Thief (14 page)

“No need for the dagger, sir,” Caden told him. “There’s really nothing to discuss as far as I’m concerned.” As if to demonstrate his peaceful intentions, he placed both hands square on the table. “The past is past.”

Victory, the kind Sorcha had seen light a man’s eye over the throwboard, flickered in Caden’s steely gaze. “She’s all yours, if you want her.”

Rhianon gasped, bristling like a doused hen. That she said nothing told Sorcha she was torn as to how to respond. Though his indifference was callous, Caden had in essence just set her free.

But why?

Tunwulf was also wary. “What of your marriage?”

“It was a Christian ceremony.” Caden shrugged. “What do either of you care about that? Besides, given our lovely lady is known to be a devious witch, as witnessed before a priest, an annulment by the church can easily be had.”

Sorcha resisted the urge to spit at any evil that might ride on the tail of such a statement. While she believed only in the Wyrds or fate and used gods to swear by, she did believe in evil. Would she had an iron amulet to touch, lest it somehow infect her. As it was, she hoped touching the poker by the fire with her gaze would suffice.

“How …
did
you survive?” Rhianon asked.

“I would ask you the same,
milady.
” A mocking tilt grazed Caden’s mouth.

“My men found her half drowned on the riverbank,” Tunwulf informed him. “Mad out of her mind, she was at first.”

Caden leaned forward. “What about the child?”

“What child?” Rhianon froze, a quick pause that implied the wish to retract her impulsive reply.

Caden’s expression grew hard as granite.

Sorcha wrung her apron in her hands. Perhaps he’d counted his victory too soon.

“Oh,” Rhianon said, as though suddenly pricked by a ghost from the past. Her face fell. “It did not survive the plunge into the river.” She leaned forward and placed her small white hand over his. “And what about you?” she prompted softly.

Hair pricked at Sorcha’s neck when she detected a scam afoot and, at the moment, it was even dancing. Surely Caden didn’t believe that drama of remorse-turned-concern, even if it was skillfully performed.

The wench didn’t even remember a child!

“The better man won, in spite of all your schemes,
milady
.”

Better
man? Surely not Tunwulf.

“Ronan spared me, and Arthur exiled me from kin and clan lands—” he told her.

Ronan … his brother.

“—and the peace beyond ken came to be after all.”

Peace beyond understanding? Sorcha picked up the end of a twisted length of golden trim that Gemma was sewing over a seam where she’d added to the length of the dress. Whatever was
that
about?

“That accursed
prophecy.
” Rhianon touched one of the many jeweled rings on her finger as though warding off an unseen threat.

A prophecy with a power to make a witch squirm, a battle of brother versus brother, and an adulterous affair. The songstress in Sorcha recognized the makings of a good ballad, though she was more interested in Caden’s part in it.

“And I have sought warfare elsewhere,” Caden went on, “as a mercenary in Lothian. It suits me better than wedded bliss.”

“Hah!” Tunwulf helped himself to another cup of wine. “We’re more alike than I thought, friend.”

“You can surely see why I was so attracted to Tunwulf, after I thought I’d lost you.” Rhianon leaned against her companion’s broad shoulders, helpless as a kitten … with very sharp claws.

“You two are the better match to be sure.” Caden shoved away from the table to rise, when Tunwulf stopped him.

“But wait. Now that that’s settled, I’d know what business you have with my future stepmother?”

Sorcha caught herself midgroan, hoping no one noticed. Tunwulf was as much bane of her present as of her future. He’d use anything Caden told him against her and Cynric.

“I came upon a villain giving these two ladies trouble yesterday,” Caden replied smoothly. “He threatened to burn this establishment down over a loan they owed the oaf’s employer.”

“It was Athelstan’s man Wada,” Sorcha informed Tunwulf. “He all but admitted in front of Caden and several others that he was responsible for the fire that killed my parents. I intend to tell Cynric about his extortion, but Gemma and I offered Caden a night’s lodging to keep watch for us … in case Wada made his threat good to come back,” she added for propriety’s sake.

“Athelstan the moneylender?” Tunwulf questioned. A sly smile widened his mustache. “I wonder if Father realizes he’s marrying for a debt instead of a proper dowry?”

Sorcha’s cheeks flamed again. And her neck. Even her chest grew hot. “Your concern for me is overwhelming, sir. As for the loan, it was paid in full before a host of witnesses, so my business and dowry are sound. If you knew anything at all about trade, you’d know loans are part of the business for most of us.”

She got up from the bench she shared with Gemma. “And now it’s my turn to be asking questions, I think. What is
your
business with us?”

“The princess has requested you attend her immediately,” Rhianon informed her. The lady was still wan, but calculation had rekindled in her gaze. “It seems the Saxon servants’ mastery of the Cymri tongue is sadly lacking.”

Sorcha gasped. “Do you mean she wants me to come
today
?” Her dresses weren’t ready.
She
wasn’t ready.

“
Us
, darling,” Rhianon corrected, as though that should be reassuring. “Between us, we can see the princess properly received by the women in Hussa’s court.”

