“Feverish babbling, Deirdre. Perhaps the same malady that sickened Orna on the journey over.”
“It was real, as God is my witness.” Deirdre clamped her hand over her mouth, but she could not take back the sharp-edged foreign syllables she spat at the priest. Horror clutched at her throat. “God save me, it still possesses me!”
Scanlan backed away from Deirdre, crossing himself. “Father of Holies, Son of man, Spirit of the flesh, be with us.” He might as well have wrenched Deirdre’s heart from her chest, that not even a priest dared touch her. Clearly he was shaken by what he’d heard.
It had to be the work of a demon. “I’m lost, aren’t I?”
Scanlan shook his head, gathering himself from the initial shock. “No one is lost who cries for the Christ.”
A change came over the man. What Deirdre had always thought a soft cherubic cheek squared with the fierce set of a warrior. She’d always seen Scanlan as meek, the sort who would inherit the earth, not take it with a sword of fire. Yet his eyes blazed as though forging a weapon for battle beyond the scope of mortal sensibilities. As he approached Deirdre and folded her hands in his, the power of his presence encompassed her.
“Pray to Saint Michael, the Victorious, with me. Thou, Michael the Victorious …” Awkward at first, he proceeded in the language he’d studied in order to save the lost of Albion.
“I make my circuit under thy shield,” Deirdre chimed in. Could they pray the demon out in its own tongue? “Conqueror of the dragon, be at my back … ranger of the heavens … thou warrior of the King of all …” Though one of her favorites, how foreign the ancient hymn sounded to her ear now. “Though I should travel ocean and the hard globe of the world, no harm can e’er befall me near the shelter of thy shield …”
“Believe it, Deirdre,” Scanlan interjected, drawing her head to his chest. His cross of wood and bone burned cool against her flushed cheek.
“Be the sacred Three of glory aye at peace with me …”
Peace. The word cleared the knot that throttled the previous lines. “In every thing on high or low.” The age-old melody to which she’d sung the hymn many times found its way into her voice, lifting it and the darkness with hands that, though unseen, bore the marks of driven nails. “Every furnishing and flock, belong to the holy Triune of Glory …”
“As do you, child,” Scanlan said.
He raised his hand. “I invoke the Trinity, that you may rise from your bed, Deirdre of Gleannmara.” The priest threw aside the coverlet and backed away.
A prick of panic assailed Deirdre, for she recalled how leaden her limbs were.
Scanlan saw it and his smile was reassuring. “Sing, milady Take neither your eyes nor your heart from the Almighty.”
Or she’d sink back into despair, just like Saint Peter into the water. Although her legs protested, she swung them off the bed and finished the hymn.
“And to Michael …”
She stood, wavering with uncertainty as her gown fell around her ankles. The early evening air rushed to her skin, as if to scour the damp remains of her weakness with its cool breath. Eyes widening, Deirdre felt she might float above the floor, as though she were weightless in body and spirit.
“… the victorious!”
“By virture of the Christ’s birth and baptism …”
“By virture of the Christ’s birth and baptism …” So why did she still speak in this vile tongue as though weened on it?
“Crucifixion, burial, and resurrection …”
Her entire body felt lighter than the arm she’d lifted only moments ago, making it impossible to dwell on the doubt, had she wanted to. Which she didn’t. “Crucifixion, burial, and resurrection …”
“Return and descend to the last judgment …”
Deirdre echoed Scanlan’s prayer, finishing with him, “Christ be with me, in front of me, behind me, above me, below me, and within me. Amen.”
Like a vulture hovering in wait for a soul to surrender to death, doubt circled around again. Aside from the last word, the entire sequence had been in a language she’d never studied as Scanlan had. Yet the demon had to be gone. Were she any more light of heart, she’d hover at the beamed ceiling like a sun-bright cloud.
“What does it mean?” she whispered, afraid of sounding ungrateful for her deliverance from the black clutches of the wolf—or whatever she’d seen.
Scanlan fell to his knees and embraced her ankles, placing a kiss on her feet.
Startled, Deirdre danced away “What are you doing?”
