Deirdre (25 page)

Sure, Deirdre had one to match each of his as she listened to the account of Orlaith’s last moments—how a loving mother poured out her heart’s desire for her son—with a detail that challenged doubt.

“Mother believes those visions came from God,” he finished, looking at her, eyes wide. “She said I would win my birthright by love, not the sword, and that you are the key She described you … I thought it was her illness, but after hearing of your feverish experience, I am not so sure.” He took a deep breath and continued. “It was either God or some omnipotent power that transcends all man’s understanding, for it controls even the water and the stones. Even Aelfled believes our paths have crossed for a purpose.”

“Who?”

“A friend … with certain gifts of her own.”

“Your mistress, perhaps?” The green words were out before she could stop them.

“Not
now
.”

Deirdre did not miss his implication, but as she wondered as to its veracity a flashback of the childlike creature who ran into her at the marketplace came to her. “She was the woman at the market, the little one, with the stones.”

“Aye, and she concurs with Orlaith’s prediction. Even the stones you picked up say that our destinies are entwined.”

“God created them, so of course He controls them,” Deirdre pointed out, struggling as hard as her companion to grasp the nature of
what had planned out their merging destinies. “He uses saints and sinners alike,” she murmured, repeating what she’d told Alric earlier.

“What?”

“That night on the ship, when I was nearly swept over the rail, you stopped me. I’d given myself to God’s will to be taken into the arms of the sea—but it was your arms I wound up in.”

Alric watched her as she rubbed the gooseflesh on her arms into submission.

Instead of rebelling against her opinion or scoffing, he gave a wistful smile. “You remind me of my mother in so many ways.”

He reached across the small table and, taking her hands, drew her to her feet and to where he rose. Deirdre could not resist the gentle force that brought her into his embrace, nor did it seem, could he resist the urge to bring her there.

“Would it be so wrong to yield to that which we cannot understand? No logic I know stands up to the right feeling of you in my arms.”

She echoed the very notion in her mind. Feelings definitely had the advantage over reason. Something bigger than both of them rendered thought useless. But that Alric felt exactly the same as she gave her the flutters, as if hundreds of butterflies beat their wings upon her heart and senses.

“It’s hard to recall how you vex me when I can feel your heart beating against mine.” He nuzzled the top of her head. “Or the downy softness of your hair tickling my nose …” Lifting her chin, he gazed down at her face as though caught in the same trancelike state as she. “Or the satin warmth of your lips. If this is God’s plan, milady, it is a heavenly one, do you not agree?”

A sweet fever engulfed her as he lightly brushed her mouth with his. Deirdre couldn’t talk. Faith, she could hardly breathe, and when she did, she shared it with Alric. Yet it was oneness of spirit and emotion that sprang from the physical intimacy, as though divined by something greater than the both of them.

She nodded and became lost in his gaze, only vaguely aware that her own secrets were exposed to the same search of the soul.

“Out of the way, you big puppy!”

Abina’s order came from the outreaches of Deirdre’s awareness, and the latch on the door lifted with the sharp click of bar, shattering the ethereal sphere that had captured the two of them. They broke away from each other abruptly, but their gazes would not give up the enchantment.

“Ooh,” Abina gasped from the periphery of the union. “I am sorry I—”

“I was just going, Abina,” Alric said, drawing away with one last searching look at Deirdre. “You’ll be in good hands,” he assured her as he gathered himself with a square of his shoulders and a clearing of his throat.

Deirdre nodded wordlessly, watching as he spun about and retreated toward the door. She had not let go of him as easily for surely he took a part of her with him.

T
he great hall was a cacophony of celebration over the announcement of Alric’s wedding to Deirdre. The first part of the procedure had been fulfilled according to Lambert’s pronouncement. Immensely pleased, the king of Galstead announced that his wedding gift was to be the royal villa in Chesreton.

Refreshed from a bath and wearing her pearl-adorned, blue smocked gown and cap, Deirdre endured the toasts of congratulations, still lost in the mysteries in which she and Alric found themselves. His mother had described her and Gleannmara so distinctly, how could Deirdre not believe that God was involved? Orlaith had been a saintly woman, devoutly believing until her last breath that Alric would receive his birthright on earth and in heaven because of her.

