Uneasy with both master and dog, although the latter did shadow her for leftover morsels, Deirdre accompanied Alric through an orderly gathering of lodges, miniatures of the massive timber hall. It wasn’t much different from Gleannmara, except that these were rectangular while her people’s homes were usually round, with walls of wattle and mud rather than planking.
Men, women, and children, fair-featured like Alric, paused in their tasks or conversations, watching as the prince rushed her with determined gait toward an elderly woman sitting in the sun on a bench by the door. The woman looked up from her stitchery as though sensing something amiss, but upon seeing Alric, her wrinkled face took on a glow of welcome.
“Muirnait!” she exclaimed in delight, hastily putting aside her needlework.
“Sit, Abina. I have someone I want you to meet,” Alric answered in the same Irish. It was to no avail. With the stiffness of her age, the woman struggled to her feet and opened her arms to him. For that brief embrace, the annoyance on the prince’s face gave way to tenderness.
“Abina, this is Princess Deirdre of Gleannmara, my bride to be.” The old woman looked at Deirdre, seeming distracted at first. Then wonder filled her pale blue-gray eyes. “‘Her name means sorrow, but she will bring you great happiness,’” she murmured as though reciting a verse. She reached out to finger Deirdre’s hair. “You are as lovely as Orlaith said you’d be.”
Orlaith? Alric’s mother? Deirdre glanced at the man beside her, fully expecting him to give her some son of signal that the old woman had gone dotty but his features had become unreadable.
“I would have Deirdre stay with you until our wedding, if you don’t mind,” Alric said.
“Ach, I tended your mama and you, how could I not want to care for your pretty bride?”
So that was why the old woman greeted Alric in Irish, calling him beloved. She was the servant captured with his mother and had also been his nurse. Somehow the picture wouldn’t come together of Alric, now towering head and shoulders above the woman, in her arms.
Abina clasped her hands together. “I praise God that I have lived to see her delivered to you at last.”
“Delivered?” Deirdre could not help herself. Just when she thought she understood what was going on, this strange conversation took another turn. “Milady I was—”
“Abina,” the woman interrupted. “I am Alric’s Abina, and now I am yours.” She put her hands up. “But look at me babbling like a witless hag when you must be exhausted. I’ll have a bath drawn for you and—”
“Excellent idea, Abina. And while you make the arrangements, I would speak privately with my betrothed inside.”
Abina’s eyes twinkled, framed with laugh lines of a lifetime. “Of course you would. I’ll be back momentarily, milady, to see you properly cared for.” With another childlike clap of excitement, the small woman hustled away.
“What a dear soul,” Deirdre said, relieved that she once more had been blessed with a Christian caretaker and a kinswoman of a kind. “But she shouldn’t be carrying water—”
“Abina will give orders only,” Alric assured her. “She has a special place here.” Stepping back, he motioned for her to step inside. “’Tis time we spoke.”
It took a moment for Deirdre to adjust her eyes to the dimmer light of the cottage. The banked embers in the hearth filled the room with a homey scent, keeping the air dry for its mistress’s old joints but not affecting the pleasant summer temperature warming it from without. An old loom hung on one wall, along with other weaving paraphernalia. Baskets lined the shelves above. A cot was arranged on the far side of the fire. Deirdre glanced about in search of another, but a table and two stump benches were the only other furnishings.
“I would have expected her to remain at the seaside villa,” Deirdre observed, “since that is where Orlaith spent most of her time.”
“I think the memories are as painful for her as they are for my father, and she says the constant nearness to the water reminds her of the danger I’m in at sea.”
“I certainly don’t wish to take her only bed—”
“I’ll have another brought in.” Alric blocked Tor from following them inside, edging the dog’s head out with his knee so that he could close the door. “I said privacy,” he answered when the wolfhound offered a bark of protest. When he turned, a hint of a smile curled at one comer of his mouth. “It seems even my hound is not impervious to your charms.”
