Thief

by Linda Windsor

  “The testimony of her scorned lover.” Tunwulf sneered. “Why should we listen to you? Were you not behind that scheme?”

  Caden cast his gaze down, and Sorcha’s heart sank. She knew how to read a crowd, and what she saw on the sea of faces surrounding them was rampant suspicion, even accusation.

  “Milord,” Father Martin spoke up. “I can personally testify that what Sorcha said about her mother sending Caden in search of her long-lost daughter to be true. And I can also swear that Rhianon, Caden’s wife, conspired to murder both his father and brother.”

  Tunwulf laughed. “At his demand. She told me how he bullied her to help him become chief of Glenarden. The very land from which you are exiled, I believe.”

  Caden shook his head. “Nay, not at my demand. But I am ashamed to say that I went along with her idea and deserve my exile.”

  Sorcha swayed unsteadily. His words, humble as they were, only made things worse.

  “Enough!” Hussa held up his hand to silence Caden and to Tunwulf. “Enough accusations and speculation. I will have my sheriff look into this matter.”

  “Milord, Caden speaks the truth,” Father Martin declared. “His wife is a witch. I have seen her work her magic—”

  “What magic, Priest?” the doctor among the witans asked in contempt. “You Christians accuse most of what we do as magic.”

  Father Martin shook his head. “Sir, you are mistaken. I respect your knowledge of nature and the elements—”

  “Did you see this woman poison your man’s father?” the witan inquired.

  “Nay,” Martin acknowledged, “but her teacher practiced dark magic with demons, and I did myself help free this man of one—”

  “Her teacher,” Tunwulf pointed out, “not Rhianon.”

  “I said enough!”

  Hussa gave a sign to one of his heralds, who promptly silenced the growing murmur of the crowd with a horn’s blast so loud that Sorcha started.

  “Milords and ladies,” the Bernician king announced, “today is my son’s wedding. We will celebrate. And on the morrow, we will ferret out the murderer of my brother-in-arms. That I promise as—”

  “Milords! Help us, milords!”

  Hussa breathed an oath of exasperation as yet another commotion erupted, this time bursting from the hall with Mildrith at its head. The big woman’s face was flushed, and her buxom chest heaved from haste.

  “We need a doctor,” she cried in a voice loud as the herald’s horn. “The woman Rhianon—” Mildrith wrung her apron, affording a darting glance at her husband, Hussa’s seneschal. “I fear she’s dying … poisoned by the look of it.”

  Sorcha grabbed at her sinking heart as Hussa whirled to face her, bitter accusation hurling at her from his countenance. And who could blame him? She had no answer for Cynric’s death, much less Rhianon’s misfortune.

  “Guards, put this lady and Caden of Lothian in irons,” he ordered, not taking his fierce gaze from her face.

  “Careful, lord king,” King Modred advised lowly. “He is one of my finest captains, and she is favored by your new daughter-by-law.”

  “Both he and the lady will be treated well,” the bretwalda assured the Lothian king in the same tone. “But to ensure that he and the lady do not flee before we find out what mischief is afoot, it will be my guardhouse.”

  “But we are innocent, milord!” Sorcha protested as two guards seized her by the arms.

  Ignoring her outburst, Hussa glanced after the contingent of witans who rushed into the hall and motioned his seneschal. “Wilfrid, have the witans see to the situation inside,” he ordered. “And you, sir, will fetch my gift stool and treasure chest. We need a distraction to restore the humor to this festivity. I have guests to entertain, and I will see my son to his nuptial bed this night.”

  Caden didn’t know what to think. Rhianon was poisoned, hovering between life and death, according to the servant who’d brought him the evening meal. The witans were with her. Seated on the floor, his back to the rough timber wall, Caden contemplated the wood-hinged door, but his thoughts tumbled. Rhianon’s was a seemly fate, if she’d accidentally fallen victim to her own scheme.

  His fists clenched. So help him, if Caden found out that she was at the bottom of this travesty, he’d send her to the Other Side himself. He conjured the feel of his hands closing about her slender neck, the satisfaction of giving her a taste of her own vileness. His anger and frustration fed the notion like fuel to a fire….

