Deirdre (11 page)

Gunnar glanced up. “Our captive again?”

“The mistress of deceit.” A mix of anger and admiration filled his voice as Alric picked up one of the pouches. Emptying into his palm were jewels enough to bedeck a royal family—assorted shades of red, blue, amber, and purple. “And I think ’tis
you
who owe me the round of drinks. This must be where she hid the treasure that had been in the chest.”

“Resourceful little nun, isn’t she?”

“If she’s a nun, I’m Woden himself.”

He helped Gunnar shove the coins back into the barrel. They’d count it in the warehouse, away from the curious onlookers who’d begun to gather about them. Carefully, he picked up the blue wool and shook the remaining coins out of its folds. A brilliant flash caught the sun and threw it in his eyes, nearly blinding him. It was a brooch … a lady’s brooch.

He felt a blow in his chest—hard and without warning—as if his stallion had kicked him soundly. The sun beamed warmth onto his torso, yet ice surely formed in his veins as he stared down at the piece, his thumb tracing the shape and texture of it. Set in the pure gold, heart-shaped circlet were sapphires and rubies …

The arrangement—the large ruby followed by smaller tiny ones set in the tapered pin—crossed the sapphire-studded circlet in exactly the same pattern that was on his cloak.

“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” Gunnar teased.

Alric shook himself. It couldn’t be, but it was. “I’m not sure I haven’t. Look at this closely. Where have you seen it before?”

Gunnar picked up the keg as if it weighed nothing, glanced at the cloak, and shrugged. “I haven’t. Believe me, if I’d seen a piece of workmanship like this, I’d have remembered.”

“Not in the gold and jewels themselves,” Alric snapped, accompanying him into the warehouse. “It’s the pattern on the cloak my mother made for me. I showed it to you once … never mind. You were probably too drunk to remember.”

But Alric had not forgotten. The image and his mother’s words were indelibly etched in his mind …

“God also revealed to me your earthly kingdom. Its colors are the royal blue of a sky lighted by the moon and its full consort of stars … and the gold of your hair.”

Just like the cloak he now held. He examined it more closely, its royal soft weave and the gold fringe undoubtedly belonged to a noblewoman, perhaps a queen or princess—surely not the troublesome waif who posed as a nun? But then, hadn’t he suspected as much from Deirdre’s behavior? She was clearly accustomed to having her own way, to giving orders rather than receiving them. Humility was not part of her demeanor nor of her vocabulary.

“And the symbol on the cloak I made for you. You will know it by that.”

It matched the brooch exactly What were the odds of that happening by chance? He’d scoffed at such things … until now.

“And your earthly kingdom, Son, will be won by love.”

Alric chuckled humorlessly. Therein lay the determining factor. He had no love for his captive; she was more worrisome than a gnat.

So it was all nonsense, and this similarity between brooch and cloak nothing more than coincidence. It had to be.

Yet … he traced the design of the brooch and heard his mother’s words, heard the promise he had given her.

Another frisson of ice skimmed his spine, his scalp. Prophecy aside, was he willing to dishonor his mother by dismissing her beliefs?

His own doubts and lack of beliefs aside, was he willing to allow Ricbert to own Deirdre? To use her? To break her spirit, irritating
though it was? He’d successfully ignored that question all day … until now. And now …

Now it was impossible.

“I knew you wouldn’t let Ricbert have her,” his friend called as Alric hastened out of the building.

T
he stockade was dusty and filled with the scent of the unwashed bodies of Britons captured during a border raid and of a few Saxon miscreants. The women, separated from the men by a wattled wall, were fewer in number. Deirdre learned that the majority of the females had been taken in retaliation for a cattle raid on Galstead’s border.

“That’s outrageous,” she exclaimed to her talkative cellmates upon hearing what had transpired. Her opinion of her captors sank lower—something Deirdre hadn’t thought possible.

