Deirdre

by Linda Windsor

  Several in the gathering spoke, but none ventured to speak above the general murmurs to each other. Her heart in her throat, she stumbled on. “My heart aches for you. You’ve left your homes behind and have no idea what tomorrow will bring. There was another group of people who did the same thing, and God delivered them to a new land and new beginning. Their way was not easy but the hardship was like a smith’s fire, it purified their faith like gold and made them strong as steel.”

  “Where will we go? Has this God provided a place for us?”

  Deirdre hesitated. “He has plans for you, plans for you to prosper, to give you hope and a future.” Father, even I who have known You all my life struggled to believe this. Help me convince them of the truth of Thy Word.

  “With what fortune my ships have earned, I will purchase the land for any who choose to follow me.” Alric took her hand in his. “I give my word.”

  Deirdre met his gaze and was embraced by it. He knew no more than she as to the how or the why, but he was willing to take the risk … the leap of faith.

  “And where will you find our land?” one of the men called out skeptically “Buy it back from Mercians and have them steal it again?”

  “I don’t know,” Alric admitted. “I will have to search—”

  “He’ll find it in Ireland.”

  Wondering if her ears played tricks upon her, Deirdre looked to Cairell. So did others, but instead of seeing the prince of Gleannmara, all they saw was a young man in peasant garb.

  A man close to Cairell sneered. “And I’m supposin’ you’ll be him that sells it?” Deirdre recognized the thatcher who’d put a new roof on Scanlan’s chapel.

  Cairell flashed a wide grin. “Aye, sir, that I will, and be the first to welcome you to your new home.”

  Rumbles of disdain and disbelief echoed from all around. “The beggar’s crazy as a swineherd!”

  “Who in thunder does that dimwit think he is?”

  Alric held up his hand, waving down the uproar. “Allow me, good fellows, to introduce my brother by law, both God’s and man’s, to whom I owe my life … and loyalty Prince Cairell of Gleannmara.”

  Wary blue eyes met wary gray as Alric offered Cairell an arm up onto the wall beside him. But the moment their hands locked, all the apprehension in their gazes melded into one sense of purpose. Deirdre’s heart soared at the unspoken truce between the two men she loved. Nothing had worked out as she’d planned, but God’s plan had proved so much better. And so it would for the people before her. She knew it, both in her heart and her soul.

  THIRTY-THREE

  When last of the villa’s visitors left, only lanterns were left to carry the vigil of light until morning. Alric wearily embraced Gunnar and bid him good night. Dismissing Belrap for the evening, the prince of a disintegrating kingdom meandered into the courtyard. Each step was leaden—with fatigue, with disappointment, with confusion, and self-doubt. Questions and answers were a muddle in his mind, one hardly discernible from the other. He sat on the edge of the thick, stone basin, senses numb to the night.

  The graceful nymphs of the old fountain tirelessly poured an unending stream of water into its bed. It was here, in the wee hours of the night, that he often came as a child, seeking the ready company of the stone maidens—and of God. It was here that he later hurled his prayers upward as a youth, demanding to know why his mother and he were outcasts of the court. And it was here that he cursed God when he and his mother returned from her homeland, rejected and disdained.

  And now what? Was this his punishment for his rebellion, his reward for returning to God, as the thatcher from Galstead had accused earlier? Alric had no answer. Despite the promise Deirdre championed so convincingly, he felt wounded, betrayed like the new Christians who’d followed him in panic to avoid Mercian retribution. Would that he had the strength of her belief, for with it the captured became the conqueror, not just of his heart but of those who heard her.

  “Alric?”

  He turned to see the lady of his thoughts and heart standing in the threshold to his bedchamber. Instead of wearing the silk and fine linen she deserved, she wore one of his old shirts, her freshly washed hair spilling over it like dark gold. He didn’t think he’d ever seen her more beautiful, not even in the velvet and pearls that night she’d had him tripping over his brick of a tongue. The light behind her revealed the woman beneath the shin, but it was the memory of the Scripture with which she’d calmed the stormy crowd earlier that stirred him beyond the physical.