The priest looked up at her and smiled. The round-faced cherub had returned, ever cheerful, ever full of praise. “Milady, ’twas no demon that came upon your tongue, but the fire of God Almighty. The same fire that came upon the apostles at Pentecost—”
Deirdre recoiled in disbelief. This was blasphemy, to be sure. “Father, bite your tongue!”
“You’ve been blessed, milady You were right. God has a great mission for you.” Scanlan looked at her in awe worthy only of a holy relic. It drew her into his misguided madness, but she wanted no part of it. “I studied for years and haven’t your ease with the Saxon language.”
“Well, it must be an accident. Surely the miracle was meant for yourself … or some other priest or a sister of God.” Deirdre turned away flesh crawling in rebellion against the very notion. “And I’m certainly neither, nor have I any wish to serve God in that capacity.”
“God makes no mistakes, child.”
“Nor could I serve Him so, even if I did suffer such delusion! I’ve a fearsome temper—”
“As did Moses, if you recall.”
“Moses? Listen to yourself, man! ’Twas you yourself who warned me that pride would be my downfall.” She threw up her hands. Her wolf demon had shape-changed into a mule and kicked the holy man soundly in the head. If Deirdre was born to champion God, it would be on the strength of her troops and influence, not her faith. Look what she’d done with her efforts to interpret God’s will to date! She’d misunderstood everything. Now she was bound for slavery—or worse, marriage to Alric.
“I’m not that strong, Scanlan.”
“God knew you when you were in the womb, just as He knew your great-great-aunt. Look at what Kieran’s and Riona’s foster daughter overcame, even as a child.”
Scanlan’s reference to their common ancestor, the abbess Leila, was not entirely lost on Deirdre, but it was not convincing either. “Her miracles died with her; they were not passed along to me. I’ve too much of the Niall blood for a holy calling.”
“Jonah was consumed thrice. Once by his prejudice against sinners, once physically by a whale, and again by his sheer stubbornness to avoid the path the Lord had chosen for him.”
A priest had no end of scriptural riddles. Surely they would be the end of her. “Father, I could be wrong in labeling all Saxons not worth saving, for Doda and Belrap have been most kind to me. But God might as well give this heathen tongue to a turnip for all the good it will do.”
“A turnip would do neither your brother nor Gleannmara’s interest any good, but the wife of a Saxon prince might use her influence and her gift to solicit help in finding Cairell.”
“Besides, I never said I’d marry the—” Deirdre stopped midrant. The embroidered hem of her gown lagged behind her sharp pivot. “Brigid’s fire!” She could scarce take in the practical side of his suggestion. “Do you really think that is God’s purpose?”
“‘For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the LORD, thoughts of peace, and not of evil, to give you an expected end,’” the priest quoted solemnly “Do you think your despair is greater than that of Jeremiah, or any of God’s chosen? He has plans for each of us, for our welfare, not harm, that we will have hope. He does not promise us ease, only His support.” Scanlan motioned for Deirdre to take a seat. “I’ve also done my share of seeking out the spiritual condition of Galstead. The kingdom teeters between the queen’s old pagan ways and those of our Lord.”
; As she perched on the edge of the bed, he began to pace.
“Because of Lambert’s love for Alric’s mother, the faith had a tenuous advantage, but since her death, the queen has gained more sway.” Scanlan pivoted and dropped to the bench in front of Deirdre. “I prayed for a miracle, and you, milady—” he clasped her hands in his fervor—“received it. There is no doubt in my mind. You have been chosen to shift the spiritual tide away from the Ethlinda’s influence, just as the bretwalda’s Christian wives have done for all Northumbria. I am only your servant.”
Deirdre was aware of how Oswy, the father of the current bretwalda, the Saxon high king, proclaimed Christianity as the new faith at the Synod of Whitby when she had been a fosterling with her mother’s clan. Oswy’s Christian queen and the influence of Bishop Wilfred had swayed the bretwalda toward the Roman doctrine, as opposed to that of the Celtic saints like Patrick, Columcille, and Aidan. It had sounded petty to her at the time.
