“Your queen is a Mercian,” Hinderk reminded Alric’s friend smoothly “Besides, he is an envoy to Ecfrith’s court, sent on behalf of our neighbors. He has a proposition that is of interest to all Saxon shires bordering Welsh land.”
Whatever Gunnar had been about to say, the loud thud of the coffin lid against the side of the can as it broke loose headed it off. The two guards reached inside and scooped out handfuls of gray-white crystals and allowed it to pour back into the box between their fingers.
“By cracky milords, the salt’s done eat up the body,” one of them derided.
“Not a bone left of the dear departed,” the other said, digging through the salt.
Alric looked down at the salter, his expression grave. “This was a foolish thing, friend.”
Dak lowered his head while the others drew together in a knot.
“What would ye have us do?” one of the women cried out. “All we wanted was to put aside a little to buy food for the winter. The fields about us are gone already.”
“What is it the Christians say? Ashes to ashes and dust to salt?” Hinderk’s derisive laugh fell off abruptly “Arrest the lot of them.”
“Hold a moment!” Alric gigged Dustan forward with his heels, blocking Hinderk’s men. Gunnar joined him. The Wulfshead’s crew tightened the circle around Deirdre’s can.
“You dare defend them?” Hinderk’s glare spoke volumes.
“Nay but they are men of Galstead, and I will arrest them in the name of King Lambert,” Alric declared. “He is the authority here, not you or your men. Let our king decide their punishment.”
Neither of the Saxon lords were the sort to back down. Alric sat upon Dustan cool as a statue, but the kindling in his eyes betrayed his readiness to fight. Like the motionless scramasax he held, cool did not mean less deadly. Hinderk bristled before the prince’s look, but Deirdre sensed his experience and discipline held the anger flaring from his nostrils in check.
Even the soft breeze, which had made the sun’s heat bearable, seemed to hold its breath as the silent battle of wills continued.
The commander finally gave in. “Let this would-be king have his knaves,” he said, with a slow-spreading warp of a smile. “Besides—” he selected a more subtle weapon from his arsenal—“it wouldn’t do to make him appear more of a fool than he already has to his bride to be.” Hinderk shifted in his saddle and looked straight at Deirdre. “Milady I would be honored to offer you my steed, since we are all bound for Lambert’s court.”
The blow landed at the weakest link in Alric’s armor. The prince leaned forward, resting his weapon across his lap. His manner suggested a leisurely exchange of words, but his voice was lethal. “She’ll ride with you over my dead body Hinderk.”
Deirdre had no doubt that Alric meant it.
Hinderk recognized it as well. He feigned being wounded, hand clutching his chest, and let the beast out of its corner rather than tangle with it. “I would ride with one of my men, milord.”
Deirdre brightened at the prospect to save her backside and put a thorn in Alric’s for subjecting her to her misery “So there are gentlemen among you.” Not that she believed it for a moment. She considered one as bad as the other, but Alric needn’t know that.
“If your definition of gentlemen include those who raided Ireland with Ecfrith.”
Deirdre staggered under the weight of the revelation. Alric might as well have smitten her across the chest with the flat of his blade, for the wind left her lungs and blood congealed in her still-struck heart. This was one of the murderers, the bloodletters who’d raped the monasteries along the coast and left a trail of mutilation and bodies in their wake? Nay, she wanted nothing of this man, save one thing—his blood.
Above the beating drums of her rising indignation, Scanlan tossed another fagot into the fire, knocking it down with one word. “Cairell.”
Cairell! If she was this close to one of the blackguards, then Deirdre was close to finding her brother. God was in charge. Mastering her spontaneous lust for the bearded leader’s blood with newfound hope, she lifted an imperious chin. “I am Princess Deirdre of Gleannmara. But then, I imagine you’ve heard of our fair land,”
Was Hinderk the name of the Saxon who sent the ransom letter to the Northumbrian monastery where Gleannmara was to have sent the ransom? She didn’t know, or even if Cairell’s captor had been mentioned specifically.
