Deirdre (14 page)

Soft breezes blew through the window, toying with Deirdre’s damp hair and stirring the spice scent of the soap Doda had provided her. Would that she was safe in that antiquated great hall tonight, listening to the bards sing of the glory days of her ancestors or of some romantic tale of star-crossed lovers. She might even play along on the harp and do a verse or so herself, for she’d memorized all of Gleannmara’s past as pan of her scholarly and musical accomplishments. How her father beamed with pride to hear her sing …

The blade that formed in Deirdre’s throat was sharp enough to cleave song from it forever. A sob worked it loose, along with the
despair that had piled upon despair since she’d left her ailing father.

Tearing away from the window, Deirdre crossed the room, bare feet padding on the tiled floor, and flung herself across the bed. The royal restraint ingrained in her by her tutors gave way to tears of shame and desperation. Anguish wrung them from her eyes until no more would come. Snatches of her trembling breath became less and less frequent, and the emotional scald of her face cooled against the arms in which she buried it. She was spent—physically, emotionally, and spiritually.

Why, Father? Why have You allowed this to happen to me … to Cairell … to Gleannmara? What possible good can come of this? Cairell is lost. Surely You’d not have me marry a heathen and bear his little demons. What am I supposed to do now?

Lost in a black sea of hopelessness, Deirdre rolled on her back against the plush pillows, her arm over her eyes, when a pitiful wail, not of her own making, sounded next to her. Turning her face toward it with a gasp, she stared straight into a pair of bright, dark canine eyes—Tor! Deirdre’s heart slammed against her throat as she tried to read his disposition in the way he cocked his head at her, ears perked as much as the breed allowed. A furtive glance at the door revealed it to be open, but there was no sign that anyone had let the animal in. Had he mastered the latch without Doda’s knowledge?

A dog his size could take down a wolf, so she would not fare well against him, not weaponless as she was. Deirdre lay motionless, trying to steady her breath, but emotion had yet to give up its grip. Her attempt to swallow a hiccough turned into a pitiful squeak that set the wolfhound into motion.

As its front feet struck the bed, she pulled one of the pillows over her face and neck and braced for the attack. But no sharp teeth assaulted her bare arm. Instead, a wet tongue lapped at it—once, twice, three times. Dogs didn’t taste their food; they just wolfed it down. Only slightly less fearful with the realization, Deirdre lay as still as she could. Her hair pulled beneath the weight of one of Tor’s paws as he lightly nuzzled her locked fingers.

Dare she cry out for help? No, that might provoke the beast. Suddenly the bed shook with the full weight of the animal. His feet
brushed against Deirdre as he picked his way to her other side. She flinched as a wet nose pried under her elbow, as if to ease under the pillow in a stubborn yet surprisingly gentle manner. When that didn’t work, the dog whined and pawed at it. Remembering the sight of his snarling teeth, Deirdre held it fast.

Perhaps if she remained still long enough, he’d lose interest and leave her alone. The thought had barely formed, when the wolfhound plopped down and stretched out lazily against her. Ever so slowly, Deirdre lifted one corner of the pillow to see exactly what the situation was and came face-to-face with a gray furry muzzle. As Tor raised his head, she pulled the pillow over her face again.

Heavenly Father,
she prayed, afraid to so much as breathe until the beast rearranged himself and settled once more. His big paw brushed against her rib and suddenly the weight of his head dropped upon her stomach. She could not suppress a pitiful whine of her own.

It was going to be a long, long night.

A
lric, the night is yet young. You have had much on your mind.”

“Don’t touch me, woman.” Alric pulled away from Aelfled’s touch and sprang from the bed, but his humiliation followed. Never had he failed to pleasure a female, not even his first, much less an enchantress like Aelfled.

She wrapped a sheet about her and padded across the straw-covered dirt floor toward him. “If you will only listen, I think I can explain why—”

“Which time, out at the pool or just now?” he growled as he pulled on his clothes. At her patient silence, he acquiesced. He certainly had no idea what was wrong and he was desperate for answers. “Is this permanent?”

“Don’t be absurd. It is not the natural order, only a temporary disturbance designed, perhaps, to get the attention of a bull-headed man.”

“Disturbance?” Alric raised a finger at her. “Aelfled, I am more than disturbed.”

