Deirdre

by Linda Windsor

  It was better than an I told you so. She was so glad to have Scanlan’s company, she’d take whatever he had to offer. “I honestly believed God was with me.”

  “He was, child.”

  This time she did not admonish Scanlan for calling a woman just a few years his junior child. He’d proved that he was many years more mature than she. That had to be the reason he saw what had happened through different eyes.

  “Then why—” Holy Father, don’t let me cry now. I haven’t a tear left. “Then why did He allow me to be trapped in that filthy hold with rats running over my feet?”

  Deirdre was wrong about the tears. Her eyes stung with a new supply of dismay. She blinked and looked away. She was a princess, not a simpering nitwit! She was schooled to affect composure in trying circumstances, though this was not one for which she’d been prepared. And the rats. Nothing could have prepared her for that.

  “They nibbled at my feet,” she managed, her voice holding by a thread. Wrapping her arms about herself, she shuddered. “All night, they skittered about. I kicked at the vermin, but—”

  “Let me tell the captain who you are,” Scanlan interrupted. “I am certain I can arrange something through the church.”

  Deirdre squared her shoulders against the wave of panic spreading from the memory of the night’s horror and stared at the faceless few across the compound until the image of gnawing monsters disappeared. “No. I forbid it. I’ll not give the beggars the satisfaction … especially him.”

  She turned to the priest when he made no reply. “You didn’t!”

  “I intended to but thought to seek your permission first,” he admitted.

  “Then I thank you. I will not have him benefit at Gleannmara’s expense.” It was war, and while she could not wage it with weapons, she still had her wit. A hint of humor tugged at the grim line of Deirdre’s mouth as she recalled Alric’s blank look of astonishment upon seeing her in the hold. God forgive her, that dumbfounded expression gave her a flash of satisfaction, in spite of his fearsome recovery “I don’t think he ever believed I was wed to the church. I’ve not an ounce of saint in me, I fear, and when I try my hardest, I fail the worse.”

  Scanlan shook his head. “You’ve the light of Christ in your heart, Deirdre. Yours is a common transgression, exercising our will over His. Not even the clergy are exempt from such tumbles in our spiritual walk.”

  “Then why can’t I see what He wants? I prayed in earnest and saw signs that He wanted me to salvage the ransom and escape with Orna to see it delivered.”

  “What kind of signs?”

  Deirdre told him of the episode during the storm, how she’d put it to God to either take her life and spare him and Orna to save Cairell or allow her to live. “Of course he interfered and thrust me to the deck,” she added, leaving no doubt as to who he was. “And then everything seemed to fall into place with my plan.” Until once again, the bane of her existence appeared, blocking her escape to freedom. “It’s impossible to remain saintly around the likes of Alric. Can’t you see why I thought God would have me make him the fool?”

  Scanlan didn’t answer at first. Deirdre leaned against the wall and slid down to a sitting position before her legs rebelled for lack of rest. In truth, she was feeling a bit queasy.

  “Milady …” The priest appeared to weigh his words carefully. “We must listen to God with our hearts, for signs can be manipulated to suit our will rather than His.”

  Deirdre stared down at the dry earth before her. Had God’s will been different from hers? The thought had occurred to her … after the fact. Most of the night she’d cried in confusion and anger, stifling her sobs with the back of her fist, lest she awaken the giant sprawled over her only route of escape. Was this to be her penance for not listening to Scanlan? After all, someone who’d given up the affluence of his home to live meagerly in the service of God was more attuned to God’s will than a cosseted princess, no matter how noble her intention.

  “I fear you’re right, Father. I’m lost, to be sure—”

  “Nonsense!”

  Deirdre flinched at the uncharacteristic force in Scanlan’s voice.

  “You are not the first with a strong will and a love for God. One of His most favored saints struggled day by day with his pride, sometimes in victory, sometimes in defeat … our own Saint Columcille. Yet God used the man’s princely pride to build his spiritual strength. Like the young Colum, you descend from a proud bloodline of warriors and kings. Rule comes more naturally to you than obedience. You do not retreat easily, but that is a virtue the Lord can refine into a glorious weapon for His Kingdom.”

