Deirdre (7 page)

“Pride is a demon that’s undone the strongest of us,” came Scanlan’s placating reply.

“Aye, well I know it.”

Her agreement seemed crushed out of her by the burden of her guilt. Foolish as this God nonsense was, it was as real to her as it had been to his mother. Alric shook himself again. Another moment, and he’d want to gather her in his arms and offer her comfort. Like a scolded kitten, she’d be soft and yielding, not defiant and irritating as a wet cat—

“But pride isn’t the only demon to overcome,” she stipulated, backbone returning as she glared in Alric’s direction. “The oaf.”

Or a burr in the stride. Alric’s fists tightened at his side.

“Then
he
is the weakness you must overcome to remain in God’s
favor. Humility prevails where indignation cannot. More flies are trapped with honey than vinegar.”

“Faith, spare me talk of food,” the woman Orna moaned. “The very thought makes my insides twist.”

There was some hasty movement inside the enclosure and the scrape of wood across the floor. Alric would have heard more, but at the sound of Orna’s retching, he retreated aft to where the helmsman watched the growing menace approaching them. The thought of the tall, lithesome captive humbling herself before him was entertaining at the least. Perhaps this faith of hers might prove to his advantage.

“Smells like a wild ride, sir,” the man at the tiller remarked.

Homing in on the matter at hand, Alric dismissed the twinge of guilt that tainted his whimsy. He’d send Scanlan and his prickly charge to the closest monastery. Between the Irish and the Scots, the coast and islands were peppered with them.

Turning to where the wind was picking up, Alric stiffened at the sight of a dark, ominous column rising to their stern. It was at least equal to the one that had sent them back toward Erin. Alric’s pulse thrummed at the prospect and a slow smile spread upon his lips. The
Wulfshead
would dance with the sea sprites tonight.

Like a great monster, the storm gained upon them, its teeth the waves gnashing at the stern of the ship, flooding the deck and washing all that was not tied down into its watery throat. By nightfall, the
Wulfshead
tossed like a toy boat in a torrent, dodging bolts of lightning that spawned sprites of blue fire dancing on the water.

“Father, Yours is the hand that calms the sea. Yours is the breath that feeds the wind. Yours is the thunder that pierces our ears and the lightning that blinds our eyes,” Scanlan prayed.

The first storm was surely to punish their Saxon captors, but why this one? Guilt niggled at Deirdre until she could no longer bear Orna’s suffering and Scanlan’s pleas. Though he’d said no more, the sting of her clansman’s admonition festered within her. They were all going to die, and it was her fault. She’d flaunted God’s power in the face of the
captain, not for God’s triumph but her own. Her pride and rebellious nature were her downfall, but it needn’t be everyone’s.

Leaving the cover of the enclosure, Deirdre stepped out into the wet fury. The wind and spray lashed her face, but she refused to back down—not from the storm or from God’s wrath. She shouted into the monster’s breath, her penitent tears mixing with its briny spittle.

“If Your anger is at me, then, I beg You, Father, spare the innocent among us, that our mission to free Cairell might be accomplished. All I ask for myself is Thy forgiveness.”

Before her, a curling claw with frothy nails rose and poised, as though awaiting a command from a higher authority to carry out her sentence. Standing as tall as the thrashing ship would allow, Deirdre refused to stand down.

“Yea, though I walk through the valley of death, I fear no evil—”

The water struck her like a hammer, slamming her downward and swamping the deck around her. The rib of the ship’s rail bit into her side, knocking out what little breath she’d clung to. Brine seeped in to replace it, burning her throat and lungs. She wasn’t going to drown in the sea, but right here on the deck.

The thought no more than registered in Deirdre’s staggered mind when the water subsided. Yet its sinew tightened even more about her, with no relief of its weight nor wane of its roar.

“By all the gods, woman, have you lost what wit you have?”

It was the Saxon, who twice now had plucked her from the sea’s watery grasp. As he rolled away from her, she coughed up the salt wash from her lungs. Was this God’s answer to her prayer? That she not be punished by death? She buried her head weakly in the curl of her arm. But she’d been ready for death … not life at the mercy of—

A terrible crack resounded overhead, and beneath her the deck shuddered to its skeletal frame. Suddenly, Deirdre was jerked up by her waist like a rag doll, but when Alric hesitated, as though uncertain which way to toss her, she looked up and saw what held him fast. The mast swayed at them, a deep crack making its way toward the deck. Alric broke, scrambling from where it would surely fall, when the ship shifted in the other direction, offering a temporary reprieve.

