Deirdre (13 page)

What would happen, would happen, gods or no gods.

“I’m not sure your people would pay a ransom to get you back,” he taunted.

She pulled back again, stopping him. “Then what do you plan?”

Riddled with irritation, he spun about. “I just might
marry
you!”

He made the threat in an attempt to silence her. He needed to think without distraction. “A feisty wench like you could give me an army of warrior sons, enough to take and keep any kingdom I desire.”

His ploy worked, but too well. Deirdre’s mouth fell open, then clamped shut. Her lashes fluttered like dazed butterflies. But for Alric’s quick reaction, the ghost-white female would have pitched headlong into the dusty street. Frig’s breath, he groaned silently, gathering her limp body up in his arms.

He hoped his gut instinct wasn’t indigestion.

N
ow you be certain to sleep well, milady, and if you need anything, you call for Doda.” The steward’s wife plumped the pillows on the bed, arranging them just so. Her fluent Latin evidenced that she and her husband had been born on Albion. A matronly soul, she also wore a small gold cross about her thick neck, which surprised Deirdre, even though she knew not all Saxons were heathen. She had to ask about it.

“Belrap and I are servants of Christ, in as much as weak mortals can be,” Doda told her. “When King Oswy declared Christianity the faith of our country, everyone was supposed to change from the old gods to the Only God, but old ways are hard to change for some.” She shrugged her rounded shoulders. “The constant border raids make it difficult to take God’s Word to heart, much less love thy neighbor, especially when he’s in spitting distance of your gate.”

Deirdre understood what Doda meant. She had no love for the man who’d dumped her like a trussed fowl on the bed of her quarters and then abandoned her with a harsh “Stay!” as if she were a dog.

“So how do you feel about Christians taking others as slaves?”

Doda smiled at Deirdre’s clearly peeved challenge. “No one is exempt from slavery in war. It’s just the way it is. But you needn’t worry. Prince Alric is a just man with a kind heart, just like his mother.”

“He’s no Christian.”

Doda waved her hand. “Ach, he is, he just doesn’t know it yet. His mama taught him the faith. The seeds are planted and someday love will nurture them, I think. Such beautiful needlework,” she exclaimed, feeling the fine linen weave of Deirdre’s night shift.

Seeds planted on barren ground if she ever saw it, Deirdre thought, although the prince had told her he’d have her things delivered from the ship and, true to his word, they’d arrived while she was bathing. “I
believe he did mention something about his mother being a Christian,” she acknowledged purely to be polite.

“And a slave.” Doda let loose the smooth material. “Yet, even in such a menial position, she softened the hearts of all who knew her toward her God … all save the queen and that … well, Prince Ricbert.”

“Are you saying Alric’s father is a Christian?” From what she’d observed of the man before Alric had ordered her removed from the
Mell
, he hadn’t appeared pious toward anything save the riches aboard the ship.

“King Lambert allowed Orlaith to keep a small altar in the same temple with the queen’s gods, so that the kingdom might be blessed by them all. As soon as Orlaith died, though, Ethlinda disposed of it. Her husband didn’t care. He’d lost all he cared about, poor soul.”

Doda tutted as she opened the window of the room overlooking the courtyard, revealing an ironwork of twisted vines that provided fresh air, ornamentation, and security. There were no windows on the opposite wall, it being part of the overall perimeter of the house.

“What about the queen?” Deirdre asked. “Surely it must have distressed her not to have her husband’s heart.”

“She was
a freou-webbe
… a peace weaver, the daughter of one of Lambert’s father’s Mercian enemies. Love was not an issue in the marriage, alliance was.”

Nor would love be an issue in hers, if Deirdre was to believe Alric’s mad threat that he might marry her rather than ransom or sell her. Her head still spun with possible reasons for the wild words, but none made sense. Marrying her would not bring Gleannmara under his control, at least not while her father lived. Then there was Cairell’s claim, should her brother find a way out of his captivity. She’d not only failed to aid him in that, but she failed miserably. She shuddered to think how this would affect her ailing father.

Heavenly Father, please, please be with us in this hour of our trial, especially Father, who does not have Cairell’s and my youth to sustain him against this Saxon scourge.

“Well!” Doda slapped her hands on ample hips. “I am thinking you must be looking forward to that nice plump bed, yes?”

