Once the Saxons retreated to their side of the river, the captain of the O’Byrne warriors had his men deliver the staggering, brain-dazed dog and the bodies of the men Caden and Elfwyn had slain with a warning that any other Saxon who crossed the Lader would be sent to the Other World with their compliments. With Glenarden’s guards doubled and patrolling the riverfront in case Tunwulf decided on an ill-advised attack during the night, the rest of the men returned to the hospitality of Trebold’s tavern.
Once he was certain Sorcha had regained her wits, if she had any left after that mad ride on Elfwyn, Caden left mother and daughter to their reunion in the very room where Myrna had nursed him back to his feet and joined the men downstairs.
His belly full and warmed by mead within and the fire without, he listened in awe as he heard how Alyn, on his way back to the university, had told them about Caden’s recovery and new mission so Ronan knew straightaway where to find him, even if Brenna hadn’t seen that part in her dream. She’d only known in her soul that Caden’s life and lives of others were at risk and that Ronan needed to offer Glenarden’s aid as a brother and a Christian chief.
It had been a four-day march from Glenarden to Din Edyn and down the Roman road to the south end of the Lader. When the O’Byrnes arrived, nothing seemed amiss. Myrna was pleasantly surprised to meet Caden’s brother and had nothing but praises for the warrior who not only saved Arthur in battle but had gone to fetch her long-lost daughter. Ronan had begun to think Brenna’s imagination had run wild with her, what with her just having delivered a beautiful baby daughter with her mother’s raven hair and lochan blue eyes.
But that afternoon, a party of a dozen Saxons arrived at the crossing on the other side of the Lader, bearing a wolf banner similar to Glenarden’s. Except Glenarden’s banner had been designed by Brenna in reverse colors, black with a white wolf in memory of her beloved pet. Tunwulf of Elford and two of his men crossed to speak to Ronan and Egan, their shields turned upside down as a sign of peace, and demanded that Caden of Lothian and Sorcha of Din Guardi be turned over to them for the murder of his father and the bretwalda’s friend, Thane Cynric of Elford.
When it was clear that Caden and Sorcha were not there, the Saxons agreed to wait on the other side of the river, encouraged by the presence of Glenarden’s seasoned warband. There the Saxon numbers increased by the day as more of Tunwulf’s band joined him until it matched the size of Glenarden’s.
Caden counted backward the five days of their journey since the escape—three at Owain’s and two from Hahlton to Trebold. If Tunwulf’s vengeful press had cut his journey to even two sun cycles and he’d arrived on the same day as Ronan, then Brenna had known they were in trouble at least two days before even they’d known. More, for it would have taken Ronan time to gather his levy of men and prepare for the journey.
Abba’s name echoed again as it had throughout the exchange between him and Ronan; if anything was a miracle, this was. And when Caden recounted his and Sorcha’s imprisonment and how Tunwulf and Rhianon had made them out to be the murderers, he found himself giving Abba more and more praise and thanksgiving.
“’Twas all Abba’s doing,” he declared, wonderstruck. “All of it.”
Ronan’s dark brow hiked. “So you’ve found God.”
Caden laughed at his brother’s shock. “Aye, He was on the beach the morning I thought I’d seen a ghost.”
“Rhianon,” Ronan said.
“Aye, Rhianon.” Color climbed warm to his face. But Caden had admitted too much to stop speaking now. “I feared she still had some power over me,” he began. Emotion welled in his throat, but he cleared it with a cough and proceeded to tell Ronan about that morning, when Caden had found the only Father he needed.
Ronan listened, expressionless. Caden didn’t blame his reluctance to accept what even he still wrestled with. He wasn’t like Sorcha, who embraced the Christian God in an almost childlike fashion because she thought she’d seen a miracle. She liked what she’d heard about Him and was most intrigued with angels. But when she faced her first disappointment, Caden feared her faith would shatter, as his had years ago.
Yet he wanted to believe unconditionally. He truly did. And in spite of the problems they’d encountered, here they were, safe and sound for the moment. But how much was due to their spirit and resourcefulness and how much to God?
“Who created you with that spirit and resourcefulness?”
