Deirdre (21 page)

Adding insult to injury she pinched off a piece of Alric’s pie, and, after cooling it with her lips, she gave it to the animal, cooing, “Even you know not to bite off more than you can chew, don’t you, little—”

Suddenly Deirdre stumbled as she was blindsided by a running figure. Grabbing for Alric, she barely escaped being knocked against the dog and its owner. A young girl dropped to her knees behind them, where a handful of stones she’d apparently been carrying had scattered. Her wild, raven hair spilled over her small shoulders as she dug in the loose din trying to retrieve them.

“Here, let me help you.” Holding her skirts to the side, Deirdre stooped down to pick the smooth-marked pebbles up. They were tokens of some kind, perhaps part of a game.

“I’m sorry, milady I was running,” the girl babbled, struggling to toss her wild tresses behind her shoulders.

“It’s all right, I—”

The girl’s hand shot out, seizing Deirdre’s wrist. “No, that’s enough,” she declared sharply reaching for those Deirdre had already collected. As quickly her tone softened again. “Thank you, milady I can get the rest.”

“Best watch your step, milady,” Alric sternly advised, taking her arm with his free hand and ushering her away as though the market were afire.

“It was just an accident,” Deirdre protested, looking back as the strange little girl straightened and realizing that it wasn’t a child but a petite woman with eyes dark as her hair. She met Deirdre’s stare with brazen curiosity although the princess sensed none of the hostility or disdain she’d experienced with some of the other Saxon women.

Alric tightened his grip on her arm and stepped up his pace.

“The chapel is on the next street over.”

A smile lit up the enigmatic woman’s face, as though she’d seen something that pleased her. At the same moment, Deirdre stumbled over the raised root of a sprawling oak. By the time she recovered and looked back again, only the dog and its owner were still there. The woman was nowhere to be found.

“That’s the Water Gate,” Alric informed her, pointing ahead to the entrance from the harbor through the thick city wall. “The Romans built the wall to keep the
Irish
pirates at bay.”

“Irish what?” Deirdre asked, still distracted by the encounter.

“Pirates,” he repeated. “You know, like me.”

The mischief in his eyes was utterly charming. It was a shame he’d opened his mouth and spoiled the effect. “But unlike you, we’ve become civilized in the last two or three centuries.”

“War is not civilized, no matter how advanced the civilizations are that wage it.”

Unable to refute his point, Deirdre marveled at the myriad of people who meandered in and out of the city From heavy leather and fur to bright silks and wools, the costumes were as varied as the accents and languages echoing around. More amazing, she understood three of them perfectly—her native Irish, her scholarly Latin, and Alric’s Saxon. It was as exciting as it was overwhelming.

“On the yon side of the wall is where clay pipe was made and exported for the Roman engineers,” Alric said, pointing north. “There is still a large store of it, buried in overgrowth. As a boy, I’d tunnel through the larger ones. It was a great kingdom of caves.”

What had launched Alric into this uncommon talkative state was beyond Deirdre, but it piqued her interest. “Is the bridge I saw downriver from the harbor a Roman one?”

“The stone foundation is. It’s been built and rebuilt. We’ll cross it when we leave for Galstead on Monday.”

“Monday?” Deirdre stopped short and waited while Alric finished the first of his now tolerably cooled pies. At least the steamy scent no longer taunted her nose and stomach.

“We need to plan the wedding so that once the waiting period for the banns is met, we can get on with it,” he explained. “Then I must return to the sea to make the most of the good weather.”

“And where will I go?” She’d had enough of the sea for a lifetime after those storms.

“You’ll remain with my family like a good Saxon sailor’s wife, until I secure some land and build a proper home.”

“You mean
conquer?”

“I mean
purchase
… at least for the time being,” he added mischievously “So long as our neighbors remain allies and our enemies respect our boundaries, I’ve no desire to start another war. The one we wage against the Scots and the Picts is—”

“And the Irish,” Deirdre reminded him.

Alric stopped short. “No, I do not make war against the Irish, only on ships bound for my enemies’ coastline with supplies for them to wage war against Northumbria. No Irish ship bound southward of the Scottish coastline has ever been molested by my hand.” That settled, at
least to his satisfaction, he retrieved the other pie from the bag at his waist and took a bite.