“And Father is expected to arrive from Elford this morning,” Tunwulf put in. “He will want to see you at the king’s reception tonight, of course.”

The mention of Cynric’s presence was more comforting to Sorcha than Rhianon’s assurance. Cynric, Sorcha trusted.

Although Sorcha wondered if she’d lost her ability to read people. She’d begun to trust Caden as well. But his association with Rhianon and Tunwulf and the events they alluded to had unraveled any scrap of goodwill that Sorcha had for him.

“Then I’ll make ready,” Sorcha decided aloud. Known factors suited her better than the unknown represented by the stranger, whoever he was.

“And a court life is what you really want?” Caden studied her from across the room.

No. Sorcha wanted to be a lady in her own right so that she could help the captive children. This was simply a means to an end. One that would do honor to her parents as well.

“If serving the princess honors my betrothed, then it is what I want.”

Sorcha only wished she were as confident as she sounded.

Chapter Twelve

The population of Din Guardi worked like bees in a hive to feed the king’s court and guests from Lothian. Above the unwalled town’s support system of shops and cottages loomed the wooden fortress itself, enclosed by a palisade. As the cart sent to bring Sorcha to Princess Eavlyn passed through the gate, Sorcha was so taken by the elaborate gilded carvings adorning the posts that she forgot her anxiety. Above, banners fluttered like great winged birds against an azure sky.

The place seemed bigger than when she’d visited with her father. To one side of the massive compound, there were stables, barns, and sunken shelters for harvest storage. On the other were similar structures, the shops and homes of the artisans. But it was the great hall and its surrounding buildings that took Sorcha’s breath away.

The rising mass of timber framing was big enough to entertain Hussa’s warband and those of his thanes. The bright afternoon sun practiced its alchemy on it, turning its steep straw roof to bright gold. The field where the warriors would hone their skills during the Long Dark was a spread of colorful tents belonging to those guests and servants whom the hall could not accommodate.

“I have to say, your dwarf did a good job of adding length to your dress. The cord looks like it belongs,” Rhianon observed from the fur-lined bench next to Sorcha. Rhianon meant it as a compliment and, rather than put off Sorcha’s only friend in this strange place, Sorcha let the insult to Gemma go.

But how she missed Gemma already! Her friend had not put down her needle all day. There’d hardly been time to say good-bye as the little woman helped her into the dress and robe. But as Gemma sewed, Sorcha expressed her misgivings, regarding both the plan to marry Cynric and, after learning some of Caden’s secrets, accompanying him to Trebold.

Gemma favored neither one option nor the other.
“
Take your time and think it over and then over again before you make your decision.
Consider what would make you most happy and the price you are willing to pay for that happiness. Decide accordingly.”

Sorcha drifted off in thought, only to be drawn back by Rhianon’s delighted gasp.

“Oh, how lovely!”

The women’s compound had come into view. It was separated from the king’s hall by a garden spotted with evergreen shrubs and beds filled with late-blooming flowers and herbs. A trellised walk covered in vines connected the queen’s hall to that of her husband. Other trellises connected the network of private quarters to the smaller hall. About it all was a wattle fence to keep the wandering livestock out.

“Prince Hering’s mother had a fondness for growing things,” a rather robust woman announced, stepping out from under the cover of a trellis. “I am Mildrith, the seneschal’s wife,” she continued in a booming voice. Given her height, half a head above Sorcha’s, and her wide-shouldered build, Mildrith had the wherewithal to back it up.

“Queen Ebba had this area laid out in squares separated by these stone-paved walks—” Mildrith opened the gate and led the way into the compound —“as a reminder of her father’s vast farmlands along the Rhine. Since she went to Valhalla, our new Queen Aella and the royal ladies have seen it maintained. On warm days, they sit in the sun and sew on yon benches.”

She pointed a thick arm to massive tree trunks laid upon the ground, their tops planed smooth. Sorcha took note of the various creatures befitting a meadow that had been carved into their bark exterior—hare, deer, and fox. Four of the seats were situated around a moss-bedecked statue of a woman, a goddess, perhaps, with a lyre tucked in one arm.

“It’s quite unlike anything I’ve ever seen,” Sorcha marveled. “How Gemma … my friend,” she explained, “would adore such a place!”

“It’s very pretty come spring and through summer till late fall,” Mildrith said with a smile of approval.

Clearly the royal ladies were not the only ones who took pride in the garden.

Mildrith led them to a small house and pointed to the door. “Your attendant may stay here with the other servants. You will stay in yon princess’s bower.” She indicated another dwelling next to the queen’s hall.

“But this is not acceptable,” Rhianon objected. “I must attend Milady Sorcha. She’d be lost without me. I’ll have you know I’m soon to be Thane Elford’s daughter-by-law.”

Sorcha stared at Rhianon in disbelief. Hadn’t Tunwulf disparaged marital bliss in their presence just yesterday?

“Then when you are elevated to the rank of lady, perhaps the princess will reconsider,” Mildrith replied, unfazed by Rhianon’s indignation. “Until then, it’s in with the servants you go.”

“We’ll see about this.