For now, Rhianon needed to deal with the present. She had to be certain of how the beer was dispensed so that everything would go exactly as she planned … although she might have to use Tunwulf to distract Mildrith. The old crow watched over the barrels as if she’d paid for every dram with her own coin. Blending into the shadows close to the walls where bright tapestries had been hung to give this barbarian place some hint of civilization, Rhianon watched the servants filling the pitchers for the queen and her ladies as they were needed. The goddess forbid any splatter on their gowns.
It would take little effort to stand with Sorcha at the wedding feast and—
“What devious thoughts are churning in that pretty head of yours, I wonder?”
Rhianon spun and caught her breath. Oafish boor that Caden O’Byrne had been when he was drunk, he was a handsome rake who could still make her heart beat like a bird’s. She’d mourned his loss as a lover, having found no equal. Certainly not the clumsy and brutish Tunwulf. She cocked her head at him, brandishing a coquettish smile.
“What would you say if I told you I was thinking of you?” she replied, teasing the vee of his plain woolen tunic with her finger. He caught her wrist, stopping her cold.
“I’d say you were lying … as usual.”
How dare he sling such insult after all she’d done for him? “I lied plenty for you, Caden, and you didn’t seem bothered by it then.”
“You lied plenty to me as well … about the babe, for instance.”
Rhianon expelled her breath in exasperation. “Well, what was I supposed to do? I wanted more than anything to have a baby, and there was that woman,” she said, referring to Caden’s sister-in-law, Brenna, “pregnant without even trying! I so wanted to give you an heir that I’d convinced myself I was with child. It’s not unheard of.”
Caden laughed. “I guess lying just comes naturally from those lips.”
Undaunted, Rhianon leaned in. “I remember a time when you worshipped these lips.” She ran the tip of her tongue between them, moistening them. “And they worshipped you. By the goddess, I have missed you in my bed.”
“Indeed.” Leaning against a post between the tapestries, Caden studied her mouth, as if a kiss was merely a breath away.
Rhianon held hers. He wanted her. She knew he did. And she wanted him. The memory of his bare, sweat-damp skin shining in the firelight flushed Rhianon with a warmth she’d not known since that night of dark magic in Keena’s hut when her nurse had summoned a spirit to help them.
“But I think those lips have been busy enough without me.” He straightened and grinned.
Curse the man! She’d forgotten how playful and absolutely infuriating he could be. Rhianon splayed her hand on his chest. “I’m supposed to sleep with the servants in the queen’s hall tonight while Elford and Tunwulf return to their haws below the rock.”
“A night without a man.” Caden tutted. “You must be desperate.”
“I am.” Her shame was black as a Cheviot bog, but Rhianon didn’t care. She recalled what her old nurse had put in his drink. The black magic she’d worked. Rhianon had the same knowledge now.
“But I’m not.” Caden lifted the cup in his hand, drained it, and handed it to her. “I don’t need anymore,” he told her, leaving her to discern whether he meant her or the beer.
The nerve of the oaf! Rhianon swelled with fury in his wake, watching as Caden rejoined the Lothian party and spoke to the priest among them. Whatever Caden said made the holy man look her way, hands clasped, with a milksop smile, as though sending her his blessing. With a curse, she pivoted away rather than meet Martin’s eye. Of all the priests in Albion chosen to marry Princess Eavlyn to the atheling, it had to be that old hermit from Glenarden! How Rhianon hated him.
Feared him. Hadn’t he driven her and her poor nurse over the cliff with his mumblings?
Her emotions fairly seethed until Rhianon realized that her jaw ached from the clench of her teeth. But she was not the hysterical young woman the old fool had driven over a cliff with his prayers to his God. Rhianon was wiser now … and stronger.
Hadn’t she amazed Tunwulf when she’d seen the Mercians mustering against Diera before the news arrived at Din Guardi? If only the dolt had believed her enough to pass his knowledge on to the king, she might be sitting at the royal table with Aethelfrith himself, instead of relegated as a tagalong to Elford.
Though she hadn’t seen Caden’s survival.
