Thief

by Linda Windsor

  “Half of it?” The skeptical arch of Gemma’s brow hit its mark.

  Sorcha heaved a sigh. “You’re right.”

  But what if the stranger spoke the truth about her mother’s wanting her? She’d spent the night tossing and turning, the part of her that missed Aelwyn urging her to find out more and the wounded child within telling her to forget about her birth mother. If she existed.

  Yet someplace in Sorcha’s soul, she believed it was true. But why hadn’t her birth parents tried to find her before now? Some of the children captured with her had been ransomed, but not her. Resentment sank in its teeth.

  “Your grief haunts you, child, as it still does me from time to time,” Gemma said, placing a gentle hand over Sorcha’s. “Aelwyn has only been gone a bit over a year now.” Her dark eyes glazed over. “At least—”

  A sharp knock on the door jolted them both. Ebyn scurried under the table as Sorcha rose to see who it was. If it was Wada, he was early. The clink of coin behind her told her Gemma gathered the moneylender’s due and, Sorcha was certain, hid the stranger’s purse, lest Wada help himself to that as well. His employer’s status as a relative of the sheriff made the thug a bold one.

  Sorcha unbolted the door and opened it. “I wasn’t expecting you till eve—”

  It wasn’t Wada, but this visitor wasn’t much better.

  “Hello, Tunwulf. Milady,” she added, upon noting her betrothed’s only son had brought along his female companion. Mistress, so it was said.

  “Good day, Mother,” the young man mocked. He put his hand to his mouth. “But wait—I am premature, aren’t I?” Tunwulf, a few years Sorcha’s senior, made it no secret that he resented his father’s notion to marry her. Should she give Cynric a child, he would have to share his inheritance of Elford.

  His humor was made worse because Sorcha had refused Tunwulf first. She’d held off his clumsy advances with Wulfram’s sword.

  “Will you invite us in?” the lady demanded haughtily.

  “Of course.” Sorcha would wager what fortune she had that Tunwulf hadn’t shared that tidbit of information with his consort. For all his noble upbringing and education, the man was no more than a renegade with allegiance to none but himself, his purse, and his appetites.

  Sorcha backed away to let them enter. Beyond, a servant struggled with a trunk from a two-wheeled cart to which their riding horses were tied. “Are you in Din Guardi for the royal wedding?” she asked.

  The last she’d heard from Cynric, Tunwulf had been leading a band of miscreants to wherever they might find plunder beyond Bernicia’s border. It not only made relations with Mercia and their British neighbors more tenuous than they already were, but it was an embarrassment to Cynric that his allegiance to Hussa meant nothing to Tunwulf. It was the father who fought at the king’s side, while the son served himself.

  “Tunwulf wasn’t going to attend, but I persuaded him. After all, Hering might well be the next king,” the lady said.

  What was her name? All Sorcha could recall was that she was a Briton, an outcast from her home for practicing witchcraft by all accounts. Not all Britons were Christian, but those who were could be a hysterical lot. Not that Sorcha believed in magic. Magic was no more than illusion performed by a master gleeman. Manipulation, not otherworldly spells, was the art of women like this one.

  “Wise advice, Lady Rhianon,” Gemma said. “Will you have some tea?”

  “Yes, do sit down,” Sorcha murmured.

  Leave it to Gemma. Sorcha’s companion forgot nothing, including the obligation of hospitality.

  Where were her wits? Sorcha fretted. She hadn’t had a clear thought since last night.

  At that moment, Ebyn shot out from under the table. Lady Rhianon shrieked as if she’d seen a rat. Tunwulf swore at the boy, who promptly, rather than effectively, hid behind Gemma.

  “Ebyn is a lad we took in. He’s very skittish,” the little woman explained, undaunted. “An orphan.” She motioned toward the bench at the crude board. “Do sit while I make the tea.”

  “Is he another of your rescues?” Tunwulf asked. “You know all of Din Guardi thinks you lost your mind when you lost your parents, the way you’ve been purchasing Cymri brats.”

  “I was once one of those Cymri brats,” Sorcha reminded him. “But how I spend my money is no one’s concern but my own. Your father and I agreed on that before the contract of our betrothal was made.”

  “Were you my betrothed, that would not happen.”

