“Imagine her in silk instead of sackcloth,” Gunnar reflected beside him. “By Frig’s sweet breath, she’s as long-shanked as a warrior and twice as comely …. Although I favor the more compact, brown-haired lass she’s escorting.”
“Well, don’t dwell overlong on either, for they are worth more to our Frisian partners untouched … at least the little one is. The other claims to be a sister of the church.”
The force in Alric’s voice was as much to convince himself as his friend. That he had to do so astonished him. There was something about the wench, something that reached beyond her beauty. It was her fire that swirled beyond the blue glass of her gaze, stirred by spirit. It was a shame if she was really intended for the church—and not just because Alric’s respect for his mother would not permit him to sell clergy into slavery.
“Have the young priest and the women brought aboard the Wulfshead. Then fit this ship with a crew to sail for Albion.”
“No point in transferring the cargo when our destination is the same,” Gunnar agreed.
It wasn’t the first time they’d taken a ship intact and done the exact same thing, but Gunnar was drunk with easy triumph and more than likely had already calculated his share of their prize, just by the position of its waterline. It was exasperating that his longtime friend was always within his own blood worth of being correct, whether the cargo be wool or gold.
Alric preferred the sure way of doing the sums himself. Nothing was certain until he knew it was his and his alone. Estimation was as unreliable as the wind—like an empty gilded and jeweled treasure chest.
Or a prophecy.
Frig’s mercy, it had been five years, and Alric could still see his mother and hear the strain it took to draw breath enough to tell him what she’d clung to life for. Out of respect for her, he’d taken no part in King Ecfrith’s travesty on the Celtic church. There was plunder aplenty in the Irish ships bound for Argyll, heavy with supplies to aid the Scots and the Picts in their border war with Northumbria. The seamen, at least, were armed, and if they were not … well, Alric had no mercy for fools.
Gunner’s startled voice struck through Alric’s unwitting lapse into the past. “Ho, what’s this slipping out from beneath your robe?”
The note of alarm sent Alric’s hand to the hilt of his scramasax as he turned to see his first mate back away from the flaxen-haired female in sackcloth, his mouth agape, an empty scabbard in his hands. And what a scabbard it was, inlaid with jewels and precious metals—worthy of a bretwalda or high king. The wench wielded its sword with no lack of skill. Nearly as many riches sparkled on its hilt as did on the scabbard. Both she and Gunnar struggled to maintain their footing on the swaying plank that connected the two ships.
“Hand over the weapon, milady … I mean, Sister …” Gunnar swore in exasperation. “Whatever the blazes you are!”
“Never! This sword is a sacred relic of the church. I’d rather die than hand it over.”
So that was the source of her affliction. Almost smiling, Alric inched his way toward the plank, trying not to catch the fiery vixen’s eye.
“Milady, have you taken leave of your senses?” the other woman cried from the deck of the Wulfshead.
“Orna’s right, Deirdre. Give up the weapon. It’s not worth your life,” the priest said.
This was no nun, of that Alric was now certain. The way the priest and the other female addressed her seemed to confirm it.
“Hold, Galstead, or I’ll skewer your comrade where he stands,” the woman called as he came within good lunging distance.
She had a warrior’s stance and eye. His certainty regarding the female’s station with the church faltered. He had read of both priests and nuns who were accomplished with swords of righteousness. The famous Columba of Iona was one such anomaly. And there were rumors that the small abbey near the coast was run by a woman of God, who, on her first mission into heathen territory, cut down a horde of armed unbelievers bent on murdering her small party, lightning had followed her blade, killing any and all—some without so much as a scratch—who stood in her way.
Alric looked beyond this enigma to Gunnar. “Let her be.” Most likely it was more Christian nonsense, but he saw no reason to challenge it. The day was his.
Gunnar wasn’t as easily dissuaded. “But look at it!”
“Use your head, mate. Where is she going to go with it?” Alric jerked his head toward the Wulfshead. “Just leave her be. She’ll have to yield to one ship or the other eventually”
Scowling, Gunnar leaped to the deck.
