Thief

by Linda Windsor

  “Milord!” And curse the heat scorching its way to her face. But the idea was absurd.

  “The man cannot take his eyes off you … that is, when he’s not watching me,” Cynric added wryly. “You are a beautiful young woman. That is why I’ve had someone keep an eye on you when I’ve had to be at Elford. For your protection.”

  The flap of emotion beating blood through Sorcha’s veins settled like a sail robbed of wind.

  “And that”—his expression grew grim—“is why I will send an escort with you to Trebold. I trust no man with you.”

  Did her ears betray her? “I have your leave to go?” she asked. “To possibly not return?”

  “Sorcha, Sorcha.” With a heart-heavy sigh, Cynric put his arm about her shoulders, so much as her father used to do. “I gave my word to your father that I would put your happiness above all else. That I would spoil you as he and Aelwyn did. If this is the direction your wild heart desires to go, Sorcha, then so be it.”

  At that moment the gray cloud cover overhead parted, allowing a shaft of the day’s first sunlight. It beat down upon them, warming Sorcha’s face as Cynric’s declaration warmed her heart.

  “I did not know such kindness and understanding existed.” She meant every word. She’d fretted so much, all for naught. “I thought you would be angry—”

  “I am disappointed. I would not be human if I were not,” he added with a humorless laugh. “I had hoped that I could make you happy, give you whatever you wanted, but I am not angry, Sorcha.” He leaned over and kissed her hair. “But I will speak to that Cymri.”

  “He is an honorable man.”

  Was it possible? Just like that, Cynric would let her go and endure the humiliation of having their betrothal dissolved?

  All things are possible with the living God. The priest’s words from the ceremony gave Sorcha pause.

  Nay, she told herself. ’Twas coincidence. She hadn’t even asked the Christian God for help. Not in so many words.

  “Are you feeling ill again?” Cynric turned her toward him, snatching her from her introspection.

  “Nay, milord.” She glanced upward at the widening shaft of sun. She’d heard the Christian God lived there. “I’m feeling grateful that my father chose such a kind and understanding man to watch over me.”

  “It seems as though the sun has decided to grace the prince’s wedding day after all.” Cynric offered her his arm. “Shall we return to the hall, milady?”

  “Aye,” Sorcha replied, linking her arm with his. “And I’ll be honored to fetch a pitcher of Din Guardi’s finest beer for you and your men.”

  “Just be happy, Sorcha.” Elford patted her arm. “Be happy, and I will have kept my blood oath to the man who saved my life and became my dearest friend.”

  As they went inside, Sorcha cast one last glance overhead. It was as if this God—or the Wyrds—had written hope with a golden pen across the sky … and on her heart.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “There you are,” Rhianon exclaimed as Sorcha made her way to where the royal women filled flagons of drink for their men and guests. “The princess asked for you before she carried her first wine to her husband.”

  If Rhianon sought to make Sorcha feel guilty, she succeeded. Sorcha really liked Eavlyn and would do nothing to upset the princess. Which was why she’d made a hasty retreat after the ceremony rather than become ill and distract from the joy of the occasion.

  “I needed fresh air. Perhaps now that the sun is coming out, some of the guests will go outside, and it won’t be so close in here.”

  “Just take this—” Rhianon handed her a pitcher of hand-painted Romanware filled with beer—“and serve your lord. He’ll be anxious, wondering where his bride-to-be has disappeared to.”

  Sorcha laughed. She could hardly recall the last time she had. It felt wonderful. “Milord was with me,” she told her companion.

  With that, Sorcha danced away, leaving Rhianon to speculate. At least it felt like dancing … until Sorcha nearly collided with Mildrith, who entered the alcove where the kegs of wine and beer were stored. Sorcha nearly sloshed some of the beer on the crisp white apron the steward’s wife always wore.

  “Oh, s-sorry, Mildrith!” Sorcha stammered. “I didn’t see you coming.”

  Mildrith gave her a rare grin. “I am usually hard to miss seeing, milady.”

  Sorcha brandished a wide smile at her.

  “You look happy,” the big woman observed.

  “Oh, I am, Mildrith. It’s a glorious day for our prince and his lady.”