“What I want to know is how the witch survived that fall.” Egan O’Toole spoke up. “Half of us here saw her go over the falls.” The men about them nodded, equally intrigued.
Caden explained how Tunwulf had found her wandering out of her mind in the woods when he saw Ronan’s gaze sharpen. “Do you mean to say that this Tunwulf is one of the Saxons who attacked us?”
Shame blindsided Caden. “Aye.” His past would never be forgotten or forgiven by Ronan or anyone else who knew. He could see it darken the expressions of some of the men who’d survived that night attack.
“Are you sure the witch is dead this time?” Egan asked. He made the sign of the cross.
“Fell on her own knife,” Caden assured him. “Sorcha knocked her down with a harp.”
“A harp!” Egan guffawed. “Now that’s a fight I wish I’d seen.”
“She tried to kill me.”
Everyone turned to the staircase, where Sorcha descended in the dark russet gown with black chevron trim that she’d worn during the royal wedding. Her hair had been brushed into a shining cloak over her shoulders, catching the light from the becketed torchlights on the support beams and spinning it into silken fire. Caden’s mouth slackened. Not even the bruise on her cheek could detract from the beauty that captivated the eyes and tongues of every man in the room.
“I did what I had to do,” she added simply, upon reaching the bottom of the steps.
“Gentlemen …” Lady Myrna put her arm around her daughter. Myrna had always been a handsome woman, but the pure joy on her face lent her a radiance and youth that almost rivaled Sorcha’s. “I would present my daughter, Lady Sorcha of Trebold, home at last, thanks to Caden of Lothian.” Her voice broke as she looked at Caden. “You, sir, have given me a new life worth living.”
Love of our neighbor is the only door out of the dungeon of self. The words haunted Caden’s mind as his smile did his face.
Ronan stood as the women approached, reminding Caden of his manners. It was just that Sorcha was so breathtaking, she’d robbed him of his wits.
And his heart.
Caden stiffened in rebellion against that thought. There was no way, no possibility—
“Ronan of Glenarden, at your service, milady,” his sibling replied, taking Sorcha’s hand to his lips with the gallantry their mother had instilled in her sons as princes of Glenarden. “Welcome home.”
“Thank you, milord. I would not have taken you and Caden for brothers, but for that same square jaw and dimple in the chin. It’s supposed to be a sign of a dominant nature.”
“Then we are betrayed by our chins,” Ronan countered with a smile full of teeth that put Caden to mind of a mule with the colic.
“And you, Caden, are you well?” She placed a hand on his chest, and his heart lurched as if it had been mule kicked. “I truly didn’t mean to run you and your champion down with Elfwyn.”
“You can run me down on a crazy warhorse any day, milady.” Egan chuckled. “’Twas worth seein’ the look on that buck’s face”—he pointed to Caden—“if nothin’ else.”
Both Egan and Ronan made fools of themselves, but Caden was no better. He’d yet to find his tongue. As she’d adapted to the role of warrior queen earlier, Sorcha now played the refined lady to perfection. Who was this woman, really?
“I think you must have knocked his tongue loose, meself,” Egan observed wryly.
The taunt broke the spell, and Caden clutched at the anger he’d felt when he’d seen Sorcha and the horse barreling toward them instead of hying to safety as he’d instruct
ed.
“My tongue is just fine, O’Toole. As for you, milady,” Caden said to Sorcha, “I am glad to see that you’ve recovered your mind. You could have been killed out there. I told you to make for the tavern. If that Saxon had held his ground—”
“But he didn’t.”
Abba help him, he could fall into the round pools of green she turned so sweetly upon him.
There came a time in battle when a man had to fight or flee. Caden had nowhere to run. Not that he’d ever chosen that option. “Now you listen well, woman. I didn’t risk life and limb to bring you home to your mother with a broken—”
Sorcha stood on tiptoe and kissed Caden into silence. It wasn’t a long or passionate affection, but just as effective as a sword slice through his bluster.
“And I thank you, sir, for all the risks you took for my sake.” She glanced toward the door facing the river, her face turning grave. “And for those all of you may be taking for our sake.”
Leaving Caden standing speechless, Sorcha took a seat on the bench next to him and folded her hands before her. Delicate hands with long fingers that could make a harp or pipe sing. And no doubt any man with blood still warm in his veins.