  But it wasn’t enough. Something within him checked. Not reason, to be sure, for Caden had every reason to want Rhianon dead. It was something else. The same something that enabled him to hold his peace upon realizing Sorcha and Gemma had stolen his purse. The old Caden would have exposed them for what they were and taken delight in exacting the revenge.

  Had he gone soft, or was this some sort of newfound goodness?

  “Grace received demands grace to be given.”

  Gone soft of heart and hearing voices in his head.

  Caden ran his fingers through his hair. If this was God working on his spirit, why was he in chains?

  “Why?” he whispered softly. “Abba, I don’t understand. I was doing Your will. Or trying—”

  Voices sounded outside. The outer door opened, and a moment later the bolt to Caden’s cell slid loudly from its keeper. Father Martin entered, carrying a lamp. Behind him in the narrow hallway stood Princess Eavlyn with another.

  “This is no way to celebrate your wedding, milady,” Caden said to her.

  “Hering granted me a short leave to see to Sorcha,” she replied, “and to give her this.” She held up a leather bag containing a harp by its shape. “I think Hering believes you to be innocent, although I must say, the circumstances are against you.”

  “Tunwulf has spun a convincing tale around them,” Father Martin chimed in dryly.

  “I promise to do everything in my power to prove your innocence. Sorcha’s as well.” Eavlyn left the entrance to Caden’s cell and turned to Sorcha’s. Another bolt slid from its keeper, and the hinges creaked open.

  Caden hadn’t heard a peep from his fellow prisoner since she’d been locked up. When they were escorted to the guardhouse, she’d walked as though her spirit had been driven from her body by shock. Her replies to his inquiries through the wall between their chambers were no more than a single syllable.

  “Did you see Rhianon?” Caden asked Father Martin.

  “Only from a distance. She wouldn’t have me near her. But she’ll live, according to the doctor.”

  “Then Satan got a reprieve.” Caden gave a wry laugh. “He can rule in peace for a while longer.”

  “The unsaved dead sleep, son,” Martin reminded him. Still, the priest smiled at Caden’s suggestion. “Only the saved live on with our Lord before His return.”

  Sleep. That was what Caden had once hoped for. Eternal sleep. No more trials, no more guilt. The guilt was the worst part of his punishment. He’d never been able to escape its weight, not even in Lothian among mercenaries with pasts just as dark as his own. Although admitting his part in the scheme to murder his father and brother and seize Glenarden for his own hadn’t been as heavy to admit as before.

  Jesus carried it now. The answer came before Caden could form the question. Christ had taken his burden the moment Caden called out His name on the beach just days ago. The memory of that childlike lightheartedness eased some of the tightness in his chest.

  “I sent a messenger to Gemma to let her know what happened,” Martin informed him, “and to assure her that the princess and I will do everything we can to prove your innocence.” The priest lowered his voice. “Including having Tunwulf watched.”

  “He’s a sharp one, that,” Caden admitted. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Rhianon wasn’t outmatched by him. What if he poisoned her with her own brew to make Sorcha look guilty?”

  Martin shook his head. “If Tunwulf had poisoned her, be certain, Rhianon would expose him. Were I a wagering man, I’d sa
y Rhianon’s misfortune was an accident.”

  “The stars do not favor him.” Eavlyn was back. “I have mapped out the stars, seeking signs for both him and for Aethelfrith as my husband’s enemies,” she explained.

  “How is Sorcha?” Caden asked.

  “In shock. Hopefully, the harp will pleasantly distract her. And I’m going to send my maid Lunid with her things that she might make herself more comfortable.” Eavlyn grimaced, noting the chains on Caden’s hands and feet. “At least she was spared those.”

  “The stars,” Caden prompted. “They spell ill for Tunwulf and Aethelfrith?”

  “Ill for Tunwulf. But that doesn’t mean his plans will go awry with certainty. Only that nature is not with him. As it plagues the farmer who plows in a downpour.” A frown creased her smooth brow. “That uncertainty is why I pray that either I or the stars are wrong regarding possible good fortune for my husband’s enemy.”

