Deirdre (24 page)

In lieu of the usual Saxon stockade and earthen work, Galstead’s walls were of block, repaired to their original strength and thick enough to afford a walk behind the bastions. The ditch around its perimeter was filled with water from a natural spring that would provide a good water supply in the event of siege. Skirting the hilltop settlement were the neatly arranged rectangles of farms and commons, fading green in the waning sun.

Alric waited for Deirdre to show some sign of being impressed, but she’d not said a word since her rant. The way she acted, one would think
she
had been as surprised as he by her ability to speak his native tongue. He would have wagered his sword arm that she could not speak Saxon aside from a few words. That she boldly stepped between him and Hinderk in the first place to stop what might have escalated into a physical confrontation had set both Alric and his adversary back. But when she proceeded to scold them in their own mother tongue, Alric could have been knocked off his horse with a feather. Fortunately, Hinderk had been affected as well … or at least intrigued by her beauty and courage.

But then, his captive had that effect on men. Even the peasant hadn’t been certain how to react to her. Alric glanced down at the golden crown of her head resting against his shoulder. She looked like an angel and fought like a devil for what she believed in, making her a
formidable opponent full of surprises. And this last one she’d explain to him before the night was out.

The noise of the market spilled over from inside to out of the city proper, rousing the subject of Alric’s introspection as they rode through the main gate.

“Welcome to Galstead, milady” he whispered, unable to suppress his pleasure that she’d drifted off to sleep in his arms. As with Tor and Dustan, time and patience were proving the key to winning her trust.

She gave him an embarrassed glance, a blush creeping to her cheeks. It flushed Alric as well, but not in his face. Frig’s mercy he felt like a love-struck pup, bombarded by so many urges that all he could do was grin like a simpleton.

“Welcome back, milord,” one of the guards in the elevated blockhouse of Lambert’s royal compound shouted down as they passed through the gate.

Pulling himself together with military discipline, Alric returned the wave. By the time the stable hands took over the horses, Lambert himself emerged with a following of thanes and servants from the great timber-framed hall.

“Father,” Alric greeted him, stepping stiffly into the open arms the man extended to him. Lambert was not usually open with his affections in the public eye, especially to Orlaith or Alric. Had the queen and Ricbert left the country?

“Tell me it’s true,” Lambert exclaimed, holding Alric at arm’s length. His jowled, round face beamed, “I’ve heard that you’re taking a wife.”

So that was it. “News travels fast.” Alric was unable to control his smile any longer. He motioned Deirdre over. “You remember the waif we found in the hold of the captured ship?”

Lambert squinted in the dimming light as she approached them. “My word, it is her. Something told me there was more between you two than you admitted. I almost stopped you from sending her off to the slave market, the way you reacted to her.”

Alric lifted one eyebrow but held back his question as to exactly what his father observed. He wasn’t ready for Deirdre to know the extent of the advantage she held over him. He wasn’t exactly sure
he
knew.

“Father, I present Princess Deirdre of Gleannmara, my betrothed as soon as you signify the contract is in order.”

Deirdre bent her knee in polite deference but not her head. “Milord.” Now that she was fully awake, the cuddlesome kitten had again become the aloof cat.

To Alric’s astonishment, Lambert chuckled. “Ach, it’s the same wench all right. I’ve only seen fire bum on water twice—once in your mother’s gaze and then in this one’s. I commend you on having wit enough to recognize such a diamond in the rough. Betrothed to her, no less,” the king marveled.

“I mean no disrespect, milord, but this marriage is not one of love, my being here is not of my choice, and I am filthy and weary of the travel and this company.”

Eye’s wide, mouth gaping, Alric stared at Deirdre. She spoke in flawless Saxon yet again. Lambert was no different from anyone else who’d heard the Irishwoman. It took him a moment to recover, but he did so with an uncommon grace and patience for his nature.

“Then I shall have my retainer—”

“I’ll see her to Abina’s house,” Alric interrupted. “Then I’ll join you and these good thanes in the hall to wash the dust from my throat. Meanwhile—” he reached into the bag slung over his shoulder—“here is the contract. The payment is in that jeweled trunk and is hers to either send to her father or use as she sees fit.”