“You made the mistake of traveling on one of those bound for Argyll.” He brushed the light flakes of crust from his mouth. “An innocent victim of war.”

“Like the priests and nuns attacked and slaughtered by your king on our own coast?”

All trace of Alric’s earlier lightheartedness vanished with the mention of Ecfrith’s raid. “Northumbria’s king made a grave mistake, milady Not all of his thanes agree with his cause against the Celtic church. Many of them were saved, even tutored by men like Cuthbert and Wilfred … at least on the surface. I make no claim to a holy cause. I admit that I am a warrior who profits from war in the name of politics and greed, not under the guise of God’s will.”

Red hot fingers of guilt crept up Deirdre’s neck to her face. Was he talking about the bretwalda or her? But she
was
following God’s will. Wasn’t she doing what Scanlan instructed?

“Not that there are not sincere Christians. My mother was one, for all the good it did her.”

“So you believe there are those of us earnest in our faith.” This was somewhat reassuring. If only her faith in herself was as strong as her faith in God.

“Aye, some …” His gaze lingered, seeming to search her own for something. He still didn’t believe in her. Well, how could she blame him when she doubted herself.
Father, I need Your help. I can’t do this on my own.

Alric looked away, pointing to a small hovel of stone in a row of poorly maintained dwellings. “There, milady, is my mother’s chapel. Lambert allowed a missionary from Lindisfarne to establish it here for Orlaith and Christian merchants and travelers. It’s the only one in all of Galstead.”

Wedged against the thick city wall, the corbeled stone dwelling looked out of place next to the two-story timber-framed rowhouses and the A-framed shacks of the poor. Standing in front of the low entrance of the beehive structure, Father Scanlan and an older priest
were engaged in a lively conversation with a pair of men.

Deirdre watched the priest infect his listeners with his enthusiasm and knew that, no matter what Scanlan told her, she was not the only one with a gift. Alric’s comment flashed through her mind:
“The only one in all of Galstead.”
Something told her that was soon to change, and she’d been chosen to somehow play a part in it.

Alric finished his breakfast and licked the remainder of the pie off his fingers.

“That was the best batch Hilda ever made.” He clearly took no sly delight in his belief that she was hungry and caught in a trap of her own making. “She grinds a mixture of venison, rabbit, and goose, with a hint of honey … and her crust almost melts in your mouth.”

“You mean melts your mouth, don’t you?”

His conciliatory grin was enough to melt far more, but it was mostly lost to Deirdre. Her hunger was gone! The gnawing in her stomach, which had tempted her to wrestle Alric for that first pie, had been sated, not with nourishment of flesh or land but of the
spirit.
As her hunger had vanished, so did Deirdre’s doubt. Though she knew not the nature of it, God indeed had a plan—and if it was His,
it was good.

Scanlan called out to her. “Lady Deirdre, you are looking most well this day.”

She knew an inner radiance fit to rival that of the sun, whether it showed or nay. “I am
good
, Father,” she told him in a voice that reflected the brightness. “I truly am.”

T
he improvised livestock cart carrying Deirdre and Father Scanlan stirred dust on the well-traveled road leading from the port of Chesreton to Galstead’s royal court. Deirdre wished, not for the first time, that Alric’s mother’s transport was not disabled. Walking would be preferable. The grit invaded her mouth and covered her cloak as she clung to the rails and was jounced like sheep being carried to slaughter.

Under her bench was the treasure chest Alric had filled and returned to her according to their contract. Missing was Kieran’s sword. Alric had cleverly deleted her list and replaced it with one of his own, omitting that detail. In her excitement that she was getting back the treasure, she’d not detected it and, if Scanlan had, he hadn’t mentioned it. That morning when she noticed Alric wearing the sword, Scanlan tried to placate her, saying that it wasn’t essential to their mission.

But it was to hers, Deirdre thought, staring at the jewels glistening on its scabbard as the prize hung from Alric’s waist. It was part of her heritage, and the Saxon had tricked her out of it. She should have caught the ploy but he had stood with a possessive arm about her as she penned her name to the document.

She was lucky not to have scattered the ink in the quill in her nervous scrawl.