  With a slight dip of respect, Sorcha turned and headed through the clusters of celebrating guests toward Cynric and his contingent. To her delight, Tunwulf’s dour face was not among them. The day improved by the moment, she thought, approaching Cynric.

  “Your beer, milord,” she announced, drawing his attention from a conversation with a companion.

  Cynric held out his mug. It was rounded at the bottom so that he could not set it down—a means of measuring the amount one drank, since it could not be refilled by a prankster bent on his intoxication without his knowledge.

  “Thank you, lovely Sorcha,” Cynric said when the mug was filled to the brim. “I hope you will join us soon.”

  “To be sure, milord. And you are most welcome.” With a slight curtsy, she turned to serve the others—

  And ran smack into Tunwulf. To her dismay, the pitcher flew from her hands and crashed to the floor, spilling its contents.

  “Oh, I didn’t see you behind me,” she gasped as Tunwulf backed off, brushing spilt beer off his tunic. “I am sorry, milord.”

  “No harm done.” He kicked the remains of the broken pitcher under the table. “Just fetch us another, wen—” He broke off with a sharp glance at Cynric. “Milady,” he amended. “Sorry, Father, I still have trouble separating the tavern wench from future stepmother.”

  “My betrothed has never been, nor will ever be, a tavern wench,” Cynric snapped. “She is a gifted singer and musician, a prize for any man she chooses.”

  If looks could wound, the one Tunwulf gave his father was fatal.

  “I’ll be back with more drink,” Sorcha promised. Hopefully in one of the unbreakable bronze pitchers.

  Not even a run-in with Tunwulf could spoil her joy. And she wanted to share it—with Caden, if she could find him. Thankfully, the Cymri guests were easily spotted, due to Father Martin’s crosier rising above them. Sorcha wove through the throng, giving broad smiles in answer to the compliments she received from men and women alike. It was unlikely they’d be as open to her once it was made known that she would not become Lady Elford.

  But she was going to meet her mother. Myrna. No matter how Sorcha tried to picture her, Myrna’s face blended in with that of Aelwyn. And just think. In time, Sorcha would be tavern mistress and own her own land. In time. She was in no hurry.

  “Caden!” Sorcha waved, wading past two Saxon men engaged in a contest to see who might empty his mug first to where the tall fair-haired stranger stood. He and his priest didn’t seem to share the amusement of the Saxons surrounding them.

  “You disapprove, sir?” Sorcha asked, casting a glance at the merrymakers.

  “It’s not for me to judge,” Caden replied. “I’ve drunk more than my share of the heath fruit.”

  “It does seem that your people have an exceeding fondness for drinking until totally inebriated,” Father Martin put in. “Which I would think could be dangerous.”

  “Hadn’t you best be serving your lord?” Caden looked meaningfully at Sorcha’s empty hands.

  “Aye, but he will not be my lord. That’s why I sought you out.” Sorcha seized the Cymri’s hands in her own in her excitement. “I’ve decided to return with you to Trebold and my mother!”

  The food, including roasted boar, was plentiful so that by the time most of it had been consumed, the guests were ready to move about more freely. By then, with the clearing of the clouds, a bonfire had been lit outside the hall,
and the musicians led the guests to it. A board and benches were set up for the newlyweds and the royal contingent, while guests brought out even more into the pleasantly cool night air.

  In far better humor and more comfortable than he’d been inside, Caden looked up as drummers struck up a primal rhythm that dampened the cacophony of so many conversations. Hering, Aethelfrith, and two other young Saxon men entered the cleared area by the fire, stripped to the waist but for a leather vest and wearing a ceremonial headdress—a stag’s head. Each carried a spear and leapt about the high-reaching fire as if on the hunt. Each footfall, each jump and turn, each thrust of the spear melded with drumbeat.

  It held Caden’s attention for a while, but he was more interested in watching Sorcha when he could spot her in this throng. Maybe what Father Martin had said about God’s smoothing the way for Caden, having a plan … maybe there was something to it after all. All he knew was that her news had made him as light as Sorcha’s step.

