Deirdre (6 page)

Just as he breached it, gasping for air, he felt a searing pain on his forearm. Frig’s teeth, she’d twisted in his grip and bitten him! But at least he now knew where her head was. As he tried to strip the cumbersome garment from her, her struggles began to diminish. Slinging the robe aside, Alric hooked his arm under her chin, lifting her nose and mouth above the water, and tackled the distance the tide had put between them and the two ships, where a line had been cast toward him.

Alric held on to the limp form of his captive with one arm and grabbed the rope and nodded for them to haul away. Heave by heave, the men pulled him from the water, the dead weight of his burden seeming to grow twice her size. When his men finally relieved him of
the woman, he rested a moment, gathering breath, and then pulled himself over the rail.

The other female captive began screaming. “She’s dead! God save us, she’s dead!”

“She’s just got a belly full of water.” His protest was more against the brittle blade of alarm penetrating his chest than the woman’s outburst. The vixen didn’t dare die on him, not after he’d risked his neck to save her!

Shoving aside the priest, who knelt beside the still form crossing himself and mumbling, Alric seized Deirdre by the waist and hauled her up, her back against him. Crossing his arms beneath her rib cage, he shook her and constricted the locked bands of muscle in one sharp movement. Twice there was nothing but the listless fling of her arms and snap of her head. Her long, wet hair dragged like a mop through the pools of water on the deck.

Curse the little fool, where was that indomitable spirit of hers? She’d not been underwater that long. With a growl starting deep within his belly, Alric jerked her again with such force that he feared he might have cracked one of the woman’s ribs. But better a rib lost than a life.

The muscles of Deirdre’s abdomen rebelled against his arms in a spasm, and then another and another. Seawater shot from her lungs, hardly enough to properly wet a man’s boot yet deadly when taken in lieu of air. Her arms no longer flailed but wrapped weakly over his. Around him, his men cheered.

“Yes, that’s it,
feisty!”
Encouraged, Alric gave her another hearty squeeze.

“No!” At her moaned protest, her frantic fingers dug into the bloody bite she’d inflicted on him.

With a yelp, he let her go, dropping her into a heap at his feet. “Frig’s teeth, woman, ’tis a harsh thanks you hand out.”

Life flowed back into her long limbs, their graceful shape exposed by the wet folds of her sleeveless shift. She pushed herself up with arms that were slender and gently golden from the kiss of the sun. And no nun he’d seen while in Argyll with his mother wore artfully worked
armbands of pure gold, such as glistened before him now.

“Just who on Frig’s green earth are you?”

Deirdre’s shoulders squared in a prideful pose. Slowly, her soaked and tangled tresses all but obscuring her face, she raised her head.

“Well, milady?”

“I … am not … your lady.” Her voice gained strength with each clipped word.

All fire and spit, she was. Alric crossed his arms, suddenly aware of the soreness of his wound. If he’d wondered before, he need not do so now. The vixen had all her teeth, and he bore the evidence.

“Very well, then. Whose lady are you?” No matter whom she belonged to, she was a handful. He’d seen grown men reduced to tearful babble by what she’d just been through, and yet she stood there, prideful and straitbacked.

In less time than it took for the corner of his mouth to twitch in appreciation, Deirdre lurched forward and promptly heaved the remains in her belly onto Alric’s feet. Too late, he jumped back, then forward again as she swayed unsteadily. He reached down and caught her just before she struck the deck face first. As he turned her on her back, her eyes rolled toward an equally blue sky overhead.

While consciousness played tag with its counterpart, her bloodless lips moved with one last parry. “I belong to God in heaven, and no one else.”

Fickle women and their God would be his death! Alric motioned the priest over with a jerk of his head. “Here, Father,
you
take her. You’re as close to her God as any on this ship. Truth, I don’t envy
either
of you.”

“But where shall I put her?” the priest called after him as he gave the nod for the lines connecting the two vessels to be released, with Gunnar in charge of the Mell.

Alric swung around, but his anger found no voice.
Where indeed
? he wondered, scowling. This was a pirate ship, not a passenger transport. The only sheltered area left in place was midship, a canvas cover over his own pallet. Others were erected as needed during inclement weather.