“We must make history repeat itself … and perhaps help our church brethren as well,” Scanlan added grimly
How her marriage to Alric, the illegitimate prince, would further God’s cause was beyond her. Ricbert seemed to be the one with the influence and, from what Deirdre had seen of him, he was his mother’s son—base to the soul. Scanlan was desperate, though earnestly so, to save souls, but he’d been prepared for this. She was not.
“But, Father, ’twill be me sharing the marriage bed with a heathen, not you.”
Her candor disconcerted not just her companion, but Deirdre as well. Her will was not always her own around Alric, particularly in his arms. And when he played the tender heart, will danced away, mocking her as she reached out for it. She remembered vividly now … Alric had not shape-shifted. That part was the illusion of her fevered mind. But his kisses, butterfly light upon her cheek … the drum play of their hearts … the heady closeness that heightened her senses to a devastating awareness had been all too—
“You may not have to,” Scanlan reported with no lack of confidence. “There is a precedent in the Saxons’ own court …”
She heard Scanlan’s answer, indiscernible, like a ghostly whisper in the recesses of her mind. Deirdre gave herself a mental shake, but Alric’s spell would not let her go. She crossed her arms across her chest, as if to erase all trace of the Saxon’s spell. In truth, no demon had possessed her, but something twice as dangerous had.
She hadn’t been afraid because she couldn’t stop Alric. She was frightened because she didn’t want to.
“God has to have made a mistake!” The words blurted out. “I’m not strong enough—” Scanlan’s last words caught up with Deirdre at last. She cocked her head at him. “I may not have to share his bed?”
“Stop thinking about what you can’t do and consider what you can do.” Scanlan gave her a conspiratorial wink. “I have learned much in the last few days. Just lean in and listen.”
FOURTEEN
The salon in the royal seaside villa at Chesreton had been furnished like a mead hall, with trencher tables and benches rather than the cushioned lounges depicted in the mural on the wall. In the mural, robust Roman men lazed in their togas while half-clad serving wenches, their hair coiled like springy serpents off their heads, fed their masters fruit. Peacocks strutted about in full plumage while a poet plied the lyre. Alric studied the picture as he had not since he was knee high, squirming on the bench next to his mother.
If all Romans lived such lethargic existences, it was no wonder the empire fell, he thought with a smirk. Of course, he knew better. He’d studied history and especially anything he could find regarding the great armies of the past. Still, as he’d remarked once to his mother, it was a wonder the Romans hadn’t lost more emperors to choking on a grape, with this practice of eating while lying down, than to the sword. Of course, the little prince hadn’t told Orlaith that he’d tried it and very nearly met that end.
There were good memories here; ones he missed sorely. Alric helped himself to another cup of ale. Belrap had seen food enough for four men placed on the table before the prince dismissed the staff. But Alric was too preoccupied to do it justice, much less entertain as he usually did when in port.
How long would this strange fever of Deirdre’s last? What had he done to her to make her recoil from his attentions, accusing him of being a demon? Nothing had made sense since he met the enigmatic princess. Certainly not her actions … nor his own, for that matter.
He scowled at the empty places round the room. Maybe he should have invited Gunnar after the two of them had verified the value of the cargo taken from the Mell. But no, he instead returned to the villa to see if the priest had fared better than Doda in helping the delirious bride to be. Alone, he’d waited, grinding his teeth like a man braced to have an arrow wrenched from his chest. Even Lambert and Ricbert, with all their thanes and servants, would be better than this. Although since Orlaith’s death, the king of Galstead was loathe to stay in his beloved mistress’s favorite retreat.
Having spent more of his life here than at the decidedly more rustic royal seat of Galstead, Alric preferred Chesreton, the kingdom’s chief port, as well. It was here, watching the ships come and go, that he’d become enamored with the sea. He’d built his first working vessel—large enough to carry him and his mother—when he was no more than ten. He’d sailed her up and down the banks of the protected river, armed with a small sword and ready for any foe who dared cross his path. Orlaith had made him feel like the fiercest champion to ever sail the sea. Even then, the water was his kingdom, a place far away from Galstead’s dark undercurrents of envy and greed.