  “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.”

  They had given her confidence in a worse circumstance than he was in at present. She’d lost her birthright, a loved one, and hope of regaining both. Her spirit had remained indomitable to anyone, save her God. Alric had thought that everything good in this world had died with his mother, but it survived. like a hearth fire, its light had only been banked and lay waiting, ready to warm those who flocked to it and even be carried out to other hearths, that they, too, might warm a soul with its glow.

  Now it came to him, barefoot and shivering in the damp night. Deirdre reached up, raking her fingers through the length of his hair before locking them loosely behind his neck.

  “You need rest, milord.”

  “And you need warming.” He gathered her to him as though she were the last of that light in the world.

  “Perhaps together, we might accomplish both,” she said, with a beguiling lift of her brow.

  It tugged at the muscles in the pit of his belly with an invisible string—such an insignificant gesture to carry the powerful punch delivered to his senses. No longer numb, they took in all of the woman he lifted off the cool tiles.

  Deirdre. Her eyes sparkled like gems in the lantern glow, and her startled gasp-turned-to-giggle danced with delight in his ear. Meadow flowers blossomed unseen in her damp hair, while her body curled soft against his chest. That his mouth not feel neglected, Alric bent over and sampled the smile upon her lips.

  At least it was meant to be a sample. Somewhere between the speed of his pulse and cessation of his breath, an intoxicating surge of renewal blurred the passing of time. Here was what he’d been missing for so long—not gold, nor power, nor land … but love. Here was the earthly birthright his mother alluded to—not Galstead, nor Gleannmara, but one where the heart ruled, with him as its servant.

  There was nothing left for him to do, save trust and obey.

  Sunlight lulled Alric gently from sleep the following day. Much as he longed to awaken his bride on the first morning of their marriage, to kiss away a sleepy pout and coax her protests at being disturbed into pleas for more of his attentions, she needed rest and he needed to be about his business. Dressing quickly before temptation got the better of his discipline, Alric brushed his mouth lightly over the childlike pucker of her lips and quit the chamber.

  Would it always be like this when he left her, as though a part of him remained, unable to exist without her?

  Refreshed from a good night’s rest, Cairell awaited Alric in the dining salon where Doda had put out fresh breads and curd sweetened with honey and porridge. The prince of Gleannmara was more suitably dressed in some of Alric’s clothing, which Belrap had scrounged up for their guest. Alric recognized the shirt as the one Orlaith had made for his eighteenth birthday. He’d worn it one summer before the shoulders became too narrow. His sentimental mother must have tucked it away with her keepsakes, for this was the first Alric had seen of it since he’d outgrown it.

  After an awkward moment, Alric made the first move. “Good day sir. I take it you slept well?” He slipped into the chair at the head of the table.

  “Better than in months.” Cairell didn’t even bother to look up from the bread he lavished with butter.

  Alric didn’t expect him to reciprocate. Despite Cairell’s generous offer to take the refugees of Galstead, there was much to be settled. He left his guest to
his brooding silence and helped himself to a loaf of bread and broke it in half. It didn’t occur to him until his mouth was full to give thanks. He’d pledged to be a Christian and knew from Orlaith’s upbringing that it was expected. Shoving a wad of food to the side of his mouth, Alric lowered his head.

  “Thank You, God, for this food.” What was it his mother used to say? She’d made him memorize it. “May it sustain us so … so that we can glorify and serve You.” A dubious snort came from across the table. “And share it with others … even the Irish. Amen.”

  “You sound as comfortable with prayer as I am speaking Saxon.”

  “It doesn’t come naturally” Alric conceded. He chewed the bread and swallowed. “If God’s so knowledgeable and forgiving, He’ll accept it as an earnest attempt.”

  “So, the Saxon Moses has a temper, too.”

  “Frig take your tongue; I’m no Moses.”

  “But you have the courage to match your convictions; I’ll give you that.”