After the arrival of Abina and the servants earlier, Deirdre had been so distracted by the new revelations and the spell that compelled the baring of their souls to one another that she’d hardly paid attention to Abina’s fussing over her like a mother hen.

“Orlaith could not have picked a more perfect mate for our Alric than you, milady What glorious hair … said it was like spun gold and it is.”

Alric had left, no less affected than Deirdre with the notion that there was a master purpose in their match. Yet how else could the coincidences be explained when the only common element was God? Granted, Alric did not say he believed it was God, but he did concede that some master power seemed at work. Even now she could feel it, as though they each possessed some pan of the other that forged a common bond, despite all their other differences.

“Perhaps, once my seafaring son discovers the attraction of remaining on land,” Lambert proposed, after a round-cheeked maid had refilled all the glasses at the royal table, “the surrounding shires may become part of his domain as well.”

If only she’d had time to share all this with Scanlan. As it was, the priest was living outside the city walls so as not to stir Ethlinda’s ire against him. The moment Orlaith had died, all traces of Christianity had been forbidden inside the gates. Only Abina was unaffected by the queen’s edict.

“And who will fulfill our naval obligations to the bretwalda?” Ricbert’s drawl was rank with cynicism.

“Your brother has built an admirable fleet of ships, and all but the
Wulfshead
fare well without him,” his father answered, pride swelling his chest. “His captains on the water are as able as my thanes on land. Take Cedric’s second born, here.”

“Gunnar is a better warrior than I,” Cedric snorted. “I’m not one for battle on footing that bobs and dips at whim.”

“I’d wage my life and the
Wulfshead
on the abilities of the man.” Alric lifted his glass, first to Gunnar’s father and then to Gunnar himself.

Now that the relationship between the two had been pointed out, Deirdre could see the resemblance, especially in those devilish eyes. Except that Gunnar didn’t seem his usual carefree self.

“Milords are all generous,” he replied with courtly grace.

“Just don’t wager your bride, eh, my dear?” Ricbert sneered under his breath to his wife beside him. His voice carried nonetheless, just as he intended.

Gunnar slammed down his cup, glaring at the prince.

Next to Ricbert, the Princess Helewis reddened but continued to pick at her food with downcast gaze.

“Ricbert, shame on you!” On a floating cloud of silver and black silk, a tall stately woman with the same sharp features as the dark-haired prince swept into the hall from a side entrance and took the empty seat next to Lambert. “Your teasing makes your young wife nervous, which forces her to eat like a horse.” Queen Ethlinda smiled at the plump princess. “Which we all know is to her detriment.”

Aware that all eyes were now fixed upon her, Helewis pushed aside the food before her. “If milords and ladies will excuse me,” she said in a barely audible voice, “I’m not feeling well.”

Deirdre was mortified for the young woman. She was about to abandon courtly etiquette and run after a complete stranger, but Gunnar lost control first.

“Begging your pardon, Your Majesties, but Lord Ricbert’s insinuation—”

“Prince
Ricbert,” the queen reminded the man.

“He acts like neither,” Lambert grumbled.

“The
prince’s
insinuation,” Gunnar resumed, “is unfounded and an affront, not just to my honor, but to that of Lady Helewis. Your princess was pure as the first snow of winter when he took her to the bridal bed, and he well knows it. I demand he apologize.”

Ethlinda laughed. “You champion Helewis?”

Deirdre disliked the woman already “It seems someone should, when genteel manners so sorely elude some members of this court.”

Ethlinda slowly turned toward Deirdre, the chevron of a painted eyebrow exaggerated by her surprise. Placing a long, curled fingernail upon her cheek, she gave Deirdre a pointed look. “How dare a slave address me in such a manner?”

“Enough!” Lambert slammed both fists on the table with such force that Tor leaped to his feet behind Alric’s chair.

Alric seized his collar, calming him. “Welcome to my happy home,” he whispered in a sarcastic aside to Deirdre.

“So help me, woman, I’ll have you served a bowl of cream, if you don’t draw back your claws and curb that viperish tongue.”