“Oh, yes.” Deirdre let her gaze wander to the bed. How wonderful it would be after the foul cell she’d been sleeping in. Seated on the bench at its foot, she continued to brush her freshly washed hair. “And thank you for having me released from those bonds.” Alric had put the fear of retribution in his steward if he permitted Deirdre to escape, but once Belrap had turned the princess over to his wife, Doda would not tolerate her
guest
being trussed like a goose.

And thank You, Father, that even in the midst of my tribulation, You send blessings like Doda to make it easier on me. I pray that Cairell is equally well blessed.

“Men! Where are you going to go, even if you wanted to escape?” Doda chuckled. “Though, if I were a pretty young woman, I would not run from a man such as our Alric.”

Yes, well, Doda didn’t have a mission to accomplish, nor had she seen her chances of success dissolve in captivity. “Even were you a slave and not a lawful wife in God’s eyes?”

“Even the Hebrew kings David and Solomon had wives and concubines and slaves, just like the bretwalda, and they still got in trouble with women.” The servant chuckled at her jest, then sobered when Deirdre did not share it. “Besides, Tor will not let you pass.”

“Alric’s dog.” Deirdre recalled the gnashing teeth of the great wolfhound that bounded out of nowhere upon hers and Alric’s arrival.

“Alric raised him from a pup, though he’s bare grown. Tor will not tolerate anyone threatening his master.”

“But you won’t let him in
here,”
Deirdre clarified, her hairbrush frozen in midstroke.

She had never met a dog she could not ingratiate, but she and Tor had not met under friendly circumstances. The memory of the wolfhound’s ferocious snarl still lifted gooseflesh on her arm. The prince’s sharp command stopped the dog from leaping wholeheartedly into the fray between Deirdre and its master. Fearful of tempting the animal into further aggression, Deirdre ceased to protest—and to breathe—until Alric deposited her behind the closed door of her quarters.

“Tor knows he is not to sleep in Alric’s bed … unless the prince is here,” Doda stipulated.

Alric’s bed? “This is …
Alric’s
room?” Faith, she’d almost rather have the dog in here than that Saxon. And why had Alric put her in
his
room? The obvious answer would have taken out Deirdre’s knees had she not been seated. Would he ravage her without so much as the loveless marriage he mentioned?

Heavenly Father, please no.

“The prince has gone for the night,” Doda reassured her, having read Deirdre’s unguarded panic.

The knot of breath and anxiety lodged in her throat unraveled. “Everyone calls him a prince, but … I thought he was illegitimate … a bastard.”

“A wishful title on the people’s part, perhaps.” The housemistress lifted her shoulders. “Lambert would have no son of his a slave, so when Alric was a babe scarcely a week old, there was a grand manumission ceremony to declare the child a free man. And a greater one still when the prince turned his thirteenth year to recognize him as a
thane
in the king’s highest regard. In place of land, he has a fleet of ships, which contribute as much to Galstead as any thane’s lands. Many wish Lambert would acknowledge his youngest son as heir. From the king down to the lowest slave, Ricbert is not so well thought of as Alric.”

Sometimes the role of monarch was as constraining as that of the slave. Raised in a politically conscious atmosphere, Deirdre realized that Lambert’s naming the son of his concubine as heir would break the alliance made with the marriage to Ethlinda. At least she was beginning to understand something of the man who’d taken her captive.

“Now, I will take your dress and make it fit for the journey tomorrow to Galstead’s court. Our prince would have his lady companion look her best when she is presented.”

“Journey?” Deirdre felt the blood leave her face. She needed more time.

“That is our Alric.” Doda’s words were as fond as her smile. “He’s a man of action, not words.”

That much Deirdre agreed with, but—

“This color will look lovely with those blue eyes.” Doda gave Deirdre’s hand a quick squeeze. “Who is to say? If I know our Alric, he will marry you sooner than see you treated as his mother was. And you’ll give our prince handsome, strapping sons.”

An army of them, she thought, recalling Alric’s words. Deirdre felt sick. This couldn’t be happening. Surely he was trying to frighten her into submission.

“It would be wonderful to have little ones here.” Doda flitted toward the door, Deirdre’s dress slung over her arm. After giving the room one last, critical perusal, she stepped out in the covered colonnade, where the gray wolfhound climbed to its feet.

“Move, you big flea breeder.”