Lost in melancholy, Alric took a small loaf of bread and began to carve it with his dining dagger. With the top crust removed, he hollowed it out, munching on the soft pieces of interior as it began to take shape. At least Deirdre had not suffered seasickness as the other woman had. That resilience was part of her charm, which was why this fever worried him so. She wasn’t the sort to swoon without serious cause. The warrior bred into that Celtic blood of hers would go down fighting, not in the terror he’d seen in her eyes.
Swearing off the tenacious concern with an oath that would have gotten him soundly smacked had he uttered it before his mother, Alric took a chunk of cheese and began to cut small rowing benches from it until the vessel was lined on both sides. Belrap’s father, a shipbuilder and waterman, had amused the small prince just so many times. Thin slices of Doda’s special sausages served as shields, which he placed ever so carefully upon the inward roll of the crust—an enforced rail—
The gruff clearing of a masculine throat drew Alric from his idyll. At the arched entrance to the room, the priest, whom he’d found earlier at the stone hovel of what served as a village chapel for transient Christians, stood, obviously uneasy.
“How is she?” he asked, motioning Scanlan in. His abdomen tightened from within as he awaited the news. Frig’s mercy, what manner of malady had the woman brought upon him? First, he lost his ability to please Aelfled, though it had returned mightily when he’d least needed it that morning with his captive. Now she robbed him of appetite and peace of mind.
Scanlan approached the table. “The fever is quite remarkably gone.” Curious, he peered into the bread boat and smiled. “And she’s hungry.”
Alric got up instantly “Then I will have Belrap take—”
His guest raised his hand to stop him. “Lady Deirdre is dressing for supper and will join you shortly She vows she’s been abed enough. She is ever the restless one.”
“You speak as though you’ve known her a while.” Alric motioned for a servant.
There was always someone nearby, making himself scarce but ready if needed. The young lad who helped bring food from the kitchen, which was removed from the main structure of the dwelling, rushed over from a comer, tucking something behind his back. Given the bulge of his hairless cheek, it was part of his evening meal.
“Pauls, tell Belrap the lady guest will be joining me for supper.
See if the cook can stir up something warm and bracing.” Alric had told them previously that summer that cold meat was enough for him, but a guest was another matter … particularly this guest.
“Begging your leave, milord, but what you have is a feast in itself,” Scanlan protested. “I would recommend a mild wine in lieu of your stout Saxon ale, or a Rhenish import for her delicate condition, perhaps a warm broth, but—”
“Given a choice, you clerics starve yourselves with all your fasting. I believe a hearty meal makes a hearty heart.”
“For a warrior, mayhaps, but for a young woman just risen from a fever, that is my recommendation. The final decision is yours.”
“Milord?” The lad glanced anxiously from the priest to Alric.
Scanlan made sense, of course. Most priests were healers to some degree. Alric merely wanted to show Deirdre that he was not as heathen and unschooled in social graces as she believed. Orlaith had seen to that.
“Have the cook prepare a broth and ask Doda if we’ve a mild wine.”
Young Pauls’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed his mouthful. “Aye, milord. Right away.”
Alric shoved the platter of food toward Scanlan. “Help yourself, sir. I am indebted to you for coming so graciously in the lady’s time of need and much relieved that her condition was not as serious as it first appeared.”
Perhaps the fever coupled with virginal panic at his attentions had brought about the disturbing reaction and accusation. Undoubtedly, she was one of those women taught to fear sexuality rather than enjoy it as Aelfled did.
Well he remembered how it had been with Tor and Dustan, the Arabian foal he’d captured on its way to Argyll on his first sea quest. The training to demonstrate who was master had been a slow process. He’d had to gain their trust first. So it would be with Deirdre, although the marriage bed promised mutual reward for them both.
Instead of taking the seat Alric indicated, Father Scanlan helped himself to one of the sausages, which he wrapped in the discarded crust Alric intended for a sail. His thoughts so absorbed him, that he could not stop the priest before it was too late.
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