“You belong to another, one of golden hair and blue eyes—”

Alric shook his head. “She belongs to me. Besides, you heard that from the Frisian’s wife.” He pulled his shirt over his shoulders. Women and their self-proclaimed ability to know and see all.

“You love her.”

“Hah! If this is what love does to a man, I might as well be gelded.”

“Your destinies are matched by fate … or your mother’s God.” Aelfled put her hand on his arm and motioned him to the bench at her table. “Now sit, and I will share
my
vision.”

He stiffened. ‘What you’ve actually seen, or the gossip carried on the wind of the Frisian’s wife?”

Aelfled took up a small bag of smooth, flat stones from the table and cast them before Alric. “Choose.”

“All?”

“I will tell you when to stop.”

Alric swept half aside with his hand. “There. Satisfied?”

“Put three back.”

When he’d shoved the first three closest to the remainder aside, she began to turn his chosen stones, one at a time. “I saw her in the water at the pool. She wore a blue gown with golden braid and seeds of pearl, fit for a princess, because she is royal. Her throne is not ripe and when it becomes so, it comes with a blight.”

“Do you talk thrones or apples?” Still, Aelfled had his interest.

“It is a throne protected by a sword.” She continued to turn over the rune stones. “A king’s sword.”

His elfinlike friend was very good at her craft, but whether her vision was real craft or simply conjecture eluded him. “Do you see the sword in those stones?”

“I saw it in the water, a long blade with a hilt of gold inlaid with silver and jewels … sapphires and three small, red stones.” She flipped three stones. “A scholar, a warrior, and a priest.”

“And the sapphires?”

“Thanes, I think, who support the king of the sword.” She smiled. “A wealthy king.”

Anyone could have described Deirdre, but few had seen the sword close enough to describe it in such detail. Still … “Do you also see that the king is alive and has an heir?”

Aelfled shook her head. “I only saw the blight on the water, like evil fingers tearing your destiny apart. Not only yours, but hers.”

Alric laughed. “Galstead is filled with evil fingers, complete with hands and arms and bodies to back them.”

“Her kindness will make many enemies.”

“I am not familiar with any kind streak in her.”

“Because you have not looked beyond her physical attributes.”

“I didn’t need to. They flew at me like a swarm of bees, stinging my pride, my purse,
and
—” he held up his wounded hand—“my hide.”

“I speak of her heart.”

“She cloaks it in deceit.”

Aelfled gathered up the stones and returned them to her pouch. “I will be glad to help you and your lady when the time comes.” Her tone clearly pronounced the session finished. “The stones and water agree with your mother. Believe them or not, it is your destiny not mine.”

Alric stood, spurred by frustration, and strode to the door. Destiny indeed!

“Do not hesitate to send for me when the time is right. Even a stubborn mule as you will know when,” she called as he reached the doorway.

Alric turned. He didn’t want to hurt Aelfled. She was the only refuge he had, but if she was so intuitive, surely she knew how he suffered this very moment. He knew neither his mind nor his body.

“Go to her, Alric.” A smile warm and sweet as a summer morn lighted on her lips … but it wasn’t Aelfled who spoke. It was Orlaith.

Alric blinked in disbelief and looked again. Nay, his mind vied with his body for fiendish trickery It was Aelfled—small, beautiful, and more seductive than he’d ever seen her. And to his horror, he felt nothing. He fled from the place that had always been his refuge as though driven by Woden’s own fire.

Although Aelfled’s glen was tucked into the forested landscape a good walk from Chesreton, Alric had no idea of the time when he greeted the night watchman at the royal villa’s gate. The opening of the iron hinges split the quiet of the night with a hair-raising creak. No foe would ever slip quietly through this entrance.

“We wasn’t expecting you back tonight, milord,” one of the men told him.

Neither was he, Alric thought morosely. He started across the courtyard, making straight for his quarters, his thoughts tumbling like a rockslide into a bottomless pit of indecision and bewilderment. Even if his heart had chosen another path, what connection did this destiny of love women were so enamored with have with his inability to satiate his desire? Desire and love need not go hand in hand. It would take more than a pile of stones to convince him he was in love, much less the visions his friend told him about.