  Alric glanced up, searching for the hidden barb. The mockery in his guest’s eyes, bluer than blue like Deirdre’s, had disappeared.

  “You handed away a kingdom for God yesterday.” Cairell sopped honey up with his bread. “Now you are the shepherd of a landless flock. How does it feel?”

  If his brother-in-law taunted him, Alric would take his head off. If the man were serious, then this was a subject better chewed over a thick log, with a full night ahead to watch it burn.

  “I gave nothing up. God took it … or it fell apart at the foundation. A skilled blade might clear a land of its enemy, but it cannot build a kingdom of loyal subjects,” he shot back. “Why?”

  Cairell thought a moment. “Like you, Moses was a prince who gave up the chance to rule a kingdom to lead a group of frightened and homeless believers to safety.”

  Alric had forgotten Moses was a prince, the favored over the rightful heir. Nonetheless, this notion that his purpose was a godly one was nonsense. Alric wanted no unwarranted credit, especially when it came to something that smacked of the hypocrisy he’d seen in his mother’s kin. It had turned what little faith he’d kept bitter in his craw.

  “I gave up no chance for anything save futile bloodshed for a lost cause. I chose to save your sister, what men I could, and the priest. And I would hardly call that ragtag lot who straggled along God’s chosen.”

  “All people are God’s chosen. That ragtag lot, as you call them, chose God because of you, according to Scanlan. And you could have left them, but as I saw it, you slowed your pace to afford them protection from pursuit.”

  “Turns out, there was nothing to protect them from.” Alric shrugged, uncomfortable as to where this was leading. “You’re starting to sound like the priest … or are you having second thoughts about inviting us to settle in your promised land?”

  He had gold enough to buy land and, in time, raise an army to defend it. If he chose Gleannmara, it would be for Deirdre.

  “No. I meant it when I offered Gleannmara as a refuge. We have had a motto since its first Christian rulers, Maire and Rowan: Home to the just, enemy to the greedy and ambitious. Because we prosper in God’s grace, we’ve always had room for our fellow man.”

  “Even if he’s Saxon?”

  “One of my good friends, a smith by trade, is a Saxon. God-fearing, hard-working people are always welcome. I’ve studied with some Saxon lads, intelligent as far as Saxons go.” The twinkle in Cairell’s eye put a good-natured edge on the jibe.

  “Humph,” Alric acknowledged, taking no offense. “Sounds too good to be true.”

  “It’s as close to heaven as I’ll ever see on this green earth.” Affection glowed in the young prince’s eyes. “It doesn’t mean we are without trial or taint. We’re just human and do the best we can after the example of the King of kings. At least that was the example set by King Rowan.”

  Alric narrowed his gaze, struck by the sincerity of his companion. “You sound too humble to be Irish.”

  “And you’re too stubborn to be a Moses.”

  That again. It was like going head-to-head with a bull—a fair-haired, blue-eyed bull no less artful with a twist of the tongue than his sister. Unable to outwit the gamecock—at least at this hour—Alric called it a draw with a bellow of laughter. Cairell sealed the truce with his own. The laughter did Alric’s soul good. A fleeting Thank You, Father came as naturally as his next heartbeat.

  Belrap entered the room with slow, hesitant steps. “Excuse me, milord, but you’ve some visitors.”

  Alric sobered. “Edgar already?” It was early for the mayor to be about.

  “Yes, milord, and a group of Welshmen by their look.”

  Even though he refused the role of king, Alric had promised to ride out to the Welsh encampment at midmorning with the mayor and Cairell of Gleannmara to settle the issue of Ricbert’s raid.

  “Show them in.” As Belrap left, Alric took a deep breath and sighed. “Galstead haunts me still.”

  The two men rose to their feet as the mayor entered the room and with a sweeping bow, presented his companion.

  “Milords, allow me to present Lord Owen of—”

  “S’death, my eyes deceive me, else I shall have to believe in ghosts!” Struck still in his tracks, Owen of Emrys stood agape before the prince of Gleannmara.