Tor obeyed instantly, but not in the manner Doda had in mind. With a deep-throated bark and a bound, he bolted into the room. With a strangling terror, Deirdre threw up her arms to protect her throat, but the dog leaped past her and bounded up on the just-turned bed.

Clucking like a wet hen, Doda made straight after it. “Oh, no you don’t! Your master is not here, and the lady does not want a mongrel’s company.”

Hairbrush clutched to her chest, Deirdre watched warily as Doda coaxed the animal off the bed.

The wolfhound, which, even
bare grown
could stand on his hindquarters and look Doda squarely in the eye, yapped at the woman, tail wagging in excitement. His moods seemed as varied as his master’s, for it cavorted now like an overgrown pup, happily rumpling the bed covers.

“I’m going to get the broom, Tor,” Doda threatened, mouth set in determination.

Whether the dog recognized the word or simply interpreted the warning in her voice, his tail ceased to thrash the bed. Statue still, his dark eyes followed Doda to the tiled hearth in the corner of the room. With a yelp that suggested he’d known the thrash of straw, Tor retreated outside the chamber and sat down with a short bark of protest.

“You big baby” Doda chuckled. “As big as he is, I think the broom scares him more than it hurts.” She returned it to the hearth and shook
her finger at the animal in triumph as she shuffled toward the bed. “Outside the house, you are in charge. Inside, I am.” She gave Deirdre a sheepish grin. “At least when Master Alric is away, he spoils this animal like a baby.” She fussed over the mussed bed. “Men and their dogs!”

“I can do that, Doda.” The sooner the door was closed between her and the gray beast eyeing her with a mutual distrust, the better.

Doda kept on working until the bed was in perfect order. “Now, you sleep well, milady. And call for me if you need anything more. Perhaps some custard or—”

“I couldn’t eat another thing.” She’d already made a pig of herself, cleaning off the plate Doda had brought her earlier. Now all she wanted was peace and time to think about her next move with regard to Alric of Galstead. “Thank you again.”

“It is my pleasure, Lady Deirdre.” Outside the room, Doda gave Tor a rough pat on the head and cooed, “Doda will bring you a nice, big bone, eh?” The latch clicked into place behind the retreating housemistress.

Putting the brush on a table, Deirdre listened to determine if the hard-headed animal remained at his station. Although she had no intention of trying to escape, at least for now, his presence made her nervous. The door rattled a little, the only sign that Tor had resumed his watch.

Now that she was alone, Deirdre took time to study her surroundings. The room itself was part of a group of buildings that formed a square around the inner yard. The Saxons had done a decent job of repairing the Roman ruin, but there still might be a weak place in the outside wall, which could lead to freedom. Just in case, Deirdre peered behind the tapestry of a stag hunt hung over the bed. In the light that slipped in, she saw what appeared to be a faded mural on the wall. More than likely the artist had been dead for at least two centuries, the same as the builder who’d completed the stone enclosure. She sighed in disappointment. Like as not, it was at least three or more feet thick.

Allowing the hanging to fall back in place, Deirdre studied the covering itself, curious about its depiction of life across the North Sea from
whence the heathen had come. Instead of the circular symmetry so prominent in Celtic stitchery, the Saxon embroidresses had worked bizarre animal representations into their patterns. Gods or pets, she wondered, scholarly curiosity overcoming her disdain toward her captors.

Her gaze fell upon her sea chest. She’d stored her dining dagger there shortly after they’d embarked at Wicklow. The story of a lady who’d fallen upon her dining knife during a rough sea crossing had made it seem prudent at the time.

Taking heart, she hastened to the leather-hinged trunk and began to dig through her belongings. Everything was there, including her jewels and coin, but the knife was nowhere to be found.

With a grunt of disgust, she sat back on her heels. Oh, how Alric had smiled just prior to leaving her in Belrap’s care. He’d likely mistaken the luxury of her surroundings as the source of her stunned acquiescence rather than the dog nudging his thigh to get his attention. She should have known he’d search the chest before having it brought to her.

Closing the lid, she rose and walked over to the window, her voluminous night shift swirling around her body In the light of the rising moon and the lanterns hung round the square promenade, she saw a fountain at the center of the courtyard. She knew such remnants of the old Roman world were still in existence but had never seen one. This villa must have belonged to a Roman general or governor. A pity it was wasted on Saxons.