“And that bloody Ecfrith claimin’ to be a Christian.” The young Welsh woman seated against the wall of the compound next to her swore, rolling her pale eyes heavenward. Ainwyn was typical of her people, with wild raven black hair, fair complexion, and fire in her heart. “’Twas not just unsportin’, but outright heathenish.”

Cattle raiding had been a way of life among the Celtic peoples since the earliest of times and was often considered an art form of wit and daring more than a crime. With the general peace in Erin—for there were always minor wars between this faction or that—such excitement helped keep the warriors in practice. But war or sport, no king worth his royal bench would tolerate the taking of the members of the offending clan as anything more than hostages to be held until the livestock was returned. If blood was shed, which sometimes came to pass, then high justice promptly intervened to settle the matter according to the law.

“May the good Lord have mercy on us.” Ainwyn crossed herself. “For all the churches they build, these men are no more Christian than the devil ’imself.”

And this was the entrance to his world, Deirdre suspected. The auction was to take place on the morrow. Meanwhile, any prospective buyer had the right to inspect the captives ahead of time. Prisoners not
sold to local lords would be transported by ship to Gaul, and then on to Rome. She closed her eyes. Had Cairell been treated any differently, since his captors knew he was a prince?

Deirdre prayed so. She’d seen swine fed better fare than the dried bread and sour wine passed to them during the noon repast. By focusing on the tantalizing scent of the food stalls nearby, she’d managed to take a few bites before the sight of something crawling in her portion did away with her appetite altogether.

Nearby, the door to the prison yard opened, and two of the Frisian guards entered. At least Deirdre thought they were. To her, Frisians and Saxons were no different, although they seemed to enjoy a friendly disdain for one another, like siblings from the same womb. They looked alike and spoke a similar if not the same language.

Ainwyn pulled herself to her feet. “Faith, here we go again.” The woman inadvertently touched the bruise on her cheek, her punishment for rebelling against being examined and fondled. Deirdre had endured it with cold dignity, but if looks could kill, there were three less men who would exploit the plight of her sisters in bondage—including one Prince Ricbert.

Of all the vermin, it was he who made her feel the filthiest. His very touch felt like violation of the crudest manner. It was he who broke her silence.

“Crown a pig, it’s still a pig.”

But for the Frisian’s intervention, she, too, would have been bruised. The trader warned the prince that one of the slaves had already been marked that day, and no more would be tolerated. Instead, Ricbert knocked the wind from Deirdre with a promise. “Consider this one sold, sir,” he drawled, running the tip of his manicured finger along the curve of her face and down her neck to where her chest stilled. “Perhaps lying with a pig will teach the wench humility.”

Deirdre shuddered as the words played again in her mind.
God spare me. I don’t think I can bear this again.
She ached all over from the ordeals of the last few days. Lack of rest and an empty belly gave her body a loud voice of protest at any exertion.

But rather than a prospective buyer, it was Father Scanlan who
approached with the guards. Surely Alric had not taken his ire out on the priest as well. Renewed by her ever ready hostility toward Alric of Galstead, she shoved herself upright against the wall and made her way toward the father.

“I thought the pirate captain’s respect for his sainted mother forbade his enslaving a priest,” she remarked dourly.

Scanlan was grim. “I am a visitor, not a prisoner, Prin—”

Deirdre put her finger to the priest’s lips to silence him. “Give the thieving scoundrels no opportunity to increase their reward.”

Cairell’s ransom was lost. Now so was she … at least until the opportunity came to escape. The attempt could cost her her life, but better death than bondage to Alric’s foul brother.

“I came as soon as I heard what happened.”

She led the priest over to the wall, where Ainwyn moved away, affording a spot of privacy, although curious eyes followed their every move. Overwhelmed by the sight of Scanlan’s familiar face, Deirdre abandoned her reserve and hugged him.

“Father, I am so glad to see you! Even if you remind me that you were right and I wrong in trying to retrieve Cairell’s ransom.”

“You did what you thought best.”

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.”