  The tempo changed, drawing his gaze to where the dancers had made a full circle about the fire. No longer hunters, they turned warriors and paired off in combat, still to the beat of the music. The grace of combat to music fascinated the onlookers, Caden included, though fighting like that on a battlefield would get them all killed before the first sword ring stopped.

  He wasn’t sure how a winner was determined, but soon there was only the atheling prince and his cousin pitted against each other and, suddenly, the notion of a show was over. Sweat beaded their wiry, muscled torsos and foreheads as the two faced off. One would think Aethelfrith would yield to his cousin in honor of the wedding, but the Dieran princeling showed no sign of easing into submission.

  The staccato beat of the drums, the smoke curling upward from a spark-spitting fire brought out the beast in the men, who were well matched. Aethelfrith made a lunge at his cousin, who sidestepped the blade, but not before it sliced the flesh of Hering’s rib cage. With a howl, Hering spun about quick as lightning and took out Aethelfrith’s feet. It was over when he pressed his spear to his cousin’s throat, but the angry flickering in their gazes spoke of the clash being far from done.

  Hering danced away after a breath’s pause, his spear raised in triumph. Eavlyn flew to her husband’s side to a chorus of “Huzzahs” and cheers and applied one of the linen towels used for hand washing to the cut.

  “Hussa and Hering had better keep an eye on that young stag,” Father Martin said under his breath, startling Caden from his observation.

  “’Tis naught but a scratch,” the triumphant prince shouted to his adoring audience. “An accident.”

  His sidewise look at where Aethelfrith blended into the crowd said otherwise.

  “My caution to you all,” Hering continued. “Dance with our ladies, not weapons.”

  That said, the harpists and pipers struck up a lively tune. Gathering Eavlyn’s hands into his, the prince began to skip in circles, as if just gazing into his bride’s eyes rejuvenated him.

  For Eavlyn’s sake, and for that of peace, Caden hoped the marriage would serve the purpose of the Grail Church. That Eavlyn could build a church on the land gifted to her by her husband. As long as Hussa was king, it stood a chance. But many Saxons felt this wedding was a coward’s way of conquering the land and—

  A bloodcurdling scream ripped through the gaiety about the fire, loud enough to silence the musicians and, with that, slow the frolic. Caden looked in its direction and spied a cluster of people gathered near Hussa and his guests. Caden supposed that someone had passed out, either from illness or drink. Curious, he followed Father Martin through the crowd.

  “Give way,” the priest shouted. “Give way. I am a man of medicine and a man of God. Give way.”

  It seemed an eternity to cross such a short span of space, but when they did, Caden saw the source of the commotion. Cynric of Elford lay on the ground, his head cradled in Sorcha’s lap. One was as pale as the other. Hussa knelt by his loyal thane’s side, Tunwulf opposite him.

  “Father Martin, can you help him?” Sorcha cried out upon seeing the priest. “We danced, and he suddenly fell ill and dropped to the ground, clutching his stomach. Please!”

  Tunwulf gave way for the priest and Hussa for another of the white-robed witans, one whom Caden assumed knew medicine. Not that it took a scholar to see Cynric was clearly at death’s door. Yet the man rallied with remarkable strength, seizing the witan’s robe as Martin prayed.

  “I … I am murdered,” Cynric said in a loud voice.

  Shock rippled in waves away from the fallen man.

  “Nay, milord,” Sorcha cried. “Don’t say such a thing.” Panicked, she looked at Martin. “Touch him with your staff. Call on your God.”

  Martin placed a comforting hand on her shoulders. “I am calling on Him, milady.”

  “My king …” Cynric gasped as a spasm seized his abdomen.

  Hussa moved in closer. “Aye, my loyal friend.”

  “See … see that my intended bride keeps her betrothal gifts … all of them.”

  “Nay—”

  The Bernician king cut Sorcha off. “I will.”

  “My horse thane Octa is worthy of Elford,” the dying man declared, loud enough for those close by to hear.

  “That does it!” Tunwulf dragged Martin away. “Look at him. He’s clearly out of his mind. I am his son.”

  Hussa met Tunwulf’s outrage with a hard, level look. “I believe your father is as sane as myself, but,” he added diplomatically, “I will consider you both.”