With a victorious smirk, the female turned slightly so that both decks were within the periphery of her vision. Had a man struck the same lofty tilt of the jaw, the pirate would have taken great pleasure in breaking it with his fist. With the lady, he resorted to a verbal jab. “With luck she’ll fall overboard and save us all a great deal of aggravation.”
Her eyes widened, spitting defiance in reply. Suddenly, she dropped to the plank between the two vessels in a huff and puff of sackcloth, her garment taking moments more to settle than she did.
“Now what?” Gunnar called to him, I told you so ringing in his cryptic tone.
“Put another plank over till our business is done. Sister Deirdre can keep watch on our sword.”
Deirdre clamped her mouth shut, most likely swelling with the indignation building within, and laid her prized possession over crossed knees. She had pluck. Much as it annoyed him, Alric had to admire it.
The rise and fall of the sea beneath the two vessels made Deirdre’s perch no more precarious than a pleasant horseback ride. Nonetheless, she kept a keen eye on the ends of the board to be certain they didn’t work their way clear under the constant movement. Now that the heat of her defiance had waned with the indifference afforded her by her adversaries, she felt foolish. But when the strip holding Kieran’s sword to her thigh had given way as she climbed up on the plank, her gasp of dismay was involuntary. She caught the precious weapon before it fell overboard, but not without drawing the attention of the dark-haired man in front of her.
Gunnar had pounced upon it like a hungry cat upon a fat mouse, but his greedy hands claimed only the scabbard. Before he knew what had happened, Deirdre drew the magnificent weapon. Only Providence kept her from stumbling over the hem of her robe as she swung around into a ready stance, but ready she was for whatever the dogs had in mind—except being ignored altogether. Her pride had crumbled around her like her robe as she sank to the plank out of sheer spite.
Oh, heavenly Father, how short is the fall from holy warrior to earthly fool! Father, I bleed with remorse … and confusion. What am I to do now? Must we lose the sword pledged to You to that heathen swine?
Much as she listened and stared into the sea’s blue-green depths, Deirdre heard only the creak of wood against wood as the current seesawed the two vessels. Stu-pid, stu-pid, it seemed to say. As if that weren’t harsh enough, even the to and fro swish of the brushes on deck joined the chorus. The stream of blood-stained water pouring out the drain and spilling into the untarnished sea drew her attention from her personal contrition. It was as if the vessel shed tears for the dead. Surely God did.
Deirdre hung her head lower, stricken by the thought. Aye, she’d tended the wounded, aching for them, but keeping a lifeless length of jeweled steel had preoccupied her mind rather than the prayers Father Scanlan said with both friend and foe. The sword was not worth anyone’s life. Besides, how could she be of any use to her brother, or her friends, if she risked death for something so paltry in comparison?
She ran her fingers along the taper of the blade, memories of its history—Gleannmara’s history—stirring afresh in her mind. What joy she’d taken in the bards’ accounts of Kieran and his lady, Riona—he a wild man of the sword and her example of faith—the weapon that tamed him.
“Well, fair warrior of the church, your time to decide what you will do has expired. We all await milady’s wish.”
The comforting cloak
of nostalgia in which Deirdre wrapped herself vanished, torn away by her captor’s derision. Father, forgive me, but this is one enemy I cannot love. I hate the man.
With a look as hard and sharp as the steel in her hand, Deirdre handed him the weapon—point first. “It will never serve the likes of you, you know,” she told him, drawing what little satisfaction she could from the moment.
A single golden eyebrow arched in challenge. “Oh?”
“It won’t spill innocent blood.”
He smirked. “Neither do I.”
Deirdre swallowed a dubious and unladylike reply. To voice it would only prolong the game he was enjoying entirely too much. She was tired. He held Kieran’s sword and the day. Tomorrow remained to be seen.
“Well?”