Before she knew what he was about, he shoved her under the tarp enclosure, barking hoarsely, “By thunder, you stay there or I’ll toss you over the side myself!”

With a reluctant admiration, she watched as Alric and his crew pulled together without panic, as if the mast split upon every voyage. He climbed the mast, lashing it section by section with ropes, riding the tossing pole like an unbroken horse with little more than his powerful thighs to hold on with. Where she’d been willing to accept her fate, he fought his with muscle and sheer will, even laughing like a madman at the lightning bolts striking about them.

Yes, that was it. He was worse than a pagan. He was insane.

T
he following morning, Deirdre awakened from an exhausted sleep to the bark of Alric’s orders and the scurry of the crew Once the mast was secured, the storm began to abate enough that Deirdre and Scanlan could leave Orna to help the weather-beaten sea warriors bail out the swamped bilge. Although she bore the burn of the captain’s glare at first, he said nothing to her until the ship’s freeboard was restored to a seaworthy level.

“I’d best see to those hands before you go to sleep, milady.”

A quick trip to the forward compartment produced a tin of balm. It had some sort of glorious numbing ingredient for her bloodied, rope-burned palms, yet it did nothing to dull the effects of the Saxon’s ministrations upon her senses.

“You make a decent sailor when you follow orders,” he said in a soft timbre that smacked more of contentment than his customary hostility. Did wolves purr?

It was hard to believe the same hands that had wrestled a ship from certain death with a few ropes and a lot of determination could tender such gentleness. And when he produced a blanket, miraculously dry, from his seachest and wrapped it around her shoulders, she’d grown warm and giddy as a fool.

Of course, it was fatigue and nothing else. Once she and Orna had shed their soaked clothing, she promptly gave her servant, who was violently shivering in a delirium, the dry blanket in lieu of the damp bedclothing they unrolled. Deirdre was too tired to fret over why the bone-melting warmth and giddiness didn’t leave with the blanket. Sleep was her priority—after thanking God for their deliverance.

“Perhaps milady might find some warmth in my cloak.”

Alric tossed something else inside the canvas flap just as she uttered a teeth-clattering “Amen.”

His cloak. The fur on it—most likely wolf—tickled her nose. The
garment, like the man, was large and warm. As she fell asleep, she couldn’t shake the fancy that it was he who wrapped around her, snuggling out the cold and sealing in the coziness.

Now, having abandoned the warmth of their pallets and shaking as if to shed their skin, Deirdre and Orna hastily dressed. It was hard for Deirdre to discern if her companion was feverish or simply as chilled as she, for the garments still smacked of dampness against their bed-warmed bodies. Deirdre donned the blanket and fur-trimmed cloak over all, then they emerged from the enclosure to face the new day.

Listless, Orna made her way to one of the rowing benches, while Deirdre inspected the skillfully woven cloak in bright sunlight. It was a beautiful midnight blue and adorned with nothing so mean as wolf or fox but a breathtaking ermine that glistened silver or white, depending on how the light struck it. Before she could examine the garment further, she was distracted by the movement of the crew.

The
Wulfshead
was no longer at sea but approaching under manpower a river beachhead just short of a small, port-side village. Sand and volcanic rock gave way to a rise behind the smattering of buildings, as though the small cove had been hacked out of the higher ground with divine thought to sea access. A few other ships, with foreign flags waving from the mast tops, were moored offshore in the quay, floating light in the water. At the village dock was the
Mell
, in all her seaworthy splendor and unharmed by the namesake that had plagued the
Wulfshead.

Alric’s second in command stood at its prow, shouting across the distance. “What took you so long, friend? I’d begun to think you were lost in the storm, and I’d not get my drink.”

Alric cupped his hands round his mouth, answering, “I always make my bets good, gamecock. Join me at the Boar’s Head after we’ve put in.”

