“God beside me!” he shouted as the beast broke free of the wood, speeding all the faster for him. As though he were the source of its pain.
Sorcha heard herself scream, long and dragged out by the same sluggish passage of time that suspended the beast’s great lunge. Its tusks were aimed at the priest with only the staff bridging the two. She closed her eyes and buried her face in the princess’s shoulder, bracing for their turn. But a loud rip of cloth bade her look in spite of herself. Instead of boring into Martin, the beast careened off the priest as though he were a stalwart oak.…
And rolled to a stop within a finger’s length of her and Eavlyn. The tusk that had run through the holy man’s robe still bore a remnant of it. Yet Martin himself somehow still stood, unmoved. And, unlike Sorcha and Eavlyn, unbloodied by the fountain that sprayed with the animal’s dying spasms.
With one great shudder, the boar heaved a last breath, the hot stench assailing Sorcha’s nostrils, making her gag.
“Blessed God in Heaven,” Eavlyn whispered as Sorcha struggled away. The princess pulled herself to her knees. Hands clasped, she rocked to and fro, repeating the words again and again.
“’Tis dead, milady,” Sorcha assured her from the much-needed support of the rock at her back. Yet in her mind’s eye, she could still see the beast charging into the priest. Could hear an ear-splitting crack, as though it had struck the crosier and snapped it in its lunge for the priest. Yet the staff that Martin held frozen in front of him was as untouched as he was. Only Martin’s lips moved in fervent prayer.
Two guards reached the princess, pulling her to her feet.
“Are you harmed, milady?” one asked.
She and Sorcha were both covered with the beast’s gore.
“Did you see him?” Eavlyn asked.
“Aye, milady. Your priest is either a brave man or a fool,” the other remarked.
“Either way, he’s the luckiest man I’ve ever seen,” said the first.
“Nay,” Eavlyn snapped, impatient. “I meant the warrior who appeared from nowhere and jumped in front of Father Martin. He grabbed the boar by the tusks and threw it to the side, breaking its neck.”
Reluctant, Sorcha translated, for she’d not seen anyone but the priest.
“I saw this brave Saxon lady throw herself over you to protect you, but no warrior,” the guard replied.
She’d fallen, but Sorcha was in too much shock to set the man right. Though she would have done her best to protect Eavlyn.
Only when touched by the other guardsmen did Father Martin seem to shake off his paralysis. When he did, the poor man dropped to his knees and gathered his staff to him. With his other hand, he crossed himself.
“God be thanked!” he said again and again.
Meanwhile one of the guards who’d come to Eavlyn’s aid lifted the head of the dead beast by the tusks. Disbelief claimed his blunt-featured face as he turned to his companion. “What the lady said is true. The priest broke its neck with his bare hands.”
Except that Martin hadn’t done a thing. Sorcha had seen that much, even if she hadn’t seen Eavlyn’s warrior. He’d just stood there holding out his staff.
“’Twas a miracle.” Eavlyn beamed at Sorcha. “A miracle.”
The same wonder infected Sorcha, though she wasn’t certain what she’d seen—or not seen. Without doubt something truly amazing had happened. She supposed miracle was as good a word as any for it.
Chapter Fifteen
Weddings were much ado about nothing as far as Caden was concerned, especially if they were held inside a smoke-filled hall. But the morning had come cloaked in clouds that appeared thick with rain, so Caden was all but pressed by the privileged inside guests against one of the gilded carved columns supporting the high roof. A decorative garland of fresh greenery pricked his tunic while he waited with the rest for the arrival of the bridal party, but he’d have to elbow the man next to him to scratch.
Already Prince Hering and the Bernician and Lothian nobles had taken their places at the head of the hall, each contingent boasting its holy man. A richly robed Saxon witan hovered by a makeshift altar brought in for a sacrifice so that Woden might bless the marriage. Akin to Cymri druids, who were doctors, judges, teachers, and more, this witan was a priest. Next to him stood his Christian counterpart in plain undyed wool, belted by a worn and knotted prayer rope. Draped around Father Martin’s neck was a narrow scarf of scarlet, adorned with a golden embroidered cross and tassel. Caden had never seen the former hermit wear such trappings before.