He motioned to his second mate. “Wimmer, show the man to my quarters. The women can use it for the duration of the voyage.”

“I can … walk.” To Alric’s surprise, the resilient creature found footing on the deck. “But bless you, Father Scanlan.” She leaned heavily on the priest’s arm, raised her head, and ran Alric through with her gaze. “You will not get away with this, Captain. God won’t let you.”

God
again.
Alric leaned forward with a mocking bow “Your gratitude for my pulling your hide from the water takes my breath away.”

“Were that the case, I should fall prostrate anon before heaven and all witnesses for such a blessing.”

Alric bit his tongue. The only thing predictable about women was that they’d have the last word, even if it spent the last breath they’d ever take. A good warrior knew when to dig in and fight and when to retreat. In this case, he’d do as well trying to hack the crests off every ripple on the high seas.

The remainder of the day closed with the sun gathering a mantle of clouds about it, as if reminding all eyes of the blood red sky that gave it birth. Better than halfway to the island of the sea god, Mona, Alric ordered the men to batten down what they could and prepare for the sky’s prophecy to be manifest.

The crew met the storm fortified by a cold meal of dried beef and hard bread, for the fire in the small stove had been banked to prevent fire during the rough ride. It was not the first they’d weathered, nor, the gods willing, would it be the last. They’d learned to take the sea as it came, much as Alric’s father accepted his neighbors—as friend or foe.

Pelted by stinging rain and dodging lightning, the seasoned sea warriors spent the night in a game struggle with oar, sail, and bucket to keep the vessel steady toward the east.

At last the day broke before them in yet another scarlet-glazed sky, but the signs of another storm paled compared to the lookout’s cry of “Land ho, to the stern!” Instead of Mona’s marbled shore of sand and moss-patched rock nestled in the sea before them, the landfall was
behind
them and green as spring itself, rising gently toward cloud-comforted hills.

Erin.

“Are you certain?” Alric stared in disbelief. Never had a storm turned him completely around.

“Yes, sir! There it be.”

“Now how the bloomin’ bones—” Wimmer started beside him.

“Any sign of Gunnar’s ship?” Alric searched waters placated by the fiery red fingers of the sun, looking for sail, but aside from a few Irish curraghs out for a catch off their coast, he saw nothing.

“I’ve never seen the like,” he heard one of the men at the oars remark. Indeed, unsettled whispers rippled up and down the oar benches.

His men were spent, and their provisions were diminished, yet they’d made no progress toward home. None at all. The wind must have shifted unnoticed in the turbulence.

“I warned you that God would not allow you to get away with your evil.”

Vexed, Alric turned to see Deirdre sitting on a keg of salt beef near his lodging, working her fingers through the tangle of her hair. She’d fashioned one of his blankets into a cloak, fastening it with a cumbersome knot. Color had returned to her face—along with the biting edge to her tongue.

He snorted. “Nonsense.”

“I prayed all night long that He’d see us delivered safely home … and He
did.”

The smug quirk of her lips pricked at Alric’s sleep-deprived humor. “Tis the work of Thunor’s foul mood, nothing more!” He was not given to superstition, nor to believing that gods controlled the elements for that matter, though they made excellent scapegoats. He could not say the same for the beliefs of his men.

“Storms are a part of life, as normal as breathing.” He made sure he spoke loud enough for all ears that would hear. “And winds change like a woman’s mind.”

She smiled, clearly undaunted. Under other circumstances, Alric might have admired the pearly show of her teeth and the ripeness of the lips that framed them. Instead, he was wary as a dog heeling its master’s steed.

“Then, if this Thunor of yours is real, you must have displeased him as well.”

The way the sun took to her shining tresses, she could be mistaken for some heavenly creature—one of his mother’s angels perhaps—in a mantle of spun gold.

“Although anyone with the wit of a salmon’s egg knows it’s God, not some thunder being, who controls the sky, wind, and sea. He created it. He of all should be privy to its temperament.”

Still, the only angels Alric could recall from Orlaith’s teachings had male names, and now he knew why Imagine having to listen an eternity to a female’s chatter. “Woman, you alone could talk down a flood tide. Would that you’d put that tongue to use last night and saved us all great effort.”