He pointed at the buildings that sprouted on the sandy rise of the bank. On the bank’s crest was an ancient fortress built of the same stone that had been used to shore up the dock. It told of times when the sea approach had been guarded by a people more advanced in skills than its present inhabitants. Undoubtedly, trade had flourished
for generations of Romans, Britons, and now Saxon and Frisian spawn, perhaps with coal from Northumbria’s spine of mountains.

The wafting land breeze carried the scent of freshly baked goods mingling with the salty pungency of fishing boats and nets strewn along the shoreline. For the first time since their capture, Deirdre thought of food with longing. Not as disciplined as her mind to such things, her stomach growled, drawing the captain’s attention.

Alric smiled, looking entirely too refreshed and winsome to her liking. When had he time to shave that angular jaw and tame his golden mane so that it fell away from his face with rakish disregard, brushed by the wind? And surely he’d had no more sleep than she, yet his eyes sparkled like the sun-silvered ripples of the water.

“Good morning,
Sister.
” He gave Deirdre a sweeping bow, his ebullience sticking like a thorn in one side of her humor, while his mockery jabbed at the other. “I daresay, we have arrived and are none the worse for wear, despite the tempest.”

“Speak for yourself, sir. I fear Orna has taken a fever in her weakened state. She’s not eaten since we were seized.” The guilt she slung at him ran off his broad shoulders like rain off one of the heathered granite slopes in the far distance.

“As soon as we are secure, I’ll have Wimmer see you are brought a fresh, hot meal. Then you and Father Scanlan are free to leave. Perhaps you’ll find a fisherman willing to take you along the coast to one of the monasteries. Our people exchange goods regularly.”

“I would ask that you leave Orna in our care, at least until she’s well enough to be sold like a piece of cargo.” She should have made some show of gratitude, but she could not. Slavery was detestable. Gleannmara’s people had been free for generations, even if all the tuaths of Erin did not follow the practice.

“You’d stay aboard the ship then?”

“Ready, ho!” one of the crew shouted before she could reply.

The
Wulfshead
struck the beach, grinding into it with the force of its momentum. Deirdre steadied herself on the rail, eyes widening. Who’d have thought a ship this large had such a shallow draft?

Members of the crew leaped over the side into the wading-depth
water and put their shoulders to the work of shoving the
Wulfshead
further onto the narrow beach. Lines were tied to stakes that looked to have been driven deep into the sand for a good while. Evidently this was the ship’s usual berth.

A group of men approached from the village, burly sorts with broad backs and weathered faces. One of the younger among them hailed Alric.

“Good morning to you, Captain.” He waved heartily. “Will you be needing to unload the ship?”

Alric shook his head, pointing to his prize at the dock. “No, Kaspar, we left all the cargo aboard and kept the ship as well.”

“Aye, Gunnar said to wait for your order to see her unloaded.” He looked at Deirdre. “We worried you’d run into the Dalraidi navy when Gunnar came in so far ahead.”

“We saw none of the Scots-armed ships this time,” Alric went on. “I thank you for your concern. Are you a father yet?”

The familiarity with a man so far beneath him in station surprised Deirdre. Alric seemed genuinely interested in the man’s family.

The man grinned widely with what looked to be a full count of teeth. “No, and I swear, Hilda is fit to burst at the beam.”

“After I see to my passengers, then meet us at the Boar’s Head later and hear all about it before fatherhood puts its noose about your neck.” Alric turned suddenly, catching Deirdre in her bold observation. That smug twitch of his lips made it clear he misunderstood her attention for admiration rather than disdain. “You were saying that you’d stay aboard the ship?”

Deirdre resisted setting his overblown ego aright as Scanlan approached them from the ship’s cold hearth. There was little point in antagonizing Alric just as she asked a favor of him.

“I was just saying that Orna isn’t well, Father, and that the captain should consider leaving her in our care until such time as she is fit for whatever fate he has in store for her.”

“Milady speaks as though I alone instigated the practice of slavery just to spite her.”

The devil take her transparent humor.

Scanlan sucked in his cheeks, choosing his words carefully before he spoke. “Milady has a large heart, which she wears upon her sleeve, sir. Like myself, she is distressed to see her friend destined for such a fate.”