Though Martin needed no such finery to impress the heathens. No one in Din Guardi doubted the priest’s supernatural favor after yesterday’s hunt. No witness told the same story as to what exactly happened, but all agreed it was a miracle that neither the priest nor the two ladies were hurt. Having been with the hunters, all Caden witnessed were the two bloodied, visibly shaken women.
Though that wasn’t the first close call with death that day. The prince himself had had a near miss with the boar. Hering had stalked the boar into a thicket and cast the first spear. It hit its mark, but the wild animal charged him. His cousin was supposed to assist the prince, help with the kill if needed, but for some reason, Aethelfrith danced around the then wrestling prince and beast instead of going in for the killing blow. It was only when Hussa lunged in and sank his spear into the animal’s throat that Aethelfrith threw his weapon. With a third spear lodged in its neck, the beast wrested free of the three of them and bolted off.
A round of cheering from the outside guests for whom there was no room in the hall signaled the approach of the ladies from the women’s quarters. That sent a ripple of excitement over the more privileged clustered inside—and sweating like hard-ridden horses, if Caden was any example.
Such revelry, and for what? An arranged marriage that, if God smiled upon the couple, might turn to love. His mother and father’s had not. Or a love match that would turn to hate, as Caden’s had. The festivities would drag on and on, especially a royal affair like Hering and Eavlyn’s. With Sorcha having made her choice to marry Elford, there was little to keep Caden around, were he not part of the Lothian entourage. As such, he was required to wait for at least another two days of revelry after the couple had shared their bower joys for the first time.
Caden snorted. As if the coupling of royal enemies could bring peace. From what he’d seen of Hussa’s court the last few days, the king had his hands full watching his back against his brothers and their kin. And Caden knew from his own past actions how low one brother would stoop to usurp another’s rights.
“But that was in the past.”
Caden perked up, listening, wondering if that voice had been his wishful thinking or from the God he’d committed to serve. How drunk he’d been with joy and thanksgiving that afternoon on the beach, yet now he grumbled as if he were the one having to marry. Why God had smoothed his way to Sorcha and run him smack into a stone wall vexed him.
Unless his task wasn’t finished.
A blast from the herald’s horns pulled Caden away from his indecision and called everyone’s attention to the hall’s main entrance. A small golden-haired girl, clad in white linen and wearing a crown of flowers, backed into the room. Her task was to mark the bride’s path with dried rose petals. Following her came the maid Lunid, bearing a fine sword, its hilt inlaid with jewels and gilt.
Admiration rippled through the throng.
“Made in Caron,” came a wisp of admiration from nearby.
“Maybe magic, like Arthur’s sword.”
The swordsmiths at Caron’s ironworks were unequalled, and this sword was polished to a mirror sheen. But Caden doubted the Lady of the Lake would share the secret of Excalibur’s making for a Saxon’s use. Some said it contained a metal from a fallen star that gave the weapon a finish that wouldn’t tarnish or rust and a strength that could cut through its iron counterparts. Only the Grail keepers knew its secret.
The horns faded. Harpists and pipers struck
up a gentler music the moment Eavlyn entered and proceeded toward her waiting groom. Her dress was the color of sun-bleached clouds, flecked with bits of gold sewn into the fabric. With each movement, it made her tall, slight body shimmer in the light. From her shoulders fell a blue silk robe that seemed to float endlessly behind her.
Graceful and stately as Gwenhyfar, Caden observed. Blaise of Dunfeld had every right to swell with pride, while Modred smiled like the cat that ate—
Caden’s breath caught.
Carrying the hem of the long robe was Sorcha. If Eavlyn was the purity of gold and snow, Sorcha was fire, like her namesake. Her knee-length robe of bronze brocade caught and threw back the reflection of the torch flames mounted high on the hall pillars. She walked like a queen, with naught but a golden band to tame that glorious mane of red hair.
“Never would I allow a woman in my wedding party who was prettier than I,” a female exclaimed from somewhere beyond them.
