’d rather sit with his countrymen on yon side of the hearth, where he’d understand all being said. Here, it was more difficult, although camping and fighting side by side with Saxon warriors for hire had taught him enough to gather the gist of conversation.
“Milady sings in Cumbric as well.” The little woman shoved the cup at him again. “Have you a request?”
Caden parted with another copper. “Any song in Cumbric will do.” And then he added a silver coin. “And I would like to speak to the lady when she is finished this night.” What was it the reeve called the dwarf? “Gemma.”
Gemma’s dark eyes narrowed. “You have the advantage of me, sir, for I do not know your name.”
“Caden.” A man without a true home, Caden hesitated. “Of Lothian.” For now.
“Well, Caden of Lothian, milady does not meet men after her work here is done. She and I go straight home as decent women do.”
Caden nearly laughed. For someone so small, Gemma’s indignation was big … and sharp enough to whittle a man’s esteem down to her size. “I assure you, Gemma, my intentions are completely honorable.”
One of the dwarf’s eyebrows arched with skepticism.
“I’m come to deliver an inheritance to the lady.”
In essence it was so. Trebold would be hers—if this impending marriage did not stand in the way.
Gemma’s other brow hiked. “You might as well go on and practice your lies on someone else. Milady has no other family than myself.”
Caden pulled the strings to his purse closed and let it fall into his lap. The hard jingle of coin was not lost on Gemma. “There is more coin … just to talk. That is all I ask.”
“Good,” the dwarf replied. “Because that is all you will receive.”
Caden watched as the little woman wove her way through the crowd to where the lovely minstrel finished another melody for a group of foreign merchants nearby. It was a hearty song that they sang with her about a cuckolded husband, if he heard right. One tossed a silver ring into her cup, and no wonder. The lady had a gift.
Still laughing at something one of the men said, Sorcha lent an ear to Gemma. The joviality on her face remained, but her startled gaze shot Caden’s way. His news had unnerved her, even frightened her, if he was any judge of women. Then something caused her green gaze to snap, sparks lashing out at him.
Caden hid his surprise behind a sip from his mug. By any standard, this was a strange reaction to learning one was about to receive an inheritance. That he’d found Sorcha’s whereabouts on his first day in Din Guardi almost convinced him that maybe God was helping out a bit, opening a door for this second chance the priest spoke of. Though the bribe and mentioning the lady had an inheritance coming to her certainly didn’t hurt … until now.
Sorcha struck up a familiar tune, all the while glaring his way. It was in Cumbric, earning a cheer from the Cymris’ far side of the room. She sang of a handsome swain and master of lies, who left a trail of broken hearts in his wake … until he met a maid who was his match and left him broken and alone.
Whatever Gemma had told her, it had not set well with the lassie.
Caden would never understand women. He’d have wagered Sorcha might leap at the chance for an inheritance, if it meant not having to marry an old codger as a brood sow.
By his father’s bones, Father Martin’s proverbial door of service to mankind that led out of the dungeon of one’s self became more cumbersome by the hour.
Sorcha didn’t know who the lion-maned stranger was, except that he was no friend of hers. An inheritance indeed. If her birth parents thought anything of her, they’d have come for her, not waited till they’d gone earthways to reach out to her. And sending a pouch of coins! As if that could take away the fears she’d lived out until she realized that Wulfram’s and Aelwyn’s harsh-sounding words were meant to comfort her. That they meant to love her and nurture her as their own.
Like as not, this Caden had already helped himself to what there was of the money. That is, what he didn’t toss to the serving wench Utta for her more than willing service. But then, Utta was one of those women born flirting. And with some customers, she deserved every copper her winks and smiles earned.
Sorcha winced as she plucked the wrong chord to the ballad she sang and forced her attention back to her work. Not that anyone seemed to notice. Not even the stranger, who rarely took his gaze away from her. And that distracted her all the more. Leers, she could ignore, but this scrutiny probed as though he were trying to see who she really was behind the facade of song and a comely face. And no one, save Gemma, saw that Sorcha.
When the tavern keeper at length rang the bell mounted by the door to signal the end of drink service, some of the patrons had already cleared benches to make their beds on the floor. The wealthy merchants had departed for a hostel or one of the haws some maintained year-round. But the Cymri stranger had not moved from his bench, except long enough to relieve himself outside.
Sorcha put her harp in her bag and slung it over her shoulder. It had been a decent night’s revenue, she thought, taking up the heavy cup Gemma had passed about. But it was filled with coppers mostly, not nearly enough to pay Wada tomorrow … which meant she wouldn’t have the satisfaction of throwing the bag of money that Gemma had told her of back in the stranger’s face. She’d have to take it and be thankful, at least to the Wyrds. It was times like this when her upcoming marriage promised more relief than concern.
“You’ve the voice of a siren, Milady Sorcha.”
Sorcha gasped at the nearness of the stranger, for she’d only lost track of him in the time it took to pick up her cloak.
“And you’ve the footfall of a ghost,” she shot back. Already she could feel her skin warming, when such an approach should make the blood rushing it flee. “And a smart man, as I recall, should run fast as he can from the sirens I’ve heard about.”