She hadn’t looked, Rhianon argued against her doubt. She shoved the empty pitcher at the servant working the beer barrel tap. Why would she, when she’d thought him dead?
And the Devil take Caden O’Byrne now … if she didn’t find a way to dispose of him first. The thought drew a smile to her lips. Perhaps she should look into her dish.
The morning came cloaked in gray, but by midday the sun had batted away the cloud cover and dried the lingering dampness. Saterdaeg, the seventh day of the week, was the Christian holy day, so Sorcha accompanied Princess Eavlyn to a Sabbath service held in the front corner of the king’s meadhall. The men chose to get a good start on their hunt instead of attending. Later, they would join the ladies at the queen’s outing, where a repast of food and drink, as well as a bonfire, would await them.
After a fretful night, in which she could find none of the peace or conviction her royal companion seemed to possess, Sorcha tried paying close heed to the Christian service. Yet her mind would not leave its quandary behind. How would she tell Cynric that she no longer wanted to marry him?
There was no peace to be found in the priest’s words. But then, if the Christian God was all they believed, He’d know she was a thief and not deserving of such. Sorcha left disheartened and even more bemused by Christians. The notion of eating the flesh and drinking the blood of the God who’d sacrificed Himself for the sins of mankind was as repugnant as the ancient warriors of Mithra drinking bull’s blood. At least the Christians substituted bread and wine for their ceremony.
“It’s symbolic,” Eavlyn explained later that afternoon in a meadow where the noblewomen had gathered to see the queen’s prize falcon hunt. “The bread and wine are consumed to help us remember that Christ’s blood was shed and his flesh torn for our sake. To remind us of His sacrificial love, hence nourishing our spirits as our bodies are nourished by the bread and wine.”
“Our heroes are satisfied with a glorious song to honor them,” Sorcha replied as they meandered along a well-worn path marked with fresh hoofprints where the men had passed that morning.
It led through a wild hedge of hawthorn and gorse lining a streambed to the forest beyond. Father Martin sat close to the shining ribbon of water on one of two large rocks that Sorcha supposed had been put there to mark the crossing. Elsewise they seemed out of place at the meadow’s edge.
“Your heroes are mere men whose deeds are oft undone in time,” Eavlyn reminded her. “Jesus is the Son of the Living God, and His sacrifice is everlasting. The heroes are gone, but Christ lives on in Heaven, and His Spirit lives in us.”
The other ladies in the party seemed perfectly content to linger by the fire’s warmth, but with the sun high overhead, it wasn’t that cold. Sorcha’s new cloak of chevron-woven wool grew too warm, even when she wandered away from the bonfire to avoid the smoke that continued to shift at whim.
“How can He live in us? How do you know His Spirit is there?”
“By how you live, what you say and do,” Eavlyn answered. “We are like trees that bear fruit. Good fruit shows the presence of the Holy Spirit. Bad fruit shows its absence.”
That Eavlyn believed in this Christ and that Spirit with all her heart was evident in all she said and did. The princess wanted to serve Him, instead of having the gods and goddesses serve her and paying them for their blessings with sacrifices.
Sorcha wondered what kind of fruit she produced.
“You produce good fruit,” Eavlyn said, answering the unspoken question. “The way you care for helpless children.”
“No,” Eavlyn agreed, “but I believe your heart is a home ready to receive Him.”
But the princess didn’t know about Sorcha’s stealing. Did that count if it was for a good cause? Gemma always said they did what they had to do to survive. It made sense at the time, but now doubt crept into Sorcha’s mind. Yet how could Sorcha have helped the children, if she didn’t steal? She couldn’t have.
“Hello, Father,” Eavlyn called out to the priest, drawing him from his contemplation of the wood beyond. “Do you mind if we join you? The smoke is less worrisome here.”
“And the view superb as the day,” the priest said, rising from his perch.
Sorcha had to agree. The forest’s new dress of reds, golds, and browns was brilliant. A trail left by the men’s horses where they’d crossed the stream emerged on the other side of the stream and bore into the wood.