  Tunwulf’s estimation of himself was more than she could tolerate.

  “That, sir, is why I did not accept your offer,” Sorcha threw back at him.

  Given the sharp slant of Rhianon’s blue gaze toward her companion, Sorcha would have won her bet. Tunwulf had been keeping his secrets.

  The man laughed as the noose of his deception tightened about his neck. “Silly woman, that was a test … to see if you fancied Father for his kindness, as you profess, or his wealth, which I will eventually inherit.”

  Well played. Though if the woman believed him, Sorcha had sorely overestimated her.

  “All except the property he has gifted to me,” Sorcha reminded Tunwulf. “And should the Wyrds bless us with a son, well—”

  She didn’t have to finish. A shade of furious red betrayed Tunwulf’s true feelings.

  Fearing her own discomfort at begetting a child with a man twice her age might betray her, Sorcha turned abruptly to fetch four wooden cups from the cupboard containing her and Gemma’s food stores and limited tableware. Flat bread served mostly for plates when there was meat to be had. The cups doubled as bowls or porringers.

  “Given Father’s age and health, that’s not a likely event,” Tunwulf pointed out. Though the clench of his fist revealed he wasn’t as certain or pleased as he made out.

  “Actually,” Lady Rhianon began as she drew off a pair of kid gloves as rich as the vibrant royal cloak she wore, “you are going to the royal wedding. Thane Cynric asked Tunwulf and I to deliver something you might wear, since most of your belongings were lost last year. Not that a tavern singer would likely know what is appropriate for such an occasion.”

  And a slut would? Sorcha bit her tongue. “That is very kind of Elford’s lord … and you. But—”

  A knock, followed by the servant’s “The trunk, milord,” sounded from the other side of the door.

  Sorcha swung about to answer it. “But I’ve work to do at the tavern,” she said over her shoulder. “I am no man’s wife yet.” Still, her heart was atwitter at the idea of a new dress—

  “But you may be singing, Sorcha,” Tunwulf called after her, “at the royal court of Din Guardi.”

  “What?”

  “What?” Gemma echoed Sorcha with equal astonishment, stopping midstride toward the table with her steaming pitcher of tea.

  Sorcha turned to question Tunwulf, but he motioned toward the door and rose to take the trunk from the servant.

  “It was Rhianon’s idea,” Tunwulf told her as she lifted the latch and pulled the door open.

  Without so much as a thank-you to the poor man, the younger Elford took the small trunk from him and dismissed him.

  “Will you come in and warm yourself by the fire?” Sorcha asked the servant.

  The servant shifted his gaze beyond Sorcha to Tunwulf. Whatever he saw made him shake his head. “Nay, milady. I’ve got to get back to me pony. ’E don’t like bein’ left alone, ye know.” He pointed toward the sun, now high overhead. “’Tis a fine enough day for this time o’ year.”

  “Wait.” Sorcha picked up one of the cups Gemma had poured and returned to the door, where she handed it to the meanly attired cart driver. “Sip on this.”

  “Rescuing children.” Tunwulf glanced toward the corner, where Ebyn sat quiet and wide-eyed. “Serving servants.” He snorted. “If you are going to do honor to our house, you must learn to act the lady and”—he put an arm around his companion—“my Rhianon is going to teach you.”

  �
��My father was a king in Gwynedd,” Rhianon replied.

  Sorcha longed to ask her, why then did a princess consort with the likes of Tunwulf? “I have never been in a royal court,” she admitted instead.

  Rhianon left her tea to open the chest. “Come, see what I’ve chosen for you. The dresses belonged to Tunwulf’s late mother, but I’m sure your dwarf can alter them to fit you.”

  “Gemma is not mine,” Sorcha corrected. “She is a free woman and dear friend.”

  Rhianon’s mouth drew into a rosy O of dismay. “I’m so sorry, Gemma. I’d just assumed—”

  “You’re not the first, milady.” Gemma had clearly not made up her mind on Rhianon either. Elsewise, one could mince an onion with the edge of her words. “And I am handy with a needle.” Curiosity spurred her closer as Rhianon lifted the lid.