Lambert took the parchment and held it to his chest. “I have long waited for this,” he said to his thanes. “Mayhap I’ll soon have an heir in the making with one son or the other.”

The retinue laughed, some more heartily than others. Alric’s attention shifted, shocked from his intent to get Deirdre to himself by his father’s quip. Could it be
this
was what Orlaith meant by her prophecy? After all, Deirdre had made it clear Gleannmara would never accept him as king. Frig’s breath, had he given away his birthright with his word not to take her as his wife in every sense of the term?

Humor souring, Alric took Deirdre by the arm. “Come,
beloved
, I would see you to your temporary quarters until we can officially enter Lambert’s contest for the throne.”

“And what of my things and Scanlan? I’d see him—”

“My father’s retainer is capable of that, but you, my derling, I prefer to deal with personally.”

In his eagerness, Alric seized her arm a little rougher than he’d intended and was startled by Tor’s fierce bark. He’d forgotten the wolfhound was even there. In the moment of Alric’s hesitation, the dog clamped a warning mouth over his wrist.

“That’s
your
pup, isn’t it?” Lambert’s brows arched, as taken aback as Alric.

“What’s the matter with you, dog?” Alric ruffled the animal’s head with his free hand. Tor’s tail wagged, but he did not let go of Alric’s wrist until he released Deirdre’s arm, at which point, the wolfhound immediately licked the hand he just released. “It seems you’ve betrayed me for a few morsels of food, you fickle mule.” Alric slipped his arm around Deirdre, softening his voice. “If you would come with me, milady I’ll show you and your newest conquest to your quarters.”

Uneasy with both master and dog, although the latter did shadow her for leftover morsels, Deirdre accompanied Alric through an orderly gathering of lodges, miniatures of the massive timber hall. It wasn’t much different from Gleannmara, except that these were rectangular while her people’s homes were usually round, with walls of wattle and mud rather than planking.

Men, women, and children, fair-featured like Alric, paused in their tasks or conversations, watching as the prince rushed her with determined gait toward an elderly woman sitting in the sun on a bench by the door. The woman looked up from her stitchery as though sensing something amiss, but upon seeing Alric, her wrinkled face took on a glow of welcome.

“Muirnait!” she exclaimed in delight, hastily putting aside her needlework.

“Sit, Abina. I have someone I want you to meet,” Alric answered in the same Irish. It was to no avail. With the stiffness of her age, the woman struggled to her feet and opened her arms to him. For that brief
embrace, the annoyance on the prince’s face gave way to tenderness.

“Abina, this is Princess Deirdre of Gleannmara, my bride to be.” The old woman looked at Deirdre, seeming distracted at first. Then wonder filled her pale blue-gray eyes. “‘Her name means sorrow, but she will bring you great happiness,’” she murmured as though reciting a verse. She reached out to finger Deirdre’s hair. “You are as lovely as Orlaith said you’d be.”

Orlaith? Alric’s mother? Deirdre glanced at the man beside her, fully expecting him to give her some son of signal that the old woman had gone dotty but his features had become unreadable.

“I would have Deirdre stay with you until our wedding, if you don’t mind,” Alric said.

“Ach, I tended your mama and you, how could I not want to care for your pretty bride?”

So that was why the old woman greeted Alric in Irish, calling him beloved. She was the servant captured with his mother and had also been his nurse. Somehow the picture wouldn’t come together of Alric, now towering head and shoulders above the woman, in her arms.

Abina clasped her hands together. “I praise God that I have lived to see her delivered to you at last.”

“Delivered?” Deirdre could not help herself. Just when she thought she understood what was going on, this strange conversation took another turn. “Milady I was—”

“Abina,” the woman interrupted. “I am Alric’s Abina, and now I am yours.” She put her hands up. “But look at me babbling like a witless hag when you must be exhausted. I’ll have a bath drawn for you and—”

“Excellent idea, Abina. And while you make the arrangements, I would speak privately with my betrothed inside.”

Abina’s eyes twinkled, framed with laugh lines of a lifetime. “Of course you would. I’ll be back momentarily, milady, to see you properly cared for.” With another childlike clap of excitement, the small woman hustled away.

“What a dear soul,” Deirdre said, relieved that she once more had been blessed with a Christian caretaker and a kinswoman of a kind. “But she shouldn’t be carrying water—”

“Abina will give orders only,” Alric assured her. “She has a special place here.” Stepping back, he motioned for her to step inside. “’Tis time we spoke.”