  The comparison to the legendary Saint of Iona made Deirdre feel even more hopeless. “How can you mention Columcille’s name in the same breath as—”

  “He once interpreted a dream of a fellow saint who’d seen three chairs next to God’s throne: one of gold, one of silver, and one of glass. Guess which he attributed to being his?”

  “The glass?”

  Scanlan nodded. “Aye, the glass. He granted the gold and silver to his contemporaries, acknowledging that his pride made his faith brittle like glass, more apt to shatter under pressure.”

  Deirdre pondered Scanlan’s story but found no comfort in it. If a church saint’s faith was like glass, then hers was like the wind, of little substance at all.

  As if on cue, the door to the compound opened as though the Father of all winds was behind it, slamming against the wall of the compound. Her nerves at their most raw, Deirdre started before she even saw the tall Saxon prince storming toward her like thunder personified. Clenched in his hand was a blue cloak, not the one trimmed in ermine from his locker, but the one she’d stuffed into the keg while their ship was under attack.

  So, he’d found the treasure with which she might have purchased freedom for her brother. She stiffened her body, refusing to tremble and crumple into a heap of despair, but stood riveted by the apparition of flesh, blood, and rage.

  “Whose cloak is this?” he bellowed, waving it above his head as he strode straight for her. The muscles of his forearms bulged, as though knotted with the tenuous hold on the white-hot wrath that possessed him.

  When Deirdre did not answer, he shook the garment at Father Scanlan. “Well, Priest?”

  “It belongs to Lady Deirdre.” Scanlan’s answer was soft.

  Deirdre gathered her scattered wits along with her voice. “Aye, ’tis mine.” She didn’t even try to keep the crossness from her voice. What could possibly be so upsetting about finding her brat? Unless he smarted from the fact that she’d nearly outwitted him a second time, causing him to miss yet more of the Mell’s treasure.

  “He doesn’t take being bested by a woman well, does he, Father?”

  “Tread softly, milady,” Scanlan warned quietly.

  “Milady … of what kingdom?” Alric fixed them with a glare. “For this is a royal brooch if ever there was one, as is the sword.”

  The priest gave Deirdre an apologetic look. “She is the princess of Gleannmara.”

  Alric snorted. “Never heard of it.”

  His annoyance was no less than Deirdre’s. How dare he dismiss Gleannmara as inconsequential, when Cairell was being held for … for …

  Unless Alric really hadn’t been one of the plunderers.

  “A princess,” he reflected in disbelief, focusing his ire upon her. “Deirdre of Gleannmara, royal or nay, you are a vixen to the core. Is there no end to your deceit and trickery?”

  She lifted her chin. “None, so long as I draw breath and must deal with your likes.”

  “Do you know what your name means?”

  Her name? Deirdre frowned, thrown by the odd question. “Mother told me it was an ancient name that meant ‘she who murmurs or chatters.’ It was her favorite aunt’s name as well.” Deirdre preferred that explanation to the other one associated with the name.

  “It also refers to the daughter of the DeDanan harper and storyteller at King Conchobar’s court,�
�� Scanlan obliged when she paused. “Her beloved, along with his brothers, were lost to the hand of the man she despised.”

  Deirdre reflected a moment, struck by the irony of the second origin, for of late she chewed sorrow like a cow its cud.” Indeed, sir, I can now commiserate with the legendary Deirdre of sorrow, for she lost her freedom to love whom she pleased, as I have lost all my freedom because of you, black heart.”

  “Her namesake is sorrow, yet she will bring you great joy.”

  Had his mother’s words referred to the old Celtic tale of Lady Deirdre, whose beauty was prophesied to bring so much sorrow to Ulster that its king had to prevent his subjects from putting her to death at birth? That much, Alric could well understand, for even in her state of dishevelment, Deirdre was a delight to the eye of any man with his natural sight—and she was enough trouble to douse a fool’s painted smile.

  “Hair of spun gold … eyes that shame the sky.”

  Her hair was ratty now, uncombed, yet glistening like the brooch. And her eyes … perhaps a shooting star aimed to skewer his heart better described them, for they were uncommonly bright with scorn.

