Deirdre (38 page)

“Your sister speaks our language flawlessly,” Abina boasted to the prince. At Cairell’s skeptical glance, Deirdre nodded.

A frown furrowed his brow “You never studied it.”

“It was a miraculous gift from God.”

“How can you be certain?”

“Scanlan told me … and so many souls have been saved, even the king—”

Tor barked, giving them all a start. Jumping to his feet, Cairell looked into the mist.

Heavenly Father, let it be my Alric coming to me.
Her Alric. The memory of his possessive ardor and sweet embrace in its aftermath would remain with her forever.

Cairell knelt to press his ear to the ground, then stood. He cut Tor a contemptuous glance. “Tell me why we brought that drooling creature with us again? ’Tis likely it was his slobber he heard smacking the ground.”

“Tor is Alric’s—” Deirdre broke off, recalling how the dog had come to her defense against Alric in the chapel. “
Our
dog.” The beast had grown on her affections.

“Ah.” Accepting his sister’s explanation as an impugning explanation, Cairell settled against a large stone, staring off in the direction Tor had indicated. “I should have taken Scanlan,” he said to no one in particular.

“Alric will bring him.” The blade of alarm that had wedged in her chest the moment she was awakened to the sound of Alric and an unseen attacker struggling twisted with guilt. “If the poor soul’s not among the dead.” Scanlan had made some serious enemies. She’d been praying selfishly for Alric, forgetting Scanlan.
Please, God, let him live. He’s done far more for You than I.

“I left three good men behind as it is.” The pain in her brother’s voice was as thick as the fog. He shook his head. “They wanted to cover for my escape, but I refused … until I heard what had happened to you.”

“What happened to
you
?” Deirdre leaned next to her brother on the stone.

In bits and snatches, between stopping to listen, Cairell told Deirdre the incredible story. The four captives were kept hidden, as
though their captors did not want their comrades to know about them. Imprisoned in the hold of the Saxon ship and fed worm-eaten bread and sour wine for a week, they were at last smuggled by night to a prison in an old stone tower near the eastern sea from which the invaders had first come.

“It was a ruin; its stench was faded so that we could smell the salt air and hear the gulls.”

Deirdre shivered at the thought of being confined in the hold for more than a week. Her stomach still turned with the memory of her fear and the fetid air in the hold.

“Then someone arrived with the news that you and my ransom had been captured by Alric of Galstead, and that one of Ecfrith’s thanes was asking questions about me. The next thing we know, we overhear the guards talking about putting us on the next Frisian vessel bound for France. Thanks to ill-fitted shackles, I slipped overboard the first night out and swam to shore off the Essex coast. Surely God provided my way here, for I found an army forming to march on Northumbria. With my Latin, I passed as a traveling bard—”

Tor erupted suddenly in a barking frenzy, this time pulling at the leash so hard that Abina lost her grip.

“Tor!” Deirdre called out to him.

The dog disappeared into the fog, in the direction of a distant thunder.

“Alric?” She glanced at Cairell expectantly but his shrug told her he had no more idea than she.

He hurried to Abina’s side to help her to her feet. “We’ll take no chances,” he answered shortly. “Into the tunnel.”

Having explored this hillside inside and out as a child, Alric knew exactly where he was, but Tor’s throaty roar was a welcome sound to his ear. He reined in Dustan and gave the dog a chance to find him. The rain clouds and mist delayed the light of dawn, and hence the attack being mustered southeast of the walls. Even more of a blessing, the guards who’d been frightened away at the gate were remiss in regrouping and
summoning help against the
demons
who’d materialized in the fog. As a result, the neatly executed escape with Wimmer and the handful of men who were in the bam had turned into a motley exodus of villagers with their women and children, as word spread of what had happened. Alric could no more abandon them than his wife’s kin.

It was a miracle Scanlan lived, much less that he was able to tell them what had happened. Badly beaten and partially scalped in the manner Ecfrith’s men had done to so many of the Celtic clergy the young man was a mass of cuts and bruises swelling by the moment. Just which of the priest’s bones had been broken was impossible to tell. Scanlan told Alric he owed his life to Juist. Ethlinda ordered her henchmen to subdue Scanlan while she scalped the crown of his head, and then left him to Juist and her men to finish him off. Evidently reluctant to take the life of a priest, no matter what God he served, the senior witan stopped the soldiers just before Scanlan lost consciousness for the first time.