“So now, gentlemen, what are our options?” she asked.
Myrna took a place at the board as well, allowing her daughter the role she’d held for Sorcha for so long. The woman fairly beamed with pride and joy.
“Tunwulf will not go away without a fight.”
Caden swallowed an oath batted forth from the fray in his mind among anger, exasperation, and something he’d not felt in a long time. The urge to take this firebrand in his arms and show her what a real kiss was.
“The man cannot be reasoned with,” Sorcha continued.
At least that much they agreed upon.
Chapter Twenty-eight
The night passed without further incident, but no one rested with the threat of imminent attack. Sorcha hadn’t had time to meet Malachy, her uncle. The priest-turned-laird had taken it upon himself to gather his levy of local farmers and fishermen to fortify Trebold’s dilapidated fort in case the Saxons forded the Lader downstream and tried to outflank the Glenarden troops by seizing the upper ground on its knoll behind the tavern. They were few in number and with little more than the tools of their trade for weapons, so Ronan had sent a small detachment of spearmen to reinforce them. They at least could warn of a rear attack and detain any ambitious Saxons until the warriors could organize a shieldwall around the tavern. Beyond that, no one ventured to plan, for it would be muscle against muscle, will to will.
The rest of the men had worked in the cover of darkness to dig a ditch the full length of the crossing, which they filled with brush and such pitch as the local fishermen kept for repairing their boats. A hastily assembled wicker and stave fence hid the fire pit from Saxon view. It was only natural for Sorcha to help her mother and the women and children of the men in the hillfort, who’d sought the shelter of the tavern. They kept the children in the kitchen and worked to keep the men’s cups and bellies full. In between trips to and from the chaotic kitchen, which was attached in the back with a covered archway, they listened to the men make their plans.
It would be a long and drawn-out battle, with Tunwulf swooping in with his men, stinging like bees, and retreating until one of them had expended their weapons or their manpower. There was no hope of support from Arthur via the Angus at Strighlagh, involved in holding the Picts north of the Clyde, or Modred of Lothian, who was bound by politics and surrounded in Bernicia. Glenarden and Trebold stood alone.
“Our best hope is that Tunwulf will grow weary of losing men,” Ronan observed. “As for us, we’ve made the best defenses we can, and thankfully we’ve plenty of food and water.”
When Sorcha wasn’t busy with the warriors or the refugees, she and her mother continued their reunion in snatches. She answered Myrna’s questions, assuring her mother that she’d had a happy childhood with Wulfram and Aelwyn, that she’d been educated to read and write by her Cymri cousin, and that music was her love.
“That was your father’s,” Myrna said, pointing out a harp hanging on a peg over the stairwell. It was plain compared to Eavlyn’s, engraved with simple spirals. “He made it himself and played it more to soothe his nerves than for entertainment. I know that neither he nor I could be prouder of you than if we’d raised you ourselves.”
If there had been any bitterness left in Sorcha’s heart, it was no longer there. Her birth parents had done all they could to find her. And her mother’s God had watched over Sorcha when they could not. Even when Sorcha hadn’t known Him. The fickle Wyrds had naught to do with her life, and God had everything to do with it. The wonder of it was more than she could grasp.
Her spirit shot upward with such joy, only to plummet when she realized that these men, these brave strangers, were about to fight and possibly die because of Tunwulf’s ambition. Sorcha could not rest when the men finally retired to grab the last hours of darkness in sleep. Even Myrna collapsed on the bed next to Sorcha after praising God and thanking Him for bringing her daughter home. Her mother’s words weren’t bard-worthy, but Sorcha couldn’t help the tears that trickled down her cheeks, nor withhold her own “Amen” to them.
Home. Sorcha eased out of the bed and walked to the window of the upstairs bedchamber. Tunwulf’s fires had dimmed beyond the river fog that separated the enemy from her home. Soon this side would be a battlefield between two fierce armies, putting the lives of her family and the man she loved at risk.