The dark-haired Saxon snorted after a moment’s contemplation. “No, milady but if I had, rest assured that I’d not have let Alric claim you first.”
She had learned one thing if nothing else since her capture; All Saxons were not alike. Alric was a prince among men, and, despite her annoyance with him, he grew more so in her estimation all the while. Deirdre focused on her mission. “Surely you’ve heard of my brother, Prince Cairell, heir to Gleannmara’s throne.”
Hinderk scowled, apparently nonplussed. “No, I never heard of him. But then we didn’t go there to socialize.” His men joined him in mocking laughter. “We took gold and some peach-faced scholars, who fancied themselves warriors. Like as not, those fair lads are on their way to Rome for the sport of some—”
“How dare you—!”
Scanlan caught her by the arm, stopping her. “Milady, I am certain Lord Hinderk means no affront to you directly What is done is done. Our purpose is to forgive.”
In no humor for priestly serenity or conscience, Deirdre continued to glare at Hinderk.
The thane brought his horse about, looking past her at Scanlan, as if noticing the young man for the first time. “Ho, what have we here? Be you druid or priest?”
Well Deirdre knew that Scanlan wore the same tonsure as those Hinderk and his kind had mutilated. His thick, brown hair grew lion-like from his shaven forehead in the style of the ancient druids who’d embraced Christianity, giving up the prestige of their station to serve the One God who they believed lived in the sun.
“I suppose both, milord.” Scanlan’s reply was soft, “As our sainted Columcille once said, ‘Christ is my druid.’ He is my Master and Teacher too.”
Feeling helpless, Deirdre cast a frantic look at Alric. His mother was a Christian. Would he do nothing?
Hinderk started round the cart to Scanlan’s side, his hand resting on the hilt of a sheathed dagger. “Have you Irish priests not learned your lesson yet?”
“We are always learning, milord. The school of life has many lessons, but the Word of God has more.” Scanlan smiled, his philosophical posture smacking of either courage or lunacy.
“Keep your religious war to yourself, Hinderk,” Alric spoke up, as though tiring of the game of wills holding them all suspended. “It has no place here. The priest is my betrothed’s companion, just arrived and under Galstead’s protection.”
The Saxon dog was not pleased to have such an easy bone snatched from his reach. Whipping his horse’s head about, he sneered at the one who’d taken it. “You assume a lot of responsibility for the son of a slave.”
“Nonetheless, I wield the power of a king’s son … and this.” Alric drew Kieran’s sword with his free hand. Dustan moved at the click of his tongue and, with a single leap, brought his master within sword’s length of the slanderer.
Deirdre’s heart mimicked the steed, taking her with it. “Enough!” She pulled out of Scanlan’s hold and jumped from the cart before he could stop her. With no idea of what she intended to do, she shoved through her circle of defenders. “There is no doubt that each of you fine warriors are capable of inflicting untold damage to the other,” she blurted as she lifted her shoulders, throwing up her hands in an exaggerated shrug that caused Dustan and the other steed to rear back their heads at the sudden movement. “Who’s to say that a slash or puncture might benefit you, given your grossly overblown estimation of yourselves. I’ve seen dogs fight with more dignity.”
Tor, who’d been at Dustan’s heel, got up and trotted to her, tail wagging. Ignoring the beast, Deirdre boldly marched between the dumbstr
uck prince and his nemesis. They might run her through, but one way or the other, she’d have relief from this web of anxiety.
“As entertaining at that might be for me, who has no great love for either of you—” She ducked under the extended blade of her ancestor’s sword, somehow emboldened by its touch—“I am weary of travel, hunger, and this verbal chest beating. So if your beloved mothers ever instilled in you a wisp of gallantry, for their memory’s sake—” The mother’s guilt was a stroke of genius. She’d seen fierce men wither at the mention of their mother—“Let’s be on our way Your men and I long for the hospitality at Galstead.”
Not a soul moved. They just stared at her, Alric included. Seizing at the last strand of her nerve before it snapped, she stomped her foot and shouted. “Now sheath your weapons!”