  “Her chatter will be like birdsong to your heart.”

  It simply could not be! This Deirdre made sorrow seem appealing, while her tongue wore like a stone in his shoe. The worrisome creature had nearly cheated him thrice—of a slave’s worth, a king’s ransom, and now that of a princess.

  “Father Scanlan,” Alric said, choosing the most reliable of the two conspirators, “I will have the whole truth, nothing less. Who is this woman, and what does this mean?” He showed the brooch to the priest.

  “That is the brooch of Queen Riona. She and Lady Deirdre are descended from the southern Niall dynasty, which has ruled Gleannmara for two centuries. Milady’s father, King Fergal, now sits upon Gleannmara’s throne.”

  “Scanlan, I forbade you!” Deirdre cried out in frustration.

  “I’m sorry, milady,” Scanlan apologized, “but surely Prince Alric is preferable to an unknown master. He, at least, has shown us some sign of decency.”

  “He’s a prince of thieves, a scoundrel in fine clothes.”

  If she were a man, Alric would break that stubborn jaw she flaunted at him and put out the lights in her flashing gaze. But since that was not a choice open to him and his conscience, he’d break her some other way. He lived on risk. Deirdre of Gleannmara would be no different. If this enigmatic creature was to be his fate, by the calluses on Thunor’s hand, so be it. If she wasn’t, he could certainly be rid of her later. For now, he needed time to think this through.

  Alric seized Deirdre’s wrist to pull her upright, only to have her try to twist away. Grimacing, he tightened his grasp. “Don’t force me to hurt you, Deirdre. You are coming with me, one way or another.”

  “What do you think you’re doing?” She dragged her feet.

  “Claiming what is mine.”

  “I advise that you go calmly, mila—”

  “Then you go calmly, Priest!” Deirdre’s knees struck the soft dirt, plowing where her feet had left off. “I’ll never be yours, you vile heathen spawn.”

  “Ho, there, Galstead. What is this?” The Frisian in charge of the slave quarters stepped into Alric’s way. “You can’t take her back now. You consigned her to me to sell. I’ve the documents and witness to prove it.”

  “I changed my mind.” Alric’s grip tightened as Deirdre struggled to stand.

  “I don’t want to go with him,” Deirdre told the Frisian, still tugging.

  “You have no say in the matter,” he answered. “Nor do you, milord,” the Frisian pointed out with a hint of apology. “Unless you wish to purchase her back.”

  Calculation fairly churned in the Frisian’s eyes, and Alric knew his angry impatience was to blame. This situation was becoming more intolerable by the moment. If only he’d avoided the public confrontation. It wasn’t like him to give anyone the advantage … but then he’d not been himself since crossing paths with the creature straining at his grasp.

  “I’ll offer the standard eight oxen. Trust me, a stubborn mule is all she’s worth and that’s—argh!”

  Alric hopped aside before Deirdre had the chance to nail the top of his foot again with her lethal, slippered heel. With a sharp yank of her arm, he dove at her middle and hoisted her up on his shoulder.

  “You brutish oaf!” She pommeled his back with her fists as he straightened.

  “Your brother has already offered me twice that.”

  “What?” Alric grimaced as she elbowed the back of his head.

  “I’ll kill you. You have to sleep sometime, Galstead, and when you do I’ll—”

  Alric slapped her soundly across her bottom. “Silence, woman!”

  “How dare you strike—”

  He clapped her again with the flat of his hand. “I said silence, or I’ll take you down and give you the thrashing you deserve.”

  “Will that make you feel like a big man, thrashing a helpless female half your—”

  Helpless? He’d have laughed if he had the time or inclination. Alric lowered his shoulder as if to drop her to the ground so that he might carry out his threat.

  “All right!” she conceded, breathless.

  “That is better.” With a smirk of satisfaction, he turned back to the Frisian. “What did Ricbert offer, Emo?” Ricbert would beat Deirdre into submission, which meant certain death, given her spirit. “And I would have the truth, not some of your exaggeration.”

  The heavyset trader shrugged, indifferent to the insult. “Your brother knows a prize when he sees one. He offered me sixteen head of oxen … and a cow.”