The peacock wore Kieran’s sword like a ribbon of honor for his triumph, although she had to admit it was a fitting addition to his princely procession. His stallion was a magnificent steed, reminding Deirdre of those bred on Gleannmara since King Rowan introduced the first pair two hundred years ago. The black and silver trappings on the tack showed well against the horse’s glossy butternut coat and matched its dark mane and tail. Trotting happily at its heels, Tor seemed uncaring of the dust cast on his already gray coat by Alric and Gunnar. The rest of his men rode behind the wagon, all armed and ready for a possible attack.

Next to her, Scanlan handled the reins of the cart horse and sang hymns to his heart’s content in both Latin and Saxon. His was a booming, clear voice that carried as if on the wind. It ran in the family, according to his uncle. He referred to the Abbess Leila, whose voice had been taken and then given back to her that all might know the glory of God. Deirdre wondered that Scanlan’s mouth didn’t fill with the grit of the road till he couldn’t sing at all. Taking up a small skin of ale, she washed her mouth out and then handed the skin to the priest.

“Bless you, milady” He helped himself to a swig, then, with a wink, handed it back to her. “Thank God that Galstead is only a day’s ride. Still, have you ever seen such a peaceful day?”

“Peaceful? We’re being hauled like livestock into the heathen lair.”

“Ah, Deirdre, feel the embrace of the sun. Hear the birdsong. Peace does not come with the absence of trial but with the presence of God.”

Deirdre forced a smile and stowed the refreshment away wondering how her companion managed to find particles of hope in this heap of despair. Where Scanlan saw beauty she looked at the backside of her captors’ horse and choked on the dust they kicked up. And while Galstead’s court was only a day’s ride, what awaited them there was another matter. The first part of the marriage was complete, once Lambert approved it as fulfilled. The second half, the ceremonial giving of the bride and celebration, remained to be planned.

Meanwhile, she rode to her destiny in a livestock cart, like an animal—a possession, not a bride. And certainly not a princess. Surely if his mother’s tranport had been damaged, Alric could have found a steed for his bride to be if he’d wanted. His men, most of them seamen, had mounts.

Father, I don’t want to seem ungrateful, but given all the humiliation this man has heaped upon me, I would have him pay dearly Surely that is not too much to ask? And if it is, then surely I am not fit for this purpose Scanlan proposes. I’m willing, mind You, Father, but just feel inadequate—

The wood-planked wheel of the cart struck a stone, suddenly lifting Deirdre’s side up in the air. Just as fast, it slammed down again, jarring her teeth with the impact on the hard road.

“Brigid’s fire!” she gasped, all thought of prayer shattered.

Alric turned at her oath to see the nature of her distress. Discerning no real threat, he broke into a grin. “Is there something I might do to make milady more comfortable?”

“Aye, you can give me the luxury of your horse.”

“He’s mighty spirited.”

“So am I.”

“Fortunately the journey is not a long one,” Alric observed with seeming indifference.

Deirdre bit her tongue to keep from giving him a piece of her mind. But his time would come, she resolved, brandishing a honey-sweet smile in return. Not even Scanlan’s low “tut-tut” could dampen the pleasure she found at the prospect.

The noonday meal was taken in the shade of the green wood, beneath the spreading branches of majestic oak and yew, with a spotting here and there of evergreen conifers. Glad to be done with her fast, Deirdre ate with relish, ignoring echoes of her mother’s cautions against having an unladylike appetite.

Scanlan had been her earthly mainstay during the last three days without food while God managed her spiritual support. A fast did bring one spiritually closer to God, if for no other reason than praying that He keep the hounds of hunger at bay—and prevent her from choking Alric as he helped himself to all manner of tasties in front of her. The scoundrel had even fed the treats to Tor!

“Are you ready to make way milady?” Alric asked, approaching from a short distance away where his men had eaten.

Deirdre made a face but nodded. Her backside felt as if it had been flayed with the oak bench instead of sitting on it. Tor nuzzled her hand as she approached the cart, no doubt in hopes she had more tasty morsels. To think this overgrown pup had frightened her so that first night was almost laughable.

Deirdre lifted her russet skirts, resigned to climbing into the back of the vehicle, when Alric stopped her. “Sir Dustan awaits.” He pointed to where the stallion pawed impatiently An extra blanket had been added for her comfort. “You wished to ride my horse.”