It sounded like her voice, but it was much bigger than she felt at the moment, now that her insanity had run its course. From the corner of her eye, Deirdre saw Scanlan cross himself, lips moving, no doubt in a prayer of exorcism, for even she did not recognize the woman in her memory’s replay of the last few moments. Her knees grew watery requiring all her effort to keep her upright. She not only risked her life, but Scanlan’s as well. Father in heaven, help us now … or Scanlan at least.
A soft, sliding sound drew her gaze to where Alric returned Kieran’s sword to its sheath. “My apologies, milady Lord Hinderk,” he said, his gaze never leaving her, “I invite you and your men to accompany us to Galstead. Gunnar, see to these smugglers and their goods.”
She glanced at Hinderk as he nodded and proceeded to give corresponding orders to his own troops, but Alric would not release her from the shackling silver of his gaze. Prodded by some silent command, Dustan carried him toward her, stopping abreast of her. Was he going to cut out her tongue with the scramasax still in his hand?
Without a word, Alric slid off the stallion’s back and lifted Deirdre up in his place. She flinched as he leaped up behind her and took the reins. Only when he took the lead did he whisper in her ear. “How long, milady have you spoken our language so fluently?”
How could the same voice warm and chill her at the same time? Why was her life a clash of opposite feelings and sensations where this man was involved? Through bombardment of sense and sensibilities, the meaning of Alric’s words sunk in. She’d spoken Saxon? Deirdre sought out Scanlan in disbelief, but he was busy coaxing the cart horse back onto the road. They’d agreed she not do so until …
No wonder the priest prayed. When had she switched from Latin? How could she explain, when she didn’t understand herself.
Behind them, Hinderk chuckled, not as much at Deirdre as to himself. “Your betrothed certainly has command of our tongue, milord. She not only wields it as artfully as my mother, but with like comfort and authority.”
“There seems no end to her accomplishments,” Alric agreed. “I continue to be overwhelmed by my good fortune in finding her.”
Caught up in her own quandary, Deirdre let the blunted barb slide.
NINETEEN
Galstead had been an old legion fortress situated in the mineral-rich hills and river valley that had fallen into ruin until Lambert and his thanes were awarded it as sword land, claimed by their fierce scramasaxes and spears. Upon realizing its strategic location on the crest of a natural hill, Lambert established his settlement there. Like most of the Saxon towns, it came together a piece at a time. First there were soldiers, then farms, and then tradesmen to support the increasing center of population.
In lieu of the usual Saxon stockade and earthen work, Galstead’s walls were of block, repaired to their original strength and thick enough to afford a walk behind the bastions. The ditch around its perimeter was filled with water from a natural spring that would provide a good water supply in the event of siege. Skirting the hilltop settlement were the neatly arranged rectangles of farms and commons, fading green in the waning sun.
Alric waited for Deirdre to show some sign of being impressed, but she’d not said a word since her rant. The way she acted, one would think she had been as surprised as he by her ability to speak his native tongue. He would have wagered his sword arm that she could not speak Saxon aside from a few words. That she boldly stepped between him and Hinderk in the first place to stop what might have escalated into a physical confrontation had set both Alric and his adversary back. But when she proceeded to scold them in their own mother tongue, Alric could have been knocked off his horse with a feather. Fortunately, Hinderk had been affected as well … or at least intrigued by her beauty and courage.
But then, his captive had that effect on men. Even the peasant hadn’t been certain how to react to her. Alric glanced down at the golden crown of her head resting against his shoulder. She looked like an angel and fought like a devil for what she believed in, making her a formidable opponent full of surprises. And this last one she’d explain to him before the night was out.
The noise of the market spilled over from inside to out of the city proper, rousing the subject of Alric’s introspection as they rode through the main gate.
“Welcome to Galstead, milady” he whispered, unable to suppress his pleasure that she’d drifted off to sleep in his arms. As with Tor and Dustan, time and patience were proving the key to winning her trust.
She gave him an embarrassed glance, a blush creeping to her cheeks. It flushed Alric as well, but not in his face. Frig’s mercy he felt like a love-struck pup, bombarded by so many urges that all he could do was grin like a simpleton.