The scattered chuckles among his men gave Alric scant comfort. The vixen had cast her seeds of doubt upon fertile minds.

Later in the day, as the three Christians knelt on the deck in prayer, Alric noticed the keen attention they drew from the men. Although his crew was not well versed in Latin, they knew enough to allow the fair magpie’s chatter to undermine common sense. Contrarily the stiff wind that picked up at midday boosted morale as it carried them eastward without further exertion on their part. With luck, they would make the shelter of Mona by nightfall.

The fire was banked at the sight of the first clouds hurtling over the spines of sea behind them. They hurried the darkening of the day and riled the water from its previous calm. The remains of the fish the men netted and baked on the coals in the firebed that afternoon were tossed over the side. The wind that had aided them earlier calmed, as if the wall of clouds to the stern blocked it. Robbed of breath, a lifeless sail hung from the rigging. Accustomed to stretches of calm, the men took the matter into their own hands on the oars, but their unease was thick as the air itself.

In the dim light of the lantern hanging by Alric’s quarters, his captives knelt again for evening prayer, sparking mumbles of speculation up and down both sides of the ship.

“Father,” Alric interrupted when he could tolerate it no more,
“kindly reserve your show to my quarters. You distract the crew and hence put the ship in peril.”

“Tis
they
who put us in peril by following your orders against God’s will,” Deirdre volunteered. “You’ve stolen from the Lord thy God.”

“If He created everything, then let Him create more that there is enough for us all.” Alric seized the moment she took to formulate a reply and put it to use. “Now under the canopy with you—
all of you—
and stay low until the blow has passed.”

“He sees to our needs, not our wants—”

“He created enough for all, milady,” Father Scanlan cut in, ending the discussion. “Let us move inside as the captain said. God will hear us there as well as here.”

With a scathing glance at Alric, Deirdre ducked under the canopy, following the other female, who, by her greenish color, had not yet adjusted to the roll of the sea. A curious trio of personalities, if ever there was one—a puzzle for a man who considered himself a fair judge of character. If either of the women was a nun, it was the smaller of the two. The taller lass rebuked humility with every word. Clearly, she was accustomed to having her own way.

Alric gave himself a mental shake to banish the plaguing fascination with his captive and turned to focus on the threatening sky. The sooner he was rid of the woman, the better. He froze in midstep at the sound of a strangled sob.

“Milady, I don’t think I can b-bear another storm. There’s nothing left to wring from my body but life itself.”

“Orna, we have no choice.”

Alric’s ears pricked, but the feisty one’s tone was soft with compassion rather than the cutting edge she reserved for him.

“Perhaps milady might consider her own advice while dealing with the captain,” Father Scanlan put in. “He did risk his life to save yours. Indeed, he has been more than gracious, given our circumstances.”

Indeed he had, Alric agreed, straining to listen above the murmur of the vessel and its crew. Predictably, the priest’s words fell like fat on a fire.

“Father, Galstead is a scoundrel. A dog might lick your hand and
share his bedding, but it is still a dog with teeth and fleas.”

Scanlan clearly knew not what manner of beast he dealt with, but he plied on. “Nothing happens that cannot be used to God’s glory, child. You must remember this.”

“I am not your child, Scanlan. You’re scarcely ten years my senior.”

Alric could picture the petulant purse of the fair one’s lips.

“God’s child, Deirdre … and He’ll not take to you bandying His name for your own satisfaction.”

Frig’s breath, she’s worried the holy out of the priest! Alric grinned, not feeling nearly so burdened now that he had company in his frustration. He waited to see what the prodigal would say next. He could well imagine the storm clouds gathering in her cerulean gaze, yet when she answered, it was with nothing less than a whimper of contrition.

“Father, forgive me. I—”

Her voice broke and with it, something snapped in Alric. Surely not pity. Perhaps disappointment.

“My mission means so much to me. Pride is the bane of my existence.”

Alric had seen his mother’s inherent strong will tempered by her regard for her mission or God’s will. It was a confounding combination of stubbornness and humility that led him to wonder if it was a strength or a weakness.