  “I am no spirit, sir,” Cairell assured him as he walked around the length of the table and embraced the startled visitor. “I am a guest in the home of my new brother-in-law, the result of a story that will keep hearth fires burning long into many a night to come.”

  “But … but I was told you … Deirdre?” Owen shot a bewildered look at Alric. “Deirdre is alive as well?” The man threw up his hands. “Is this morning, and am I not in the Saxon port of Chesreton?”

  The mayor nodded, eyes darting from one man to the other.

  “The answer is yes to both your questions, sir,” Alric assured the man. It always helped to have an advantage over a possible adversary. “And I am Alric, of what was once Galstead. I am, for a while, master of this villa.”

  Owen hardly gave Alric a passing nod. He grabbed Cairell’s arms and shook him, as if expecting him to disappear in a poof. “I am beside myself with relief and joy! We received news from your mother—”

  “Our stepmother,” Cairell amended.

  “That you and Deirdre were both dead, seized and killed by pirates. I thought Gleannmara had seen the last of the Niall dynasty die with your father.”

  The mischief he’d enjoyed at his Welsh friend’s expense died with the blink of Cairell’s eye. “What say you, Owen? You meant because Deirdre and I have been mistaken for dead, that Father is the last of our line to reign.”

  Owen’s silence spoke louder than words.

  “My father is dead? Is that what you tell me?” Cairell gripped his friend’s arm. “Fergal of Gleannmara is dead?”

  Owen winced under the force of Cairell’s grasp. Slowly he nodded. “My father prepares to leave for Gleannmara even now to pay his respects to Queen Dealla.”

  Cairell stood stone still as Owen told him that the shock of losing both Cairell and Deirdre had been too much for Fergal’s weakened disposition. He simply gave up his will to live. “It was his heart, I think,” Owen finished grimly.

  “Whose heart?”

  Bright as morning sun, Deirdre came in from the courtyard entrance. The glorious mane of hair in which Alric had lost his fingers time and again was braided in a single plait down her back. With a regal sway of skirts, she approached Alric and curtseyed as pure devilment frolicked beneath the demure dip of her golden lashes. Temptation played upon the impish quirk of her lips.

  “Milord, husband?” she teased. “I heard you laughing earlier. Pray tell me you do not speak so freely of your heart’s fancy to your guests as you do your bride.”

  Alric fought the urge to seize her up and hurry her away before the news drowned the light in her eyes. Would that he could cast some spell that would preserve the lovelin
ess and innocence that stood unwittingly on the brink of despair.

  Deirdre’s smile shriveled in the silence. Slowly she turned to look at her brother and Owen.

  “Cairell?” She addressed her brother, but instinct drew her gaze to their visitor as the source of the uneasiness in the room. “What news, sir?”

  Alric gently took her shoulders, drawing her toward him. She yielded but would not release the Welshman from her gaze.

  Cairell broke first. “It’s Father, Dee,” he said, his voice raw with emotion. “He’s dead.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  It took a week to ready the Wulfshead for the voyage to Dublin. Deirdre watched as provisions and such belongings as the passengers had were stored in the hold of the ship, which customarily departed high and light in the water, ready for plunder. Instead, as little freeboard as was safe showed above the waterline.

  The number of refugees had grown by three. Kaspar, the young dock man Deirdre had seen the day of their arrival in Chesreton harbor, signed on as a replacement on Alric’s crew. His wife and new baby girl settled with the other women and children in the cover of the forward rise of the bow. The men sat ready at the oars lining both sides of the ship.

  Gunnar and Helewis, hastily wed the night before by a battered but buoyant Father Scanlan, beamed in the afterglow of their wedding night. Gunnar was to keep the villa for Alric and handle the business of his merchant vessels as full partner. Undoubtedly the word of Alric’s refusal to raise troops to reclaim his father’s kingdom had already reached Galstead by way of the constant flow of traffic between the two shires, for a missive arrived that morning at the mayor’s home from the queen’s brother, informing him that no Mercian aggression would be directed at Chesreton, provided the port continued to honor the tribute due Galstead’s court.