Sorcha had known when she’d first laid eyes on Caden that her life would never be the same. And Myrna had confirmed that love was what had developed in Sorcha’s heart for the man. “Why else would a woman put up with a man’s clumsy and surly ways?” Myrna had teased when Sorcha confessed that she would readily die for Caden on the one hand and just as fast slap him senseless with the other. “Because we can see the heart that beats beneath his growling, the one that tells her she is everything to him. The heart that makes hers dance.”
Sorcha wrapped herself in her arms. There had to be an answer besides warfare. There was no easy victory in store for either side. And there was no plunder worth taking at Trebold. Only the revenge of one crazed man. A shudder ran her through. She’d die first before submitting to Tunwulf.
Forcing back her panic, Sorcha focused on the still encampment beyond the water. The best Tunwulf’s men could hope for were more weapons, armor, and some warrior rings.
But what if she made it worth the while of his men to go home? Warriors fought for wealth from plunder or their lord for their service. She knew what made their hearts beat in anticipation and in fear. She was a scop. A bard.
Her gaze traveled to the hook on the door where she’d hung her harp bag. There was a small fortune in jewels in there. Gold as well. And the Elford wolf ring with its ruby eyes. ’Twas all worth more than weapons and warrior rings hammered from the iron of a conquered enemy’s spear blade.
The image of her father’s harp hanging over the staircase came to her mind, and words began to flow in her heart. Her plight. The enemy’s plight. The foolishness of it all.
Oh, Heavenly Father!
Caden stirred from the pallet he’d made of his cloak near the fire. His nostrils filled with the stench of stale mead, wood smoke, and—he opened his eyes—Egan O’Toole’s mucked boots. Caden gathered Delg under him and turned over to face the other way. He always slept with his sword, even among comrades. Though Delg was a poor substitute for a certain soft, warm, redheaded thief. Thoughts of the silken brush of her hair beneath his chin made him smile.
Guilt wiped it away. He hadn’t exactly been gallant or grateful over her mad rescue. But then, the greater distance he put between them the better. He didn’t need the distraction, and she needed no encouragement to think of a future that would not be. They weren’t like Brenna and Ronan. Brenna brought out the best in Ronan. Sorcha seemed to bring out the worst in him, mostly by scaring him witles
s with her impulsive nature and angering him. Jumping out of a boat, charging on a horse she couldn’t ride …
“Come rise, ye men of valor, and hear a tale of hope.…”
The strong and beautiful voice brought Caden bolt upright and shook the men around him with invisible hands. Most just lifted their heads, as though not certain if they were dreaming or waking. With a wonderstruck oath, Egan beat Caden to his feet and led the way to the tavern door, which he threw open. It banged against the side of the building, causing the guards on duty, who stared off into the mist from which the voice emanated, to jump.
“’Tis a fairy,” one said in awe.
“An angel,” said another.
A woman sat on a horse in the middle of the river. Indeed, with the sun’s light barely brimming on the horizon and casting a golden glow onto the lingering mist and the bronze robe swathed about her, she did look otherworldly. Especially when her cloak of shining hair caught its fire.
Caden’s heart plunged as cold as the fast-running water under Elfwyn’s belly as Egan corrected the men.
“I’m thinkin’ it’s Caden’s bard.”
“Lady Sorcha,” Ronan echoed from behind. “Fetch two horses,” he ordered one of his men calmly. “Be quick.”
“I’ll get her.” Caden started away from the tavern, but Ronan caught him. “You take men to the left side of the ditch. I’ll take the rest to the other. But hold there, lest we provoke yon spellbound Saxons into an attack.”
Spellbound? This was exactly the kind of distraction he’d worried about. Caden buried his panic to assess the situation as a seasoned warrior should.
Saxons stood beyond the thinning mist, still and speechless. But then they weren’t as given to the protocol of exchanging eloquent insults before battle as the Cymri. When the Cymri hurled insults, the Saxons simply raised their axes and charged.
But no weapons were raised. Aside from guards, the rest of Tunwulf’s men stood as though caught in a dream from which they’d not yet awakened. The mist was a mixed blessing, for while Ronan and Caden’s small force made its way unseen around and to the wings of the disguised fire ditch, Caden could not make Tunwulf’s tall, arrogant figure out among the wild-haired, fur-clad enemy.
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