A swift movement in the periphery of her vision drew Sorcha’s attention from the sun-dappled trees to the priest, who grabbed at his staff to keep it from rolling off the stone where he’d propped it. This close, it was impossible to miss the carvings on it. A man standing on water. Though Sorcha had been absorbed in her own thoughts that morning, she recalled the priest’s speaking about a man walking on water before the bizarre ceremony with the bread and wine.
Another just as curious carving was of a giant fish spitting out a man. Or about to swallow him. Sorcha couldn’t decide.
“That’s Jonah,” Martin said, seeing her interest. “He refused to follow God’s command to preach to a city of sinners and was swallowed by a whale as he ran away by ship. But during his time in the whale’s belly, he prayed for God’s forgiveness and promised to go to the sinners, if God would spare him. So God made the fish spit him out.”
“Is that how you were persuaded to come to us?” Sorcha teased. Harm to a priest was not as taboo among the Saxon as it was among the Cymri. Perhaps this one took the risk because he had the protection of the Lothian princess.
Father Martin boomed with laughter. “Nay, milady, though I will admit, it might take a while in a whale’s belly to get some British priests to bring the Word of God to the Saxon people.”
Sorcha had heard of the riches plundered from British churches and of the slaughter of their men and women. “Yet here you are,” she said. “And Princess Eavlyn.” She didn’t understand Christians but had to admire their courage.
“We come because God is so wonderful to us that we want to share Him with others,” the priest told her. “To tell others what He’s done for us and how He is always with us.”
“And what is that?” Sorcha pointed to three crude crosses carved at the top of the crosier beneath its mounted silver one.
“The middle one is the cross of Christ. The others belonged to two thieves who were crucified with him,” Father Martin replied.
The mention of thieves riveted Sorcha to the spot.
“One thief,” he continued, “believed Christ was the Son of God and asked to be remembered. The other scoffed at the Savior and made fun of Him.”
“But the one who asked to be remembered,” Eavlyn added, “was told he would dine with Christ in paradise that very day.”
A thief dining with the Christian God in paradise? Wonder rilled over Sorcha, so much so that she had to resist the urge to pull her cloak close about her shoulders. “Just by asking to be remembered, the thief was accepted by your God?”
“God loves all of us, even though we all are sinners who don’t deserve that love,” Martin answered gently.
A thief.
“They ask, and He forgives them,” Eavlyn explained, “bidding them to go forth and sin no more.”
“And if they do?” Sorcha asked, skepticism slowing her words.
“If they fall and are truly sorry and willing to try to do as He bids again, He forgives them again.”
“How many times?” There had to be a limit to this God’s patience.
“If our repentance is true, seventy times seven and more,” Eavlyn replied. “God’s love of us has no limit. We are His children.”
It simply made no sense to Sorcha. “A father who allows his children to do wrong over and over and doesn’t discipline them will have hellions for children.” And thieves.
“Ah—” The priest held up a finger of caution. “We are often disciplined on This Side, not by God, but by man’s law. Or by other consequences of our wrongdoing, reaping what we sow,” he explained. “Yet when it’s time to cross over to the Other Side, God is waiting with His forgiving love.”
“In paradise.” A thief dining in paradise … with a God. Sorcha couldn’t help but warm to the thought that this God might understand her and Gemma’s need to steal. Especially if they never stole again, as Sorcha hoped would be the case. “That is quite a tale, Priest,” Sorcha murmured. “Quite a tale.”
“I believe on penalty of death that it is a truth that leads to eternal life with the Father who loves us,” Martin told her, “or eternal torment by the demons who rebelled against His love. In the end, every man and woman must make a choice as to whom they will give their lives.”
Just when Sorcha expected, perhaps even wanted, him to expound more—especially about demons and torment—Martin pointed to where the queen stood with her falconer. “It appears Her Majesty’s hunt is about to begin.”
At the queen’s nod, the falconer untied the straps securing the fowl’s hood and removed it to reveal the bright eyes and curved beak of a slate-blue peregrine falcon. With a great spread of dark-fringed wings, the graceful hunter fluffed its breast feathers and took flight, to the admiring applause of Aella’s companions. Sorcha watched it shoot away so fast that in moments it was but a tiny speck in the heavens.