“Hah, a sharp wit and tongue to match.”
The stinging compliment disconcerted Sorcha all the more. “I’ve no mind to speak long, so say what you must.”
A momentary scowl grazed his face, but he kept his voice cordial. “Fine then. Your mother, your birth mother, nursed me to health from a near fatal wound. I promised to—”
Her birth mother … alive? Sorcha wrestled between disbelief and shock. After so long? It had been a contrary solace to think that her parents had never searched for her because they couldn’t … because they were dead.
Why now?
Surely it was a lie.
But how could he know she was adopted?
“I … I’m sorry.” Sorcha shook the seesaw of her debate to catch up. “You promised to what?”
“I promised her I’d come to Din Guardi and search for you.”
“Come to buy me back with that, I suppose?” Sorcha eyed the plump purse tied to the man’s belt.
That would more than pay off the moneylender.
Instinctively, the man’s hand went to it. “Nay, lassie. This is mine. ’Tis land your mathair offers … and her love.”
Bitterness smacked down Sorcha’s rise of hope. “Her love,” she scoffed. “’Tis too late for that. I had a good mother and father, parents who would have hunted for me to the ends of the earth if I’d been taken from them. But nay.” She silently cursed her stinging eyes. “My blood folk left me to the whim of the fates, and thankfully the Wyrds were kinder than they. Wulfram and Aelwyn are the parents who filled a child’s broken heart with love, not this woman who sends you so late with an offer of land. I’ve no more need for it than for her.”
“The land can save you from marrying an old man and submitting that lovely body of yours to him.”
So that silver gaze had been feasting on more than Sorcha’s inner self. Which, by Freya’s curse, seemed to ignite on its own at the thought that this Caden knew so much about her.
“Cynric offers me land and wealth, as well as his love,” she replied. “Old he may be, but he is kind and gentle, a sword-friend of my departed father who has known me all my years here.” She lifted her chin at the man in defiance of the plaintive gaze. As if he needed her to say yes to going with him. Sure, such need reached out and touched her, making her shiver with uncertainty. “So you can see, sir—”
“Caden,” he reminded her.
“You can well see, Caden, I’ve no need for anything you have to offer, so step aside.” And why should it matter so much to him whether she went or stayed?
“You heard her. Off with you, now.” Gemma, who’d been helping Utta make beds on the floor about the hearth, tugged on the stranger’s tunic as though to pull him away.
Caden gave the little woman a cursory glance. “I will, mite, when I’ve finished with the lady.”
Gemma marched off, mumbling under her breath as if to make the man think she might be conjuring some sort of spell, but his chuckle belayed any concern he might have. Yet, when he turned back to Sorcha, his purse was no longer at his side.
Oh, Gemma, not this one! Every alarm in Sorcha’s body told her this Caden was not one to be trifled with.
“There’s nothing left to say, sir,” Sorcha declared. Maybe if she could get Gemma alone, they could figure a way to return it. “Tell her to keep her land.”
But the man moved to block her path down from the raised gallery. “I have lots more to say, milady. I’ve not come all this way to leave unheard. Have you Sassenach no sense of hospitality?”
“Sorcha, we’d best be goin’ home soon,” Utta called to her as she drew on her shawl, making ready to leave. “Mind if I walk with ye?”
“We’ll talk a bit more, thank you, miss,” the stranger told her.
Polite, but bullheaded.
“That would be lovely, Utta. I was just saying good night to this fine gentleman,” Sorcha replied to the coded question. It was a signal among the tavern staff for discerning when a patron caused, or looked as if he were about to cause, trouble.
The unsuspecting Caden was about to take a trip to the land of temporary darkness and painful awakening. Mann, the tavern keeper, waited just around the partial wall on which Sorcha had hung her cloak—with a club that had sent many an unruly patron on such a journey.
“Leave me be now, sir,” she warned him, her voice loud enough to garner the attention of the people trying to settle on the floor. “I’ll have none of your nonsense.”
Sorcha made to push past him, but Caden grabbed her arm.
“Let me go,” she demanded, “then I’ll talk.”
But as she pulled away, he mistook her action as intent to escape. His fingers tightened like iron tongs, making her wince in pain. Yet there was a plea in his words. “It wasn’t like you thought, lassie.”
What? Sorcha looked past him, widening her gaze as if to shout “No!” at the tavern keeper before he carried out his intent or gave himself away.
“Your father died,” Caden continued, “trying to find—”
But it was too late. Down came the club. The tall stranger crumbled to his knees, his face a mirror of surprise, and sprawled forward on the gallery step. Sorcha jumped back with a gasp.
Across the room, some of the Cymri guests who’d witnessed the attack started to their feet, but Mann held up his hand. “I’ve no quarrel with you, sirs. This ’un was in his cups and manhandlin’ the lady,” Mann explained hastily. “I doubt yer countrymen take that sort o’ thing any more kindly than mine.”
The two men hesitated, uncertain, glancing from Sorcha to the unconscious Caden … and to a few of the Saxon patrons who were also stirring, ready to defend Mann and the ladies.