  To Sorcha’s astonishment, the late lady of Elford had excellent taste. No dowdy colors here. There were two overdresses with gusseted skirts for fullness—one of the softest moss-green wool, its long sleeves and hem bedecked with a darker contrasting shade, and another of fine russet trimmed in a tablet band of russet and black chevrons. To complement them was a stiff brocade robe, in shades of bronze that fell to the knee with dark fur trim. And there were the most delicate of linen undershifts with embroidery such as Sorcha had never seen. And ribbons and veils and strings of glass beads and pearls—

  “I assured Lord Elford that you will be the most beautiful woman there.” Rhianon held up the green dress to Sorcha, her blue gaze dancing with the delight of a sister.

  Perhaps Sorcha had misjudged her. From Gemma’s approving smile, Sorcha knew that Rhianon had chosen well for her. Sorcha had sold the makings for such finery through her father’s business but had never worn anything like this.

  “And these are my mother’s also.” Tunwulf reached into the bottom of the trunk and withdrew a fabric-covered chest with three drawers.

  The first drawer contained a necklace from the Far North made of three golden strands of amber with ear cuffs from which dangled three strands no more than the length of a finger joint. The second contained a gold torc with one end spiraling into a Cymri medallion with a large emerald from the East at its center. And in the third drawer were brooches, both gold and silver, some jeweled or inlaid with colored glass, all exquisitely formed by both Cymri and Saxon jewel smiths.

  “’Tis a king’s ransom,” Sorcha gasped, unable to believe what Tunwulf displayed on the tabletop. “You must take these back.” If word got out that she and Gemma housed such a fortune, every thief on the waterfront would be after them. “It isn’t safe to keep them here.”

  “But they’re yours,” Tunwulf protested halfheartedly. Surely it vexed him to see Cynric so generous with what he considered his. “Father insists.”

  “And if you want her to wear them at the wedding, then you’ll take the jewels now,” Gemma explained. “Unless you’d invite our misfortune.”

  After a moment of silence, Rhianon placed a beringed hand on Tunwulf’s thick bicep. “Perhaps the women are right, dearest. The docks are full of unsavory sorts. I can’t understand why your father has allowed his bride-to-be to remain in such a place, singing in taverns to survive.”

  “Because I asked for a year to grieve my parents and pick up the pieces of my life,” Sorcha said in Cynric’s defense. “Lord Elford is a kindhearted man.” More than she could say of his son, who profited from slaves taken during his renegade raids into Cymri territory … after the women had been brutalized and the children half-starved.

  Tunwulf spoke up. “And now it’s time you acted like a woman betrothed to the ealdorman of the king. Father expects you to move to the royal keep from hence until your wedding.”

  “Since you speak Cumbric so well,” Rhianon injected, “I suggested he ask the prince to appoint you as an attendant to Princess Eavlyn.”

  The clothing was wonderful. The jewels beyond anything Sorcha ever imagined wearing. But it would take more than the contents of that trunk to prepare Sorcha for royal court, much less attending a princess. Unless attending meant entertaining her or showing her how to thimblerig. Sorcha grew clammy beneath the weight of her shift and plain woolen dress.

  And what would become of Ebyn and Gemma? The laddie needed someone to care for him. Just the thought of leaving her cozy, if humble, abode without Gemma and Ebyn made Sorcha feel as if her great plan for the future was closing in on her as fast as a Leaf Fall fog.

  “I need to sit,” Sorcha said, dropping onto the other bench.

  “When?” Gemma asked. She came up behind Sorcha and rested comforting hands on her shoulders. “When is all this to happen?”

  “Why, as soon as possible,” Rhianon replied. “The princess is already at Din Guardi.”

  “Fortunately you are close to my mother’s size, so your” —Tunwulf shifted his words before insulting Gemma again—“companion should be able to have your clothes ready by the morrow.”

  “Tomorrow!” The blood drained from Sorcha’s face and straight out her toes.

  “And I shall be with you,” Rhianon reassured Sorcha. “You needn’t worry about the princess. I can instruct you how to act and help you dress, since Gemma won’t be allowed in the royal bowers.”

  Much as Sorcha wanted to take comfort in that, she couldn’t. The same inner warning that troubled her last night about the stranger was ringing again. But this time her circumstances had gone from bad to worse. Whatever would she do without Gemma?