Deirdre took the remark as a compliment, even if it was delivered in a dubious tone. “He’s not as fearsome as I first thought, though I’d not care to test his disposition.”
Alric motioned her to a seat on one of the table benches, studying her every movement until she settled. “You are different,” he said at length, as though trying to convince himself. “What happened to you, Deirdre? How is it that you speak Saxon like a native now? What made Hinderk humor you when you stepped uninvited into the midst of our quarrel? It isn’t his nature, trust me.” Alric nodded toward the door. “Even Tor treats you differently, and believe me when I say that no amount of tasty treats can account for his threatening me when I laid my hand upon you.”
Deirdre shook her head, not sure exactly what to say as she watched Alric approach and drop on one knee, gathering her hand in his. If she didn’t know better, he looked about to pledge his suit.
“You have been a mystery to me since my mother told me of you, and now that I have you, you puzzle me even more.”
Now that he had her … A mix of anxiety and anticipation tripped up her spine.
“Perhaps if I knew what your mother said about me, how she even knew of me …” Deirdre shrugged, certain Alric was no more confused than she. It was as if each of them had different pieces of a puzzle that somehow fit together, but the other pieces still eluded them. Could they find them together? Was that also in God’s plan?
“Believe me, Alric,” she said in all earnest, “you are not the only one confused by all this. The only thing I know is that God is in charge and has a plan for me … for both of us.”
“God has plans for one who questions His existence?”
“God uses saint and sinner alike, but you’d best ask Scanlan to explain it, for I scarce can grasp any sense in what happened myself.”
“What happened? Tell me, Deirdre.” Alric squeezed her hand, lifting it to his lips so that they brushed across her fingertips.
This was the last sort of interrogation she anticipated. Were he angry and demanding, she could stand up to him, but this was not a fair play The man wielded charm as proficiently as his scramasax.
“What is this gift you and the priest allude to?”
Who could not be drawn into the silvery sea of warmth affixed upon her, reaching beyond her defenses to coax her to speak her heart, not her mind? “I thought in my fever that a Saxon demon possessed me, and that was how I understood what you and Belrap said when you spoke in Saxon.” She shouldn’t tell him. It was to be her secret to use against him, even if she had unintentionally let part of it out. “But I prayed and prayed with Scanlan, and no demon would pray, much less call on the One who could purge it from its hold upon me. All I know is that I suddenly knew your language as if it were my own. That’s how we knew—Scanlan and I—that it was a gift from God.” Even now she trembled with awe.
“To what purpose, woman?” Alric studied her with a wary yet attentive look.
Deirdre shifted the conversation. “Tell me about Orlaith. I’ve told you my secret. What is yours, Alric of Galstead?”
He let go her hand and rose to take a seat at the table across from her. For a moment, he was no longer in the room with her but somewhere far off in his memory. He was neither disbelieving nor mocking as she’d expected him—or anyone—to be at what she said. His profile, silhouetted against the light of a small window by the door, was a solemn, noble one, like that of a Roman statue. Only in his distant gaze did the myriad of emotions churning within show themselves.
Sure, Deirdre
had one to match each of his as she listened to the account of Orlaith’s last moments—how a loving mother poured out her heart’s desire for her son—with a detail that challenged doubt.
“Mother believes those visions came from God,” he finished, looking at her, eyes wide. “She said I would win my birthright by love, not the sword, and that you are the key She described you … I thought it was her illness, but after hearing of your feverish experience, I am not so sure.” He took a deep breath and continued. “It was either God or some omnipotent power that transcends all man’s understanding, for it controls even the water and the stones. Even Aelfled believes our paths have crossed for a purpose.”
“Who?”
“A friend … with certain gifts of her own.”
“Your mistress, perhaps?” The green words were out before she could stop them.
“Not now.”
Deirdre did not miss his implication, but as she wondered as to its veracity a flashback of the childlike creature who ran into her at the marketplace came to her. “She was the woman at the market, the little one, with the stones.”