  Aethelfrith. Just the thought of his name pricked the hair on the nape of Caden’s neck. The Dieran prince was a bad seed, if ever there was one.

  “God alone is certain,” Eavlyn averred. “He controls the heavens and the earth … and the prayers of the righteous availeth much.” A smile settled softly on her lips. “So it is with faith that I go to my husband now for whatever future lies ahead. We are in God’s hands, for ill or good.”

  God’s hands. Locked in this place and chained like a villain was hardly what Caden imagined being in God’s hands felt like. Nature must be against him and Sorcha as well. Tunwulf’s bad nature.

  “I don’t understand all this talk of stars and nature,” Caden grumbled, “but I do understand the workings of a scoundrel. Better I could get my hands about his neck or face him squarely, sword to sword. That is more to my liking.”

  “But it may not be to God’s,” Martin reminded him. He clapped Caden on the shoulders. “Have faith, Caden. ’Tis stronger than a sword … or poison. You’ve seen as much with your own eyes at Glenarden.”

  Glenarden. Aye, Caden had seen it. Poison that didn’t work. Though his father’s recovery alone could have been luck. But one after another of his and Rhianon’s attempts to seize Glenarden for their own had failed. Neither magic, nor demon, nor sheer numbers had prevailed against the simple faith of his brother’s wife. The healer Brenna.

  He met Father Martin’s earnest gaze with his own. “Then help me pray for such faith, Father, for all reason works sorely against it.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Caden of Lothian and Sorcha of Din Guardi, you both are charged with the murder of Thane Cynric of Elford and the attempted murder of the woman Rhianon,” Din Guardi’s sheriff charged, his voice booming in Hussa’s hall.

  Sorcha didn’t want to be here. Even her spare and cold cell would be better, thanks to Lunid’s visit during the long night. In addition to clean bed linens, the maid had even brought a kettle of tea, a calming one … and shared it with Sorcha. Before she left, Lunid even offered to pray.

  “You might be a pagan,” she said, “but the Lord has seen you have a good heart. It is never too late to turn to Him.”

  So Sorcha had tried praying after Lunid left but found her words were not nearly as eloquent and worthy as those she’d heard in her short exposure to Christians. Instead, her mind was consumed with her defense. She re-created the day just passed in meticulous order, especially recalling how Rhianon had been present, the draft of beer already drawn. How Tunwulf had knocked it from her hand—

  “What have you to say for yourselves?” the sheriff asked, once more calling her attention to him and the proceedings.

  Back to the hearing that would determine her fate.

  “The charges are false against us both,” Caden declared before Sorcha could find her voice.

  The sight of Tunwulf standing next to the potbellied official with her belongings at his feet robbed her of it. They were hers, bequeathed by his father’s dying breath.

  “Milady?” the sheriff demanded of her.

  Anger breathed into her, stiffening her spine. “As false as Tunwulf’s heart, my lord sheriff.”

  “We are here to determine whose heart is false and whose is not,” the sheriff replied, as though haughtiness added to his short stature. “But first …” He stooped, picking up the upholstered chest containing the jewels Cynric had given her. “Are the contents of this chest not yours?”

  “They are, sir,” Sorcha addressed the king. “You heard my lord Cynric declare it so with his dying breath.”

  “And it has been under your lock and key in the Princess Eavlyn’s bower?”

  “Aye …” Wariness slowed Sorcha’s reply. “I keep the key in my pocket.” She fished in the folds of her gown and found it. But as she withdrew it, she could see plainly that the lock had been broken. “I see you no longer need it, sir.”

  “Milord King,” the sheriff said, turning to face Hussa, “I personally broke the lock this morning while searching through the lady’s things and found this.” He opened the lid and withdrew a pouch. “Your own doctors confirm the contents as the same poison that killed your hearth friend Cynric and nearly killed the woman Rhianon of Gwynedd.”

  “Nay!” Sorcha staggered back. “Never have I seen that pouch before.” Was it possible the sheriff himself conspired against her?

  “Then how, milady, did it find its way into your locked chest?”

  “Locks can be opened without a key, milords.”

  Sorcha would know that voice anywhere. Pure joy flooded through her as she turned to see Gemma standing at the fore of the crowd.