It took a moment for Deirdre to adjust her eyes to the dimmer light of the cottage. The banked embers in the hearth filled the room with a homey scent, keeping the air dry for its mistress’s old joints but not affecting the pleasant summer temperature warming it from without. An old loom hung on one wall, along with other weaving paraphernalia. Baskets lined the shelves above. A cot was arranged on the far side of the fire. Deirdre glanced about in search of another, but a table and two stump benches were the only other furnishings.

“I would have expected her to remain at the seaside villa,” Deirdre observed, “since that is where Orlaith spent most of her time.”

“I think the memories are as painful for her as they are for my father, and she says the constant nearness to the water reminds her of the danger I’m in at sea.”

“I certainly don’t wish to take her only bed—”

“I’ll have another brought in.” Alric blocked Tor from following them inside, edging the dog’s head out with his knee so that he could close the door. “I said
privacy
,” he answered when the wolfhound offered a bark of protest. When he turned, a hint of a smile curled at one comer of his mouth. “It seems even my hound is not impervious to your charms.”

Deirdre took the remark as a compliment, even if it was delivered in a dubious tone. “He’s not as fearsome as I first thought, though I’d not care to test his disposition.”

Alric motioned her to a seat on one of the table benches, studying her every movement until she settled. “You
are
different,” he said at length, as though trying to convince himself. “What happened to you, Deirdre? How is it that you speak Saxon like a native now? What made Hinderk humor you when you stepped uninvited into the midst of our quarrel? It isn’t his nature, trust me.” Alric nodded toward the door. “Even Tor treats you differently, and believe me when I say that no amount of tasty treats can account for his threatening me when I laid my hand upon you.”

Deirdre shook her head, not sure exactly what to say as she watched Alric approach and drop on one knee, gathering her hand in his. If she didn’t know better, he looked about to pledge his suit.

“You have been a mystery to me since my mother told me of you, and now that I have you, you puzzle me even more.”

Now that he had her … A mix of anxiety and anticipation tripped up her spine.

“Perhaps if I knew what your mother said about me, how she even
knew
of me …” Deirdre shrugged, certain Alric was no more confused than she. It was as if each of them had different pieces of a puzzle that somehow fit together, but the other pieces still eluded them. Could they find them together? Was that also in God’s plan?

“Believe me, Alric,” she said in all earnest, “you are not the only one confused by all this. The only thing I know is that God is in charge and has a plan for me … for both of us.”

“God has plans for one who questions His existence?”

“God uses saint and sinner alike, but you’d best ask Scanlan to explain it, for I scarce can grasp any sense in what happened myself.”

“
What
happened? Tell me, Deirdre.” Alric squeezed her hand, lifting it to his lips so that they brushed across her fingertips.

This was the last sort of interrogation she anticipated. Were he angry and demanding, she could stand up to him, but this was not a fair play The man wielded charm as proficiently as his scramasax.

“What is this
gift
you and the priest allude to?”

Who could not be drawn into the silvery sea of warmth affixed upon her, reaching beyond her defenses to coax her to speak her heart, not her mind? “I thought in my fever that a Saxon demon possessed me, and that was how I understood what you and Belrap said when you spoke in Saxon.” She shouldn’t tell him. It was to be her secret to use against him, even if she had unintentionally let part of it out. “But I prayed and prayed with Scanlan, and no demon would pray, much less call on the One who could purge it from its hold upon me. All I know is that I suddenly knew your language as if it were my own. That’s how we knew—Scanlan and I—that it was a gift from God.” Even now she trembled with awe.

“To what purpose, woman?” Alric studied her with a wary yet attentive look.

Deirdre shifted the conversation. “Tell me about Orlaith. I’ve told you my secret. What is yours, Alric of Galstead?”

He let go her hand and rose to take a seat at the table across from her. For a moment, he was no longer in the room with her but somewhere far off in his memory. He was neither disbelieving nor mocking as she’d expected him—or anyone—to be at what she said. His profile, silhouetted against the light of a small window by the door, was a solemn, noble one, like that of a Roman statue. Only in his distant gaze did the myriad of emotions churning within show themselves.