“Aye, and she concurs with Orlaith’s prediction. Even the stones you picked up say that our destinies are entwined.”
“God created them, so of course He controls them,” Deirdre pointed out, struggling as hard as her companion to grasp the nature of what had planned out their merging destinies. “He uses saints and sinners alike,” she murmured, repeating what she’d told Alric earlier.
“What?”
“That night on the ship, when I was nearly swept over the rail, you stopped me. I’d given myself to God’s will to be taken into the arms of the sea—but it was your arms I wound up in.”
Alric watched her as she rubbed the gooseflesh on her arms into submission.
Instead of rebelling against her opinion or scoffing, he gave a wistful smile. “You remind me of my mother in so many ways.”
He reached across the small table and, taking her hands, drew her to her feet and to where he rose. Deirdre could not resist the gentle force that brought her into his embrace, nor did it seem, could he resist the urge to bring her there.
“Would it be so wrong to yield to that which we cannot understand? No logic I know stands up to the right feeling of you in my arms.”
She echoed the very notion in her mind. Feelings definitely had the advantage over reason. Something bigger than both of them rendered thought useless. But that Alric felt exactly the same as she gave her the flutters, as if hundreds of butterflies beat their wings upon her heart and senses.
“It’s hard to recall how you vex me when I can feel your heart beating against mine.” He nuzzled the top of her head. “Or the downy softness of your hair tickling my nose …” Lifting her chin, he gazed down at her face as though caught in the same trancelike state as she. “Or the satin warmth of your lips. If this is God’s plan, milady, it is a heavenly one, do you not agree?”
A sweet fever engulfed her as he lightly brushed her mouth with his. Deirdre couldn’t talk. Faith, she could hardly breathe, and when she did, she shared it with Alric. Yet it was oneness of spirit and emotion that sprang from the physical intimacy, as though divined by something greater than the both of them.
She nodded and became lost in his gaze, only vaguely aware that her own secrets were exposed to the same search of the soul.
“Out of the way, you big puppy!”
Abina’s order came from the outreaches of Deirdre’s awareness, and the latch on the door lifted with the sharp click of bar, shattering the ethereal sphere that had captured the two of them. They broke away from each other abruptly, but their gazes would not give up the enchantment.
“Ooh,” Abina gasped from the periphery of the union. “I am sorry I—”
“I was just going, Abina,” Alric said, drawing away with one last searching look at Deirdre. “You’ll be in good hands,” he assured her as he gathered himself with a square of his shoulders and a clearing of his throat.
Deirdre nodded wordlessly, watching as he spun about and retreated toward the door. She had not let go of him as easily for surely he took a part of her with him.
TWENTY
The great hall was a cacophony of celebration over the announcement of Alric’s wedding to Deirdre. The first part of the procedure had been fulfilled according to Lambert’s pronouncement. Immensely pleased, the king of Galstead announced that his wedding gift was to be the royal villa in Chesreton.
Refreshed from a bath and wearing her pearl-adorned, blue smocked gown and cap, Deirdre endured the toasts of congratulations, still lost in the mysteries in which she and Alric found themselves. His mother had described her and Gleannmara so distinctly, how could Deirdre not believe that God was involved? Orlaith had been a saintly woman, devoutly believing until her last breath that Alric would receive his birthright on earth and in heaven because of her.
After the arrival of Abina and the servants earlier, Deirdre had been so distracted by the new revelations and the spell that compelled the baring of their souls to one another that she’d hardly paid attention to Abina’s fussing over her like a mother hen.
“Orlaith could not have picked a more perfect mate for our Alric than you, milady What glorious hair … said it was like spun gold and it is.”
Alric had left, no less affected than Deirdre with the notion that there was a master purpose in their match. Yet how else could the coincidences be explained when the only common element was God? Granted, Alric did not say he believed it was God, but he did concede that some master power seemed at work. Even now she could feel it, as though they each possessed some pan of the other that forged a common bond, despite all their other differences.