“Can your God see the falcon?” she asked.
“He sees even the tiny sparrow when it falls,” Martin replied. “He not only created man and all of nature, but He watches over them.”
Trained to watch the dogs and heed the clicking object its master used for commands, the falcon just as quickly returned, circling overhead with its sharp gaze fixed on the burnished copper-and-white setter now loosed from its leash. The dog raced along the hedgerow on the meadow side of the water, weaving in and out of brush, searching for hidden prey. Grouse, quail, dove, seabirds … it was a rich hunting ground. A second dog, a brown spaniel, remained with its master. But it watched its partner, its tail wagging with eagerness to join the hunt.
Sorcha’s attention was halfhearted as she mulled over what Father Martin had said about his Christian God, who created and watched over all nature. The same nature many worshipped as gods. She settled next to Eavlyn on a sun-warmed stone beside the narrow crossing. A God who died and then dined with a thief, she thought. Perhaps He even watched the setter as it stopped poking around the brush and grew stone still.
“Look, he points,” Eavlyn said in a hushed voice.
The master of the hounds gave a signal and unleashed the brown spaniel. It raced toward the spot to flush out the bird. As the dog plunged into the thicket, a startled grouse gave up its cover and flapped desperately for the sky. The ladies, now being served wine, bread, and cheese about the fire, erupted with applause and cries of delight.
The hawk moved like lightning, straight for the hapless bird. Sorcha almost felt sorry for it. Still, she could hardly tear her gaze away as the birds collided in a flurry of feathers. The hawk lifted its prey, soaring in triumph to applause and cheers of the company. The falconer allowed it its glory for a few passes before clicking the command for it to return with the catch.
And God saw it all. The very notion was somehow comforting … providing one wasn’t the grouse, of course. How could there be such an all-knowing, all-loving God as that? Like as not, her new Christian friends had been filling her head with stories. Sorcha believed that Martin and Eavlyn believed, but Sorcha needed more than stories. The other gods had marvelous stories too, and she
’d seen no proof of their existence, either.
“Look,” Father Martin said, diverting their attention to the forest. “I think I hear the hunting party, the hounds at its head.”
The blast of a horn sounded above the distant clamor of the dogs, men, and horses tearing through trees and brush.
“The men return!” one of the queen’s ladies exclaimed, distracting the others from the hawk, now delivering its still-quivering prey to the falconer and his men.
Flashes of the men’s clothing appeared in and among the distant trees, but their shouts disintegrated beyond Sorcha’s understanding. Either the hunters were most anxious for the food and drink awaiting them, or the thrashing of limbs and stampede of hooves meant the hunt was coming to them.
Father Martin grabbed Sorcha’s arm and pulled her up. “Get the princess to safety!”
The reason for his urgency was clear now. Another prey ripped through the dense undergrowth, beating a path where there was none. Except that it wasn’t a quivering grouse or even a terrified deer. A giant of a boar tore through the underbrush and headed straight for the narrow passage crossing the stream. Blood sprayed from its huge nostrils and throat, from which broken remnants of spears dangled. Its huge black eyes rolled wild in every direction. So fearsome was the sight that Sorcha froze, unable to move.
But at the outburst of screams and the chaos ensuing behind them, she thawed. Grabbing Eavlyn, she pushed the still-struck princess toward cover around the boulder, but Eavlyn tripped over the hem of her skirts.
Sorcha tried to catch her, but in her effort was pulled down across the woman. Time slowed. Enough for Sorcha to reason that the beast might gore her, but the princess might be safe.
Beyond them, the queen’s guardsmen, white-faced, raced for the weapons they’d left with the horses. A babe who’d discovered his first legs could have moved faster. There was no way the men could retrieve their spears and stop the beast from plowing straight into her and the princess in its death rage.
“God before me!”
Sorcha looked over her shoulder to see the source of the thunderous summons. Father Martin waded into the knee-deep water, planting himself squarely in the beast’s path, his staff of carved stories extended like a spear. Perhaps if it had a blade instead of an ornate cross, the holy man stood a chance.
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