  “My lord, you must save your strength,” Sorcha insisted. She wiped her own tears from Cynric’s ashen face, shaking her head as though she could not accept the reality before her. “Let the doctors tend you.”

  “If I don’t know what poison he has been given, how can I counter it?” the witan complained.

  “Protect—” Another spasm cut off Cynric, drawing up his legs.

  “Hush, sweet lord,” Sorcha cooed. “You’re sore sick—”

  The seizure let him go … and with a half-groan, half-sigh, the thane let go of life itself.

  Suddenly Tunwulf pointed an accusing finger at Sorcha. “Tell us. Tell us what poison you used, wench, for I have seen none serve my father but you this night.”

  “Milord …” Sorcha shook Cynric as though to wake him. Tunwulf might have been speaking in another tongue for all the attention she gave him. “Do something!” she pleaded to the priests. “Please. Either of you.”

  “Ask any of our men,” Tunwulf charged the onlookers. “Have you seen any serve my father, save this red-haired vixen?”

  “What reason would Sorcha have to poison Cynric?”

  Caden didn’t realize he’d shouted the challenge until Tunwulf turned his belligerent gaze on him.

  Rancor saturated the man’s ready reply. “Because Sorcha plans to run away with you, Caden of Lothian!”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “Is this true, milady?” Hussa towered over Sorcha, looking every bit the imposing figure the title bretwalda entailed. While the king’s voice was gentle, his gaze had turned to stone.

  Sorcha held Cynric’s head tenderly against her, trying to register all that had been said. What was wrong with these people? Couldn’t they see Cynric needed immediate attention?

  Because Sorcha plans to run away with you, Caden of Lothian!

  Shock at Tunwulf’s accusation knocked Sorcha’s thoughts one way, anger another.

  “Nay, milord.” Surely Hussa did not believe Tunwulf’s lies. Tunwulf, whose support was always conspicuously absent. “’Tis nothing like that villain says. Caden of Lothian came on my birth mother’s behalf to reunite us. I plan to return to Lothian with him and with,” she said more loudly, “Cynric’s blessing. But this is no time for such talk. We need to tend your friend. He’ll tell you himself when he’s come around.”

  “Milady Sorcha,” the king replied grimly, “Cynric is gone.”

  It couldn’t be. “He’s only lost consciousness!” De
termined to prove the king wrong, Sorcha bent over, placing her ear to Elford’s nose and mouth. No trace of breath.

  “A mirror,” she shouted in desperation. “We need a mirror.” Oft times, when breath could not be felt, it might be seen.

  Hussa reached down and took her by the shoulders. “Let the witans see to his body.”

  Body. The finality of the word slammed Sorcha again. Tears spilling, she eased Cynric’s head to the ground before allowing the king to help her rise. “This can’t be. It just can’t be.” Her words tumbled out in a rush, aimed at no one. “We only just spoke of dissolving our betrothal. Cynric gave me his blessing to go to my mother. He said he wanted me to be happy … that he promised my father to take care of me and …”

  “Did you serve Cynric his drink, Sorcha?” the king interrupted.

  “Yes. I was late because he and I had been talking and—”

  Rhianon!

  Sorcha glanced around the gathered crowd but saw no sign of Tunwulf’s companion. Sorcha pointed an accusing finger at Tunwulf. “’Twas his strumpet who handed me a pitcher filled with beer. The very pitcher I took to Cynric.”

  “But Rhianon had already served me from that same flagon, and I am not sick,” Tunwulf pointed out. “Though I would have been, had I allowed you to fill my cup after you’d filled my father’s.” He looked to where the Elford party stood looking on in a mix of disbelief and grief. “So would you all, had I not bumped into her, accidentally breaking the pitcher with the poison.”

  “Where is this broken vessel now?” one of the white-robed witans asked above the whispers riffling through the crowd.

  “I kicked the pieces beneath the board,” Tunwulf answered. “It should still be there. Perhaps you can find the nature of her poison from it.”

  “If there’s poisoning afoot here, I will swear on my life that your Rhianon is the culprit,” a voice boomed from behind Hussa.

  Attention shifted to where Caden stepped out of the crowd. “Milord,” he said to Hussa, “Rhianon was … is my wife. And it was with poison that she sought to murder my father.”