“But I’d forego yer lodgin’ coin, if one of ye’d help me settle him amongst ye, till he comes around.”
Money talked to Cymri and Saxon alike. They came forward, eager to help.
Fingers shaking, Sorcha pinned her cloak, her mind racing as to how to get the man’s money back to him without being seen.
“Go home, lassies,” Mann told her and Gemma, who stood ready by the door. “I’ll tend to this ’un as always. No doubt he’ll think better of botherin’ women, come tomorrow.”
“We’ll see you tomorrow’s eve, Mann,” Gemma said, stepping outside and leaving Sorcha little choice but to follow. The scrape of the stranger’s boots on the floor as his countrymen dragged him across the room echoed in Sorcha’s ears as she hastened after Gemma and closed the door behind her.
“Would you’d left Caden’s purse on his belt,” she told Gemma as they departed from the flickering light of the lantern beside the entrance. “I was trying to think of a way to give it back.”
Gemma stopped midstride. “’Twas yours. He said as much. Your inheritance.”
“My inheritance was land, Gemma.”
“If there is one,” Gemma countered. “He fancied you, and that is certain.”
Yet his appraisal had been different from others who simply sought a wench to warm their night. Gathering her cloak closer, Sorcha hurried even more toward the alley. Gemma practically had to run to keep up.
“And you can’t pay Wada with land tomorrow, unless it is here in Bernicia with a clear title from its lord,” Gemma argued. “Slow down!”
Sorcha had to force herself to obey. She wanted to put as much distance between her and the stranger as possible. “He’ll know we took the money.”
“No one saw a thing, him included.”
Which of course was true. Gemma was good at her craft.
“And even his own kind saw he gave you trouble. ’Twas more than reason enough for Mann to do what he did. That Caden of Lothian is a giant.”
Sorcha could imagine just how large he must have appeared to Gemma. She rounded the corner of the street and stepped into an alley leading straight to the beach. Without the sun to warm it, the cold blown inland from the water made Sorcha shiver to the bone.
“I hope the children are sleeping in some hall this night,” she thought aloud as they rushed through the alley to Water Street. Was it only that morning they’d left?
“Eadric will find them shelter,” Gemma replied with absolute certainty. “When there’s no chieftain, there’s always a farmhouse to welcome a bard. And the babes have warm cloaks.”
“Aye.”
Ahead was the door to their home. After checking both ways to see if any mischief makers were about to give two lone women trouble, they hurried across Water Street and into the welcome haven.
“I hope little Ebyn was no trouble this night,” Gemma remarked, heading straight for the banked fire in the hearth to add more turf. “He was fascinated by the weaver’s loom.”
Sorcha hardly heard her. What was it Caden had last said? The words hadn’t quite registered at the moment.
It wasn’t like you thought, lassie. Your father died trying to find—
To find what? Her? By Freya’s mercy, had she been wrong all along?
Sorcha’s mind spun along with her emotions but refused to settle on any conclusion. Except that Sorcha had not seen the last of Caden of Lothian. She was no soothsayer, but that much she knew.
Chapter Six
The throbbing lump on the back of his head forced Caden to use every bit of his self-control not to take the tavern keeper’s club to the man himself. But for the witness of Caden’s fellow Cymri that Mann had misunderstood Caden’s intentions toward the lady, he would have.
Although, Caden berated himself, a seasoned warrior with keen senses should have known someone was behind him. But by the time he realized the alarm widening Sorcha’s incredibly green eyes was not because of him, but because of what was about to happen to him, it was too late.
And no one could account for how he’d lost his purse. He’d been unconscious, so
it could have been any one of them. Perhaps the tavern master, who generously waived the fee for spending the night on his floor, although Mann had seemed genuinely distressed that he’d had to knock Caden senseless. He’d even had the woman Utta tend the swelling with a cloth wet with cold water.
The barmaid’s compassion seemed real, and the willow-bark tea helped ease the throbbing in his head, although there was a lump on the back of his head the size of a goose egg. But his pride stung most at falling for one of the oldest tricks in time, his instincts dulled by a pretty face. That weakness had led to his first fall, and, by all that was holy, it was not going to ruin his second chance.
The wind off the German Sea swept in at dawn but gentled by midmorning. Inside their home, Sorcha and Gemma counted out their earnings from the night before while Ebyn targeted the hearth with a string slingshot and dried peas, courtesy of Gemma.
“We have more than we need,” Sorcha declared, stopping her companion from taking another coin from the leather purse lifted from the Cymri stranger. She’d measured their gold and now the silver on her scale until it came to the exact amount due Athelstan. And half the Cymri’s purse remained.
Gemma grinned, hefting the purse in her hand. “We can put this toward spring stock.”
“My husband will purchase spring stock. My dowry will be the goodwill of my vendors and patrons.”
And Athelstan would never be part of her life again.
“You want to return it.” Gemma’s words held no question, just surprise.
“What if we claimed we found it outside the tavern, as if it had fallen from his belt while he relieved himself?”
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