“We must focus on the unseen,” the priest mumbled, seizing Alric’s arm. “What we see is temporary.” He drifted in and out of his senses as the villagers placed him in a cart, while Alric and what other men they could muster stood by, weapons ready for any Mercian attempt to stop them.

“There’s the mutt,” Wimmer pointed out as Tor bounded out of the mist, tail wagging.

Moments later, Alric found the entrance to the cave and hailed the remainder of his party Cairell emerged first, sword ready but Deirdre rushed past him, her face awash with relief.

“Alric!”

Her voice truly was music to his ears.

“Were you followed?” Cairell asked as Alric slid off Dustan and caught his bride in his arms.

This was real. This was all that mattered, he told himself. He kissed her with a fierce thanksgiving. She was safe. Ricbert and Ethlinda would never have the chance to harm her. It would be all the queen could do to explain this black night and the murder of some of his most loyal thanes to the bretwalda.

“For the love of God, man, what manner of a parade is this?”

Cairell’s exclamation took a moment to penetrate Alric’s reunion with his wife. Reluctantly, Alric drew away and looked to where Cairell stood gaping at the group of men and women who had materialized in the fog. “Would you leave them to face the butchers you witnessed in the hall?” If he had to, he’d fight Gleannmara’s prince then and there, but he’d not leave his people.

“Like Moses,” Abina marveled, fit to burst with pride. “Orlaith and I dreamed, Son, but never to this extent.”

The last thing Alric felt like was a Moses. There was no promised land for this ragged lot—at least none guaranteed this side of death. That was the only unseen he could focus on at the moment. He shoved the matter from his mind, for he wasn’t certain his renewed faith was strong enough to accept that God had abandoned His children so shortly after their acceptance of Him.

“What of Scanlan?” Deirdre looked at him, lips trembling.

Alric nodded his head toward the wagon. As she turned in that direction, she took in the familiar faces that accompanied him. She swayed for a moment, causing Alric to reach for her.

“This is all?”

He understood her shock. “Most of my men were in the hall.”

“And your father?” Abina queried.

“Dead.”

“Oh, Alric.”

He steeled himself against the tears that welled in Deirdre’s eyes, lest the emotions tearing at her voice be his undoing.

“And Helewis and Gunnar?” Deirdre’s question was hoarse.

“I couldn’t find them. We looked as much as we dared. I can only pray they survived. Not everyone was killed. Mostly Lambert’s most loyal. The rest were drugged—”

“But why—”

“Later, muirnait, later. Abina, you will ride in the cart with the priest. I want to be away from here before the mist clears. We’ll go as far as Chesreton. From there, we’ll decide what to do. As far as we know, though Gunnar’s father is dead, his men still fortify it.”

Given the extent of this treachery, Alric would not hazard to guess which army strove to lay siege to the seaport—Welsh or Mercian. For all he knew, they ran from the fat and into the fire.

“You want me to take my sister right back into the hands that—”

“My hands, Irish.” Alric’s barely suppressed anger and frustration flashed beneath the surface. “And as God is my witness now, I will cut them off for her safety. If you doubt me, then let’s settle this now.”

Standing his ground, hand on the hilt of his bloodied scramasax, Alric clenched his teeth, the steel gray of his gaze clashing with a blue as steely as that Deirdre had wielded against him time and again. But this time, his adversary was no comely female.

It is her brother
, he reminded himself, which was nearly as much a handicap. Still, leadership had to be established. There could be only one in charge.

“Cairell!”

At Deirdre’s cry, something kindled in her brother’s appraisal, and Alric’s senses were keen enough to recognize that it wasn’t challenge. He let his hand drop from his weapon and turned to face the others. “We’ve a long journey ahead, so ready away,” Alric shouted, turning to reach for Dustan’s reins. Walking the horse to where Deirdre waited, he bowed. “Milady, I’d be honored if you share the rest of our wedding night with me.”

Her smile was like the break of day in the dark swirl of his brain. “Whatever you wish, milord.”