  “Milord, this woman’s statement has no bearing on this. She’s naught but a gleeman.”

  If anything, Gemma stood taller before the sheriff’s disdain. “My word may not count as much as the sheriff’s, but I will open any lock you provide with naught but this cloak pin to lend them the weight of the truth.”

  “We are seeking the truth, are we not?” King Modred asked Hussa. The Cymri lord’s presence placed all the more pressure on the bretwalda to see a just decision made.

  Hussa nodded. “Show us, little woman.”

  The guard stood aside to let Gemma beyond the bounds of the onlookers. Her cloak pin brandished, she promptly opened one of the shackles on Caden’s ankles. Straightening in triumph to the astonished gasp of the onlookers, the dwarf addressed the king with a great show of humility.

  “My father was a locksmith, your majesty,” she announced, head bowed.

  “It seems it is possible that someone might have put the poison in Sorcha’s chest to make her, and hence me,” Caden added, “appear guilty of a crime we did not commit.”

  Hope surging, Sorcha chimed with a hearty “Yes.”

  “But how many are the children of locksmiths?” Tunwulf pointed out. “It is possible, but not probable.”

  “To what purpose would I murder my father’s dearest friend and my benefactor?” Sorcha cried out. “He had agreed to my returning to my homeland and mother. I had his blessing.”

  “Perhaps it was this will, leaving all his wealth to you.” Tunwulf drew a document from the leather pouch slung over his shoulder and presented it to the sheriff.

  Blood plunged from Sorcha’s face. “I … I had no idea such a will existed.”

  For every argument Sorcha put forth for her innocence, Tunwulf and the sheriff managed to take it and twist it toward her guilt. And Caden’s. Father Martin’s testimony against Rhianon put Caden in a guilty light. Caden’s greed led him once to murder, so why not twice to become lord of Trebold? Sorcha’s accusations against Rhianon handing her the filled pitcher and Tunwulf’s breaking it before anyone else could be served was counted as coincidence. Why would the murderer poison herself?

  Even the charge that Tunwulf coveted his father’s estate slid off the villain like rain on a steep roof. “I need not remind my lord bretwalda that the ultimate decision as to who becomes the protector of your border lies solely with you, not my father’s wishes,” Tunwulf replied smo
othly. “I know that I have to prove myself worthy of that consideration.”

  There was only Sorcha’s and Caden’s denials against a preponderance of unfavorable circumstances. As the noon hour approached, Hussa was clearly reluctant to make a judgment. The Lothian king’s influence was all that stood between Sorcha and Caden and a hangman’s noose, for the witan judges favored her guilt.

  “Lord bretwalda, in such a case as this, where clarity of guilt is not forthcoming,” an elder judge by the name of Elread spoke up, “I see no alternative but to resort to trial by ordeal.”

  Ordeal. The word curdled in Sorcha’s stomach. No one survived that, regardless of its nature.

  Caden rallied at her side. “Aye, I’ll fight any man among you to prove our innocence.”

  The witan cast a disparaging glance at the Cymri. “Ordeal, not combat.”

  “Boiling oil will show if the woman tells the truth or lies,” a fellow judge agreed. “If she heals well, she is innocent. If not, they both die.”

  Oil. Not burning in fire, nor drowning in water, but boiling oil to fry the arm of the poor soul forced to fetch a ring from the bottom of the cauldron.

  The appeal of the solution to his quandary settled on Hussa’s face.

  “It is barbaric. No one survives such burns, even if they retrieve the ring,” Father Martin objected. “Infection is certain. Your doctors know this.”

  “So you say your God can’t save her if she is innocent?” Tunwulf taunted.

  His smug satisfaction sparked a fury within Sorcha as intense as the one that had killed her parents. Before the guard beside her knew what she was about, she had the dirk from his boot in her hand.

  Nothing mattered now. If she were sentenced to death for murder, best make it worth the cost. Hanging for a murder she committed was better than the tortuous sentence for one she’d not. She snapped her wrist to fling the weapon, but a jerk of her dress just as it left her hand sent it flying off course, away from Tunwulf’s heart and grazing his arm.