“Welcome back, milord,” one of the guards in the elevated blockhouse of Lambert’s royal compound shouted down as they passed through the gate.
Pulling himself together with military discipline, Alric returned the wave. By the time the stable hands took over the horses, Lambert himself emerged with a following of thanes and servants from the great timber-framed hall.
“Father,” Alric greeted him, stepping stiffly into the open arms the man extended to him. Lambert was not usually open with his affections in the public eye, especially to Orlaith or Alric. Had the queen and Ricbert left the country?
“Tell me it’s true,” Lambert exclaimed, holding Alric at arm’s length. His jowled, round face beamed, “I’ve heard that you’re taking a wife.”
So that was it. “News travels fast.” Alric was unable to control his smile any longer. He motioned Deirdre over. “You remember the waif we found in the hold of the captured ship?”
Lambert squinted in the dimming light as she approached them. “My word, it is her. Something told me there was more between you two than you admitted. I almost stopped you from sending her off to the slave market, the way you reacted to her.”
Alric lifted one eyebrow but held back his question as to exactly what his father observed. He wasn’t ready for Deirdre to know the extent of the advantage she held over him. He wasn’t exactly sure he knew.
“Father, I present Princess Deirdre of Gleannmara, my betrothed as soon as you signify the contract is in order.”
Deirdre bent her knee in polite deference but not her head. “Milord.” Now that she was fully awake, the cuddlesome kitten had again become the aloof cat.
To Alric’s astonishment, Lambert chuckled. “Ach, it’s the same wench all right. I’ve only seen fire bum on water twice—once in your mother’s gaze and then in this one’s. I commend you on having wit enough to recognize such a diamond in the rough. Betrothed to her, no less,” the king marveled.
“I mean no disrespect, milord, but this marriage is not one of love, my being here is not of my choice, and I am filthy and weary of the travel and this company.”
Eye’s wide, mouth gaping, Alric stared at Deirdre. She spoke in flawless Saxon yet again. Lambert was no different from anyone else who’d heard the Irishwoman. It took him a moment to recover, but he did so with an uncommon grace and patience for his nature.
“Then I shall have my retainer—”
“I’ll see her to Abina’s house,” Alric interrupted. “Then I
’ll join you and these good thanes in the hall to wash the dust from my throat. Meanwhile—” he reached into the bag slung over his shoulder—“here is the contract. The payment is in that jeweled trunk and is hers to either send to her father or use as she sees fit.”
Lambert took the parchment and held it to his chest. “I have long waited for this,” he said to his thanes. “Mayhap I’ll soon have an heir in the making with one son or the other.”
The retinue laughed, some more heartily than others. Alric’s attention shifted, shocked from his intent to get Deirdre to himself by his father’s quip. Could it be this was what Orlaith meant by her prophecy? After all, Deirdre had made it clear Gleannmara would never accept him as king. Frig’s breath, had he given away his birthright with his word not to take her as his wife in every sense of the term?
Humor souring, Alric took Deirdre by the arm. “Come, beloved, I would see you to your temporary quarters until we can officially enter Lambert’s contest for the throne.”
“And what of my things and Scanlan? I’d see him—”
“My father’s retainer is capable of that, but you, my derling, I prefer to deal with personally.”
In his eagerness, Alric seized her arm a little rougher than he’d intended and was startled by Tor’s fierce bark. He’d forgotten the wolfhound was even there. In the moment of Alric’s hesitation, the dog clamped a warning mouth over his wrist.
“That’s your pup, isn’t it?” Lambert’s brows arched, as taken aback as Alric.
“What’s the matter with you, dog?” Alric ruffled the animal’s head with his free hand. Tor’s tail wagged, but he did not let go of Alric’s wrist until he released Deirdre’s arm, at which point, the wolfhound immediately licked the hand he just released. “It seems you’ve betrayed me for a few morsels of food, you fickle mule.” Alric slipped his arm around Deirdre, softening his voice. “If you would come with me, milady I’ll show you and your newest conquest to your quarters.”
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