The remark had merit. No longer pale from shock as she’d been when the hunting party caught up with the boar, Sorcha outshone the bride and stirred the blood of any man with eyes, if Caden was an example. He’d wanted to speak to her yesterday, but Hering and Elford spirited her and the princess off to Din Guardi.
Curiosity drew Caden’s gaze to the Elford party. On sighting Cynric, Caden’s stomach curled. The man clearly seduced Sorcha in his mind. Caden swore beneath his breath. He needed air. Lots of it. And maybe some beer to make Cynric’s expression go away. Except that leaving now was almost impossible, so thick was the throng. Would that he’d left yesterday … the wedding be hanged.
Sorcha fought a gag reflex as the witan slit the throat of a bleating goat at the altar. Its blood spattered his robe and drained into a ceremonial bowl as Sorcha’s drained from her face. After yesterday, she’d seen enough blood for a lifetime. And from the pallor of Eavlyn’s face, so had the princess. Sorcha tore her attention from the grisly sight of the still-twitching animal. Between that and the heat of the crowd surrounding her, she felt faint.
Or maybe it was due to the fact that she’d spent yet another night trying to muster the courage and words to tell Elford she could not marry him. Eavlyn and Sorcha retired early from last night’s feast without censure, given their harrowing experience yesterday. Lunid informed them that it was rumored Father Martin had used magic to turn the boar, but Sorcha was more intrigued by the tall, golden warrior Eavlyn swore had killed the beast with his bare hands.
Sorcha wondered if Eavlyn had seen God Himself.
Lunid, of course, crossed herself. “No one has seen God except Moses!” That launched a story of how the Christian God had allowed His people to become slaves because of bad choices they’d made. Sorcha thought a father who’d do that wasn’t much better than Ebyn’s folks and said so. The last count Sorcha had, Lunid had crossed herself over fifty-six times.
A growing murmur of awe and approval drew Sorcha to the present, where the gifts between the father of the bride and the groom were exchanged. Never had she seen the like of chests filled with torques of gold and silver, Roman hand mirrors, flasks of Roman glass, piles of jewels, necklaces, brooches, ewers, pins, and clasps.
Sorcha fingered one of the three strands of amber resting against her neck. She’d have to give her jewels back, of course. And the dresses, no matter how she reveled in the feel of the fine linen against her skin and the elegant flow of the russet wool about her form. This was as close to being a noblewoman as she would ever get.
Yet, for all the riches, reality struck when the bride’s father handed over her shoe to Hering, who tapped her gently on the head, passing full authority over Eavlyn from father to husband. The princess’s life was no longer her own, even if she would live in the lap of luxury. The elegant slipper would later be placed at the head of the nuptial bed as a symbol of Hering’s authority. Not a partnership, as Sorcha’s parents had shared.
Sorcha wiped a trickle of sweat from her temple. If the ceremony did not end soon, she’d swoon or be sick from this smother of people. Hering exchanged the keys to his household, establishing Eavlyn as its lady, for the magnificent sword that showed she recognized him as her lord and protector.
Then the Christian priest wrapped their hands in his mantel and prompted them with vows made till death took them. Mercifully, he was not as long-winded as he’d been yesterday at the service. His prayer for the union to bring about peace between the two kingdoms, to demonstrate all things were possible with the living God, brought an end to the ceremony.
“And now by the power of the Holy Spirit,” Martin announced with his boar-stopping voice, “I give you Prince Hering and Princess Eavlyn of Bernicia, now husband and wife before God and all witnesses.”
Thunderous huzzahs filled the room. Guests closed in to congratulate the couple, but Sorcha left Lunid to tend to Eavlyn’s robe and made her way with as much haste as she could against the converging tide toward the nearest door … that leading to the kitchens. The moment fresh air filled her lungs, her dizziness subsided. Would that she could keep on going through Din Guardi’s gate and down the causeway to her home and Gemma.