Deirdre gathered up the folds of her robe, balancing carefully on the swaying plank as she steadied herself on her knees, no different than she did when preparing to stand on the cantering horse her father gave her. When confident, she stood as straight and proud as her situation allowed, unprepared for the sharp jerk of her clothing on one squared shoulder. Grace and dignity abandoned her as she scrambled for a foothold and grasped at thin air for support.
The gasp of alarm that filled her lungs one second was knocked from her chest as she struck the icy water below. Her shriek of bubbles rose toward the surface as she sank into the depths.
Deirdre struggled toward the bright water over her head, but the gangly robe strangled her efforts. Her lungs ached, devoid of life-sustaining air, choking her from within.
I won’t give up!
With all her strength, she kicked her feet in the course tangle and used her arms to propel her body upward, but her garment seemed to partner with the monstrous sea to draw her deeper into the suffocating shadows of the vessels.
Surrounded on all sides, Deirdre fiercely battled the oppressive foe toward the water’s surface. Against her will, liquid death seeped into her lungs.
Father …
Unmercifully, panic snuffed out her prayer with its impenetrable fingers.
FOUR
The impact of Alric’s dive threatened to force the air from his lungs, and the cold water assaulted the pores of his flesh with a million pinpricks of ice. The algae-rich water made it hard to see more than an arm’s length away. Making wide sweeps with his arms, he searched blindly for the wench in the silent but deadly pull of the current.
Suddenly something brushed his foot. Spinning around, he grabbed blindly and snagged a coarse fold of the clerical robe. Reeling it toward him, he soon encountered the woman struggling within its confines, but instead of accepting his assistance, she began to kick and claw at him as though he intended her harm.
The impact of her foot—for surely no female had the strength in her fists to strike so hard—knocked the remainder of air from his lungs. If he shot to the surface for air and came back down, he might not find her. With no choice save letting her drown, Alric lunged toward the flailing figure and gathered robes, arms, legs into his embrace. Lungs constricting, he propelled himself and his struggling baggage toward the blinding, brilliant surface.
Just as he breached it, gasping for air, he felt a searing pain on his forearm. Frig’s teeth, she’d twisted in his grip and bitten him! But at least he now knew where her head was. As he tried to strip the cumbersome garment from her, her struggles began to diminish. Slinging the robe aside, Alric hooked his arm under her chin, lifting her nose and mouth above the water, and tackled the distance the tide had put between them and the two ships, where a line had been cast toward him.
Alric held on to the limp form of his captive with one arm and grabbed the rope and nodded for them to haul away. Heave by heave, the men pulled him from the water, the dead weight of his burden seeming to grow twice her size. When his men finally relieved him of the woman, he rested a moment, gathering breath, and then pulled himself over the rail.
The other female captive began screaming. “She’s dead! God save us, she’s dead!”
“She’s just got a belly full of water.” His protest was more against the brittle blade of alarm penetrating his chest than the woman’s outburst. The vixen didn’t dare die on him, not after he’d risked his neck to save her!
Shoving aside the priest, who knelt beside the still form crossing himself and mumbling, Alric seized Deirdre by the waist and hauled her up, her back against him. Crossing his arms beneath her rib cage, he shook her and constricted the locked bands of muscle in one sharp movement. Twice there was nothing but the listless fling of her arms and snap of her head. Her long, wet hair dragged like a mop through the pools of water on the deck.
Curse the little fool, where was that indomitable spirit of hers? She’d not been underwater that long. With a growl starting deep within his belly, Alric jerked her again with such force that he feared he might have cracked one of the woman’s ribs. But better a rib lost than a life.
The muscles of Deirdre’s abdomen rebelled against his arms in a spasm, and then another and another. Seawater shot from her lungs, hardly enough to properly wet a man’s boot yet deadly when taken in lieu of air. Her arms no longer flailed but wrapped weakly over his. Around him, his men cheered.
“Yes, that’s it, feisty!” Encouraged, Alric gave her another hearty squeeze.
“No!” At her moaned protest, her frantic fingers dug into the bloody bite she’d inflicted on him.
With a yelp, he let her go, dropping her into a heap at his feet. “Frig’s teeth, woman, ’tis a harsh thanks you hand out.”