“You can ride in the wagon,” Alric said, glancing over at Cairell, who stood without a mount.

Princely pride surely chaffed, the heir to Gleannmara acknowledged him with a gracious nod. “My feet thank you for your hospitality, sir. Mayhap I’ll find out from the priest what manner of persuasion you used to addle my sister’s wits.”

Alric leaped onto Dustan’s back behind his wife and laughed, some of the pressure building in his chest released at finding Deirdre and Abina safe. “The, answer to that is simple, Lord Gleannmara. ’Twas Saxon courage and Celtic charm.” Alric gave way with an
ooof
! at the sharp jab of Deirdre’s elbow. “Oh, and love, let us not forget love.”

A
Welsh force camped outside Chesreton, but the beleaguered travelers from Galstead approached the city from the opposite side without event. The
Wulfshead
and three foreign ships haunted the mist hovering over the river as they crossed the bridge to the water gate of the town, like the memories of the previous night, the sky was burdened with clouds that refused to let the sun shine through. Met at the city gate by Falk, the commander left in charge by the murdered Cedric, they learned that Owen of Emrys had come to demand restitution for the raid Ricbert had lead earlier across the Welsh lord’s border.

“He claims Ricbert’s retribution for a simple cattle raid was excessive,” Falk informed them. “That Galstead owes Emrys some form of payment or the return of what was taken.”

“He’s made no move to attack?” Alric wondered at the fact.

“Not yet, sire, though we can hold him off if he does.”

“Owen of Emrys?” Cairell hopped down from the cart and approached on legs stiff from the long, damp journey “I know the man well. We studied together under Eamon of Deny. And it’s not uncommon when a debt is owed to sit at the door of the obliged party.”

“Actually, Owen is a distant cousin of ours,” Deirdre informed Alric. “Gleannmara has been tied to Emrys by trade or blood since Queen Maire captured Rowan, lord of Emrys, and made him her husband.”

“At least the circumstances of our union aren’t unprecedented in your family.” Alric’s wryness was scant of humor. “I’ll hear more of this, once we’ve seen to my company.”

Falk looked at the humanity strung out behind him. “Begging your pardon, milord, but what’s amiss at Galstead? This is hardly the average wedding celebration.”

“This is Galstead … or what’s left of it.” Fatigue flattened any emotion in Alric’s voice.

The commander stood dumbstruck, his reaction seesawing between disbelief and outrage.

“Summon your captains and have them meet me at the royal villa in an hour.”

Falk nodded and moved aside. Deirdre heard him barking orders behind them as Alric lead his assembly to the home Lambert had given him as a wedding gift. Deirdre could only imagine her husband’s anguish.

Not only had he lost his father, his closest friends, and a shire—if not a kingdom—but he’d been robbed of the teeth to avenge it. Much as she wanted to offer some word of comfort, nothing that came to mind seemed appropriate.

But then, Deirdre could hardly hold her head up from exhaustion. Despite their getting away before dawn, the travel had been extremely tedious, slowed even more by cloudbursts. She’d dozed against Alric’s chest and taken comfort in the arm that occasionally tightened about her waist with affection or the brush of his lips against the back of her neck. More than once, she thanked God that they still had each other … and Cairell.

Surely God would prevail for them again.

Deirdre blinked, stiffening against her husband as she stared at the front of the villa ahead. A small figure appeared where a moment before there had only been fog. She knew instantly who the woman was.

“Aelfled!” Alric sounded no less surprised. “How did you—” He thought better of his question. “Never mind. We’ve grave need of your services. Have you any qualms about healing a Christian priest?”

A serene smile touched upon Aelfled’s artfully formed mouth. “I delight in the company of knowledge and have no regard for those who would destroy it.”

The dark-haired female seemingly floated over to where Scanlan lay in the wagon. She was too large for a fairy or an elf, yet seemed too small for a human adult. Deirdre shook the fanciful notion from her mind, but it took a stronger effort for the woman Alric had awakened in her to dismiss the possible threat of his former lover’s presence.

Aelfled did indeed live up to her namesake—
elf beauty
—but she was no more some magical creature than anyone else, Deirdre told herself, watching Cairell practically fall over his own feet to help the healer into the can. The eyes of all the men present were drawn like moths to her flame.