  “I could purchase a harem of women for that.”

  “Not if she’s really a princess.”

  “Oh, she is certainly a princess,” Scanlan offered from the sideline of onlookers.

  Alric gave the priest a warning look, his displeasure rumbling deep within his chest. In truth, it was as much at himself as Scanlan and Emo. “Your ears are bigger than they look, you Frisian mule.”

  “Insult me with a higher bid, Saxon, otherwise unhand the female. She will be auctioned tomorrow.”

  “I ought to let Ricbert have her.” Alric gave a snort of humorless amusement. “Then my half brother would be twice cursed with two women to please.”

  His captive grew so still, he glanced over his shoulder to see what knavery she was about until the reason dawned on him. It took no stretch of imagination to know how his half brother had treated her. Alric was struck with an urge to seek him out and cut off the hands that undoubtedly familiarized themselves with his captive. His, not Ricbert’s.

  The decision was made.

  “Send for the port reeve then, while we work out a price.” The lady was obviously no fonder of his half brother than he. Granted, it was a slim thread but nonetheless a common one. Matches were made on less.

  Emo dispatched one of his men with all haste and motioned for Alric to follow him. “I was thinking eighteen head of cattle and a horse.”

  Alric was so taken aback by the direction of his thoughts that he hardly heard Emo at first. “Wait,” he called after the Frisian trader. “I’d have some lightweight shackles and hide to protect her ankles.” The opportunity to escape, however small, was not something Alric was prepared to offer the resourceful lady of this Gleannmara.

  “I have a pair here.” The Frisian took a set of chains down from a Peg.

  Alric nodded. “I’ll see to it.” He glanced back at his now subdued prisoner. “Milady, I would have your word on your God’s honor that if I put you down, you will cause no more travail for me or my friend here. Else, he can have you for the sale tomorrow, for my patience and purse are spent.”

  After a brief silence, Deirdre answered, “I promise, God’s honor.”

  Shifting one side down, Alric let her slide off his shoulder, his arm encircling her waist until she was steady upon her feet.

  “Must I wear chains?”

 
Gone was the fighting banshee, and in its place was a picture of forlorn innocence. That appealing, wounded look on her face called to a side of him he dared not recognize. To do so would be his undoing, delivering into her hands a weapon more powerful than any blade.

  “Until you prove yourself trustworthy, you must.”

  The defiance that flashed on the luminous sea of her gaze told him he’d chosen wisely Kneeling warily, he slipped the shackles around her slender ankles, cushioning them with the hide patches Emo provided.

  Emo stopped him from dropping the key in his purse. “Not until we agree on a price.”

  Alric tugged a velvet pouch from inside his shirt and tossed it to the man. “My payment requires no expense for food or shelter and is worth the price you ask, even more to the right buyer.”

  Emo pried open the golden-tassled lacing that held the pouch closed and shook out the contents into the palm of his hand. A nearby witness gasped as a rainbow of gemstones glistened in the sunlight.

  “No, please!” Deirdre tugged on Alric’s arm, something akin to panic grazing her face.

  “What is so special about a pouch of uncut gemstones?” They were part of the treasure she’d hidden away but hardly something of sentimental value such as the sword or brooch.

  Instead of answering, she cast her gaze at the ground with a shaky little breath that plucked again at Alric’s sense of pity.

  He steeled himself against it and glanced at Emo. “Is it a deal?”

  “We’ve been partners a long time, my friend.” He motioned at the crowd around them. “We’ve witnesses enough to transact this bargain. I’ll have the reeve sign the papers.”

  “Good. Then I’ll be on my way.” Alric started toward the deep-rutted street.

  Deirdre held back. “May I say good-bye to Father Scanlan?”

  He’d forgotten the priest. “Make it quick. I’ve business to see to.”

  Wary, he watched as Deirdre hugged the priest, whispering something into his ear. Pulling away, she faced Alric with grudging resolve. “I’m ready.”

  With the fortified gate facing the road to Wales to his back, Alric started toward the royal house his father kept on Governor Street. It had been built for the commander of the second Roman legion centuries before.