Life flowed back into her long limbs, their graceful shape exposed by the wet folds of her sleeveless shift. She pushed herself up with arms that were slender and gently golden from the kiss of the sun. And no nun he’d seen while in Argyll with his mother wore artfully worked armbands of pure gold, such as glistened before him now.
“Just who on Frig’s green earth are you?”
Deirdre’s shoulders squared in a prideful pose. Slowly, her soaked and tangled tresses all but obscuring her face, she raised her head.
“Well, milady?”
“I … am not … your lady.” Her voice gained strength with each clipped word.
All fire and spit, she was. Alric crossed his arms, suddenly aware of the soreness of his wound. If he’d wondered before, he need not do so now. The vixen had all her teeth, and he bore the evidence.
“Very well, then. Whose lady are you?” No matter whom she belonged to, she was a handful. He’d seen grown men reduced to tearful babble by what she’d just been through, and yet she stood there, prideful and straitbacked.
In less time than it took for the corner of his mouth to twitch in appreciation, Deirdre lurched forward and promptly heaved the remains in her belly onto Alric’s feet. Too late, he jumped back, then forward again as she swayed unsteadily. He reached down and caught her just before she struck the deck face first. As he turned her on her back, her eyes rolled toward an equally blue sky overhead.
While consciousness played tag with its counterpart, her bloodless lips moved with one last parry. “I belong to God in heaven, and no one else.”
Fickle women and their God would be his death! Alric motioned the priest over with a jerk of his head. “Here, Father, you take her. You’re as close to her God as any on this ship. Truth, I don’t envy either of you.”
“But where shall I put her?” the priest called after him as he gave the nod for the lines connecting the two vessels to be released, with Gunnar in charge of the Mell.
Alric swung around, but his anger found no voice. Where indeed? he wondered, scowling. This was a pirate ship, not a passenger transport. The only sheltered area left in place was midship, a canvas cover over his own pallet. Others were erected as needed during inclement weather.
He motioned to his second mate. “Wimmer, show the man to my quarters. The women can use it for the duration of the voyage.”
“I can … walk.” To Alric’s surprise, the resilient creature found footing on the deck. “But bl
ess you, Father Scanlan.” She leaned heavily on the priest’s arm, raised her head, and ran Alric through with her gaze. “You will not get away with this, Captain. God won’t let you.”
God again. Alric leaned forward with a mocking bow “Your gratitude for my pulling your hide from the water takes my breath away.”
“Were that the case, I should fall prostrate anon before heaven and all witnesses for such a blessing.”
Alric bit his tongue. The only thing predictable about women was that they’d have the last word, even if it spent the last breath they’d ever take. A good warrior knew when to dig in and fight and when to retreat. In this case, he’d do as well trying to hack the crests off every ripple on the high seas.
The remainder of the day closed with the sun gathering a mantle of clouds about it, as if reminding all eyes of the blood red sky that gave it birth. Better than halfway to the island of the sea god, Mona, Alric ordered the men to batten down what they could and prepare for the sky’s prophecy to be manifest.
The crew met the storm fortified by a cold meal of dried beef and hard bread, for the fire in the small stove had been banked to prevent fire during the rough ride. It was not the first they’d weathered, nor, the gods willing, would it be the last. They’d learned to take the sea as it came, much as Alric’s father accepted his neighbors—as friend or foe.
Pelted by stinging rain and dodging lightning, the seasoned sea warriors spent the night in a game struggle with oar, sail, and bucket to keep the vessel steady toward the east.
At last the day broke before them in yet another scarlet-glazed sky, but the signs of another storm paled compared to the lookout’s cry of “Land ho, to the stern!” Instead of Mona’s marbled shore of sand and moss-patched rock nestled in the sea before them, the landfall was behind them and green as spring itself, rising gently toward cloud-comforted hills.
Erin.
“Are you certain?” Alric stared in disbelief. Never had a storm turned him completely around.
Deirdre Page 4