“I will not be chided by a slave, husband.”

“But you will be chided by your king, Ethlinda, and I say
enough
.”

“Is it any wonder I built my first boat as a pup and set out to sea?” Alric mumbled, leaning over Deirdre’s shoulder to offer Tor a beef rib to calm him down.

She smothered a giggle, one of the first genuinely pleasant reactions since her capture. Having Alric as an ally was an engaging novelty Cutting a sidewise glance at him as he turned back to the assembly she caught a devilish wink that made her pulse stumble. Perhaps God’s plan for her was not as gloomy as she’d first estimated. She
had
to share this with Scanlan.

When his guests were well satiated with food and wine, Lambert summoned his chief musician and storyteller. “Hengist, herald us with the great tales of our ancestors that our guests might know the noble bloodline of their hosts.”

It was noble, Deirdre acknowledged, but also brutal, with gods as savage and fickle as the mankind with which they mingled. Somehow the ancient tales she’d heard in song did not seem nearly so heathen now, even though they were spawned before the coming of the faith. Perhaps the clerics who’d preserved them had softened their harshness, although meddling with the lyrics would have been a challenge. They’d been handed down from generation to generation in rhyme, just to prevent such tampering.

Although she had to fight exhaustion to keep from yawning, the Saxon tales gave her insight into the people she was to live with.

“Lady Deirdre,” Lambert said, after beating his cup upon the table in approval with the rest, “a dear companion of mine used to sing a haunting melody for me. ’Twas in Irish, but the tune alone was enough to soothe the most troubled spirit.”

He started to hum a line of it but the combination of food and drink—or the lack of ability—so distorted it, that Deirdre could not identify it. With a half-laugh, half-curse, he gave up. “She said it had to do with a sword-carrying angel who protected those who sang it.”

Deirdre felt the color leave her face. Surely it couldn’t be the same song she’d called upon to pray away her demon. “Was it the angel Michael?”

“Yes!” Lambert winced, as though his booming enthusiasm had been pierced by the same sword meant to protect him. He rubbed his temples and then shook off his discomfort with kingly discipline. “I thought that since you are so well versed in our language, you would share it.”

Deirdre’s pulse accelerated, pumping the blood back into her face. She knew it by heart in Irish, but without Scanlan, could she translate as she sang?
Father, You have not failed me yet, and if this is indeed Thy course, then—

“Have you a harp, Hengist?”

“By all means, fetch it for the lady,” Lambert commanded. “You know the one.”

It was difficult to tell whether the musician was intrigued or insulted by the king’s request, but he snapped his fingers and one of his students left immediately.

Nervous, Deirdre rose from the bench, aware that every eye in the hall rested upon her. “As you may know, Michael is one of God’s archangels, the messengers and protectors God sends to His faithful.”

“Do you know of this Michael, Juist?” Queen Ethlinda addressed one of the white-robed men seated at the head of a table next to the royal one.

“I am still acquainting myself with the personalities of Oswy’s choice,” Juist replied. “Perhaps His Majesty would like me to fetch a powder to ease his head.”

“I am not infirm, witan,” Lambert snapped. “I wish to hear a song that I enjoy in my own language. Besides, those powders of yours dim a man’s wit as well as his pain.”

“They are naught but the ground bark of a healing tree, milord.”

“And bitter as venom,” Lambert reminded the queen. “To hear you and your witan, these people will think I’m an invalid. Ah,” he said upon seeing the apprentice musician return, “that is the one. It is in tune, is it not, friend?”

Hengist nodded. “I tend it daily.”

“It belonged to Orlaith,” Alric whispered to Deirdre.

His mother’s harp, an audience of his people.
Heavenly Father.
With no time for more plaint, Deirdre took the harp and walked to the bench Hengist vacated for her. A quick strum of the instrument’s bright strings confirmed that it had indeed been well kept by an experienced hand, but her throat had gone dry She tried clearing it, but it felt as if every word she attempted was coated in lint. “In this song, Michael is appealed to by a peasant for his everyday troubles and cares with regard to his cottage and farm.”

“A peasant’s plea?” Ethlinda let her disapproval be known. “You are enchanted by the song of a peasant?”