Granted, it did
seem
as if all the gods, Christian and pagan alike,
had sent Deirdre to him. A sign from one or the other was one matter, but the same sign from both was enough to make even the most skeptical of cynics pay heed. The king’s sword with its stones was intriguing, but this talk of scholars, warriors, priests and black fingers … Frig’s breath, it made no sense! All he knew was that both mind and body now failed him. He knew not what to think of the first and the second was unbearable. What good was a king who could not sire an heir? This was no
disturbance
, as Aelfled had said, but a disaster. He was no longer a man. Perhaps he was ill.

Alric paused by the fountain in the courtyard of the villa. His hands were steady His skin was cool to the touch. His stomach was satisfied by the food and ale from Aelfled’s table. All he felt was frustration, nay panic, that his body had failed him with no excuse.

A faint light slipping through the cracked door of his room drew Alric’s attention from himself. Surely that woman had not escaped again. And where the blazes was Tor?

A myriad of curses vied for expression as Alric reached the door … and spied both the female and the dog on the bed. Tor’s head bobbed up from the flat of Deirdre’s abdomen. Tail wagging proudly, he barked.

The still figure beside the dog cringed. The toes of her bare feet curled tight against their pink soles, and her arms clutched the pillow over her face even tighter.

Alric had forgotten that the old latch to his quarters was no match for the wolfhound. If he wanted to keep Tor out, he had to use the bolt on the inside. Given the trouble the wench had caused him, Tor’s mischief was well deserved. A slow smile came to Alric’s face.

Tor gave another short bark as Alric approached the bed. Shushing the dog, Alric leaned over the bench at the foot of the bed and ran a finger up the center of Deirdre’s foot. Predictably, she recoiled. Put out that it was not he receiving Alric’s attention. Tor climbed to his feet and rubbed against Alric’s arm. As Alric ran his finger up the center of Deirdre’s other foot, the dog began to lap at his hand, as well as the sole of Deirdre’s foot.

With a shriek, she rolled off the bed, pillow and all. Tor would
have bounded after her, if not for Alric’s restraining hand on his collar. By the time the animal was in check, Alric caught a glimpse of a night shift disappearing under the bed.

“Ho, Tor. Easy, boy,” Alric cooed, settling the excited animal. “You can come out, milady.” He laughed shortly “This playful beast is under control.”

Silence was his only answer at first. Then a dainty foot ventured out. Wriggle by wriggle, the rest of his captive appeared, her shift twisted about the curves of her feminine figure. As she gathered herself to her feet, she still hugged the pillow in front of her. Modestly shaking out her garment, Deirdre raised her face to him.

Guilt edged out Alric’s humor at the sight of her tear-ravaged eyes, now shifting in wide terror to the dog. The proud chin that had given him thunder trembled above the edge of the pillow. Fear of the dog had broken her spirit where neither he nor a hold full of rats could. He was not the least gratified by the victory.

“Tor won’t harm you, I promise,” he said softly.

As if to prove Alric right, Tor barked, wagging his tail. With a jump, Deirdre backed against the wall. “I hate you for leaving me with that beast,” she cried into the pillow drawn over her face. “I hate you for ruining my life and my brother’s chances of freedom. I hate you.”

Her utter despair clawed at Alric’s conscience, and her avowal of hatred unaccountably ripped at his pride just as her fingers did at the last barrier of defense between them. Alric caught Tor’s eye and motioned the dog out of the room with a jerk of his head. When that didn’t work, he snapped at the wolfhound. “Out, Tor.
Now
!”

At the last command, the dog leaped off the bed and ran into the courtyard as Alric closed the door and bolted it from the inside.

He removed his sword belt and hung it on a large peg near the large bed, then turned toward Deirdre, who was still quivering in the comer. The guilt that assaulted him suited him less than his previous humiliation with Aelfled. Women, it seemed, were a ripe source for both. “I am sorry about your brother.” He drew a deep breath, searching for some words of comfort. “I guess I’d hate me, too, if I were in your shoes.”

Frig’s mercy, how could he make her understand
his
side of this
when he wasn’t certain himself? It behooved him to have the brother out of the way, although he was loathe to benefit from Ecfrith’s brief madness. Brotherly love was something he’d never known. He’d been raised on brotherly rivalry and outright dislike, if not hate.