But that was not an option. She had a duty to serve the Elford party, though it would be some time before guests settled enough to pass around the drink. She also had to face Cynric. She was not the courageous woman Eavlyn was. She was not willing to sacrifice like the princess and her God. Sorcha wasn’t worthy to carry the hem of Eavlyn’s robe or bend the ear of her God with her quandary.
Though if You are listening, Cymri God …
“Milady Sorcha, are you ill?”
Sorcha winced at the sound of Cynric’s voice. Nay, I’m just a coward who goes back on her word.
She gave up the support of the plaster wall at her back to see her father’s longtime friend exiting the hall in concern.
“I am, sir,” she replied. “Ill with dread for what I must tell you.”
Garbed in a splendid black tunic trimmed in silver thread and with gold adorning his neck and every finger, Cynric approached her and put his thick hands on her shoulders. “Am I so fearsome that my bride-to-be grows distraught at the notion of speaking to me?” he asked gently.
Sorcha met his gaze through a glaze of emotion. His expression was as kind as his voice, magnifying her guilt. “I cannot marry you, milord.”
There. It was out.
“But I will give you the deed to my father’s business and warehouse, just as I vowed,” she blurted out. “I owe you as much. And, of course, I’ll return your gifts.”
“My little Sorcha.” Cynric pulled her to him in a bear of a hug. “You’ve never been as good a thief or vixen as your mother and Gemma. You possess Aelwyn’s fire and gift of music and song, aye, but your heart is too big, and your father’s honesty runs too deep.”
Uncertain what to say, Sorcha held her tongue and backed away as the thane let her go.
“Which is why I ask you now,” Cynric continued. “What has changed your mind?”
“I’ve found my birth mother.” That was when this tortuous indecision started. The night Caden of Lothian walked into the tavern. “Or, rather, she found me.”
Cynric’s brow shot up. “Your birth mother here? In Din Guardi? Is she with the Lothian company?”
Sorcha shook her head. “Nay, milord. She sent a Cymri warrior to bring me home to Trebold.”
“Trebold. And where is this Trebold?”
“Somewhere in Lothian. I … I don’t remember much about it.” She moved farther from the door as a contingent of servants paraded past with large tortoise shells piled high with breads. “But if my mother needs me, how can I refuse her? Especially since I missed her so much when I was first taken in by Wulfram and Aelwyn. ’Tis something I must do.”
Cynric pulled thoughtfully on the tip of a bush of mustache. “Then do it, child,” he said with a nod. “Go to her and bring her back to Elford. I will see her well cared for.”
Sorcha muffled her groan of despair. How—<
br />
“I’ve waited all these years for you to grow up,” he went on. “I can wait a few more months. Your mother will be there to see us wed.”
Freya’s mercy! “You don’t understand, milord. My mother wishes me to help her run her estate. How could I be your wife and live in Lothian? We’ve only just arranged a peace between us.”
Please don’t make me say it. Don’t make me hurt you.
“This Cymri warrior she sent for you. Would he be that young bear of a man with wild yellow hair who kept you company a few nights ago?”
A plague on Tunwulf’s loose tongue!
“The same who frolicked on the beach with you as well?”
Sorcha’s mouth grew slack with shock. “You’ve had me watched, milord?” Blood flushed warm to the surface of her skin, partly from embarrassment and partly from indignation. “I’ll have you know that Caden was every bit a gentleman, who remained one night with the boy and me when I was ill, because we’d been threatened by the moneylender’s churl.” She crossed her arms, building more of a huff. “And Wada as much as told me that I would suffer the same fate as my parents for crossing him. Better I’d run him through with my father’s sword and been done with—”
Cynric pressed a finger to her lips. For the first time Sorcha saw something dangerous flicker in his gaze. “This man Wada admitted to being responsible for the fire?”
She nodded. “I’d have run him through, but Caden stopped me and ran him off.”
“He was right to do so,” Cynric told her. “’Tis I who will deal with him … and this Caden,” he added in a voice like a low thunder in the distance.
A shaft of fear pierced Sorcha’s anger. “But … but Caden protected me.”
“And well he should,” Cynric replied. The corner of his mouth tugged, but Sorcha didn’t know if it was from anger or humor. “He fancies you.”
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