“Perhaps, once my seafaring son discovers the attraction of remaining on land,” Lambert proposed, after a round-cheeked maid had refilled all the glasses at the royal table, “the surrounding shires may become part of his domain as well.”
If only she’d had time to share all this with Scanlan. As it was, the priest was living outside the city walls so as not to stir Ethlinda’s ire against him. The moment Orlaith had died, all traces of Christianity had been forbidden inside the gates. Only Abina was unaffected by the queen’s edict.
“And who will fulfill our naval obligations to the bretwalda?” Ricbert’s drawl was rank with cynicism.
“Your brother has built an admirable fleet of ships, and all but the Wulfshead fare well without him,” his father answered, pride swelling his chest. “His captains on the water are as able as my thanes on land. Take Cedric’s second born, here.”
“Gunnar is a better warrior than I,” Cedric snorted. “I’m not one for battle on footing that bobs and dips at whim.”
“I’d wage my life and the Wulfshead on the abilities of the man.” Alric lifted his glass, first to Gunnar’s father and then to Gunnar himself.
Now that the relationship between the two had been pointed out, Deirdre could see the resemblance, especially in those devilish eyes. Except that Gunnar didn’t seem his usual carefree self.
“Milords are all generous,” he replied with courtly grace.
“Just don’t wager your bride, eh, my dear?” Ricbert sneered under his breath to his wife beside him. His voice carried nonetheless, just as he intended.
Gunnar slammed down his cup, glaring at the prince.
Next to Ricbert, the Princess Helewis reddened but continued to pick at her food with downcast gaze.
“Ricbert, shame on you!” On a floating cloud of silver and black silk, a tall stately woman with the same sharp features as the dark-haired prince swept into the hall from a side entrance and took the empty seat next to Lambert. “Your teasing makes your young wife nervous, which forces her to eat like a horse.” Queen Ethlinda smiled at the plump princess. “Which we all know is to her detriment.”
Aware that all eyes were now fixed upon her, Helewis pushed aside the food before her. “If milords and ladies will excuse me,” she said in a barely audible voi
ce, “I’m not feeling well.”
Deirdre was mortified for the young woman. She was about to abandon courtly etiquette and run after a complete stranger, but Gunnar lost control first.
“Begging your pardon, Your Majesties, but Lord Ricbert’s insinuation—”
“Prince Ricbert,” the queen reminded the man.
“He acts like neither,” Lambert grumbled.
“The prince’s insinuation,” Gunnar resumed, “is unfounded and an affront, not just to my honor, but to that of Lady Helewis. Your princess was pure as the first snow of winter when he took her to the bridal bed, and he well knows it. I demand he apologize.”
Ethlinda laughed. “You champion Helewis?”
Deirdre disliked the woman already “It seems someone should, when genteel manners so sorely elude some members of this court.”
Ethlinda slowly turned toward Deirdre, the chevron of a painted eyebrow exaggerated by her surprise. Placing a long, curled fingernail upon her cheek, she gave Deirdre a pointed look. “How dare a slave address me in such a manner?”
“Enough!” Lambert slammed both fists on the table with such force that Tor leaped to his feet behind Alric’s chair.
Alric seized his collar, calming him. “Welcome to my happy home,” he whispered in a sarcastic aside to Deirdre.
“So help me, woman, I’ll have you served a bowl of cream, if you don’t draw back your claws and curb that viperish tongue.”
“I will not be chided by a slave, husband.”
“But you will be chided by your king, Ethlinda, and I say enough.”
“Is it any wonder I built my first boat as a pup and set out to sea?” Alric mumbled, leaning over Deirdre’s shoulder to offer Tor a beef rib to calm him down.
She smothered a giggle, one of the first genuinely pleasant reactions since her capture. Having Alric as an ally was an engaging novelty Cutting a sidewise glance at him as he turned back to the assembly she caught a devilish wink that made her pulse stumble. Perhaps God’s plan for her was not as gloomy as she’d first estimated. She had to share this with Scanlan.
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