  Chapter Seven

  Caden had finagled the location of Sorcha’s home out of the port reeve and hastened toward it as soon as his wits were about him. An attendant waiting with a cart and two horses in front of the warehouse told Caden that Sorcha had visitors. Patience not being one of his virtues, Caden paced in the alley until he heard the door open, followed by voices.

  Curiosity drew him to the corner in time to see a well-dressed man and a woman emerge, leaving Sorcha standing at the door pale as ash, as though she might be sick at any moment. The gentleman placed a box in the cart and then helped his lady companion atop a fine bay. He must have said something humorous, for the lady threw back her head and laughed, her velvet hood slipping off.

  The haunting familiarity of the laugh, followed by the sight of an upswept mass of golden hair and a face Caden could never forget drove him flat against the wattle-and-daub wall of the building as though belly-punched by a battering ram. Now it was he who felt sick. But for the wall’s support, he might have slumped into the mud. By all that was unholy, he had seen a ghost. The ghost of his late wife, his curse and downfall.

  “Rhianon.” Just the whisper of her name formed a cold knot of dread in his chest, squeezing the very breath out of him.

  But how? She’d leapt off a cliff to her death. Dozens had seen it.

  Caden remained in place until he heard the horses’ hoofbeats and creak of the cart wheels retreating toward the stockade fortress that towered over the sandy beachhead. When he peered round the corner again, the street in front of Sorcha’s establishment was empty, save for a fishmonger pushing a cart of special orders for the taverns and houses in the finer section of the village. Tuesday—also known as Tewsday—was the Din Guardi market day, but fresh seafood sold any day of the week.

  He watched the retreating figures growing smaller along the causeway leading to the royal seat atop the rock. Perhaps he’d been mistaken. He hadn’t gotten a head-on look at her face, but that laugh and profile he knew by heart. Perhaps the woman had simply borne an uncanny resemblance to his late wife. And Rhianon couldn’t have a twin. If so, neither her mother nor the secondborn would have survived, for it was commonly thought that the secondborn was spawn of the Devil. Both mother, for consorting with a demon, and her child would have been put to death.

  Faith, he needed a drink. More than one. But Caden had put drunkenness behind with Rhianon and his past. Like a pretty face, it made him vulnerable. Besides, he had no coin to pay for it, even if he were of a mind to go b
ack to his old ways.

  Instead he walked past the warehouses along Water Street toward the strand of sand spreading north of the towering Din Guardi stronghold. Caden passed small craft, turned bottom up just beyond the reach of the tide line. Some children dug with sticks in the sand for mussels, while younger ones chased seabirds from their feast among the slippery green algae left behind by the ebbing tide. No doubt the children belonged to the fishermen who lived in the mean, isolated cottages along the barren strip.

  Caden wasn’t sure how long he’d walked before his breath returned to some semblance of normal. As he propped himself against one of the cobles, he allowed the combined sounds of laughter and gulls and the sun dancing off the waves to work like a balm to his rattled nerves. If God were anywhere, He was in these things.

  “The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament sheweth His handywork,” a voice boomed behind Caden, almost as if the Almighty had read his thoughts.

  Except that Caden knew that particular voice well. He pivoted away from the sea to see Father Martin standing behind him.

  “Martin.” It wasn’t much of a greeting, but the priest’s uncanny timing left Caden a bit disconcerted.

  “Psalm 19:1,” Martin informed him with an enthusiasm that ordinarily would have annoyed Caden. Strangely, he was intrigued.

  “And the firmament is shouting glory to God this day, is it not?” the priest asked.

  “You grow more like Emrys by the day,” Caden grumbled. Merlin Emrys was another one known for coming and going like a spirit.

  “I will take that as a compliment. Although the heavens and firmament were speaking to you, holding you enrapt from what I saw. What was God saying to you?”

  “God said nothing. We aren’t on speaking terms.”

  Peace.

  There it was. Exactly what Caden was seeking … and hadn’t found. Until now.

  “God reaches out to us in many ways, through nature as well as people,” Martin advised him. “Sooo”—he dragged the word out—“many ways.”

  Was it possible God had been speaking to him, who begrudged admitting that the Creator was real? Caden believed in some higher power. God, Jesus, Spirit—it was confusing. All Caden knew was that calling out for Jesus had saved him from a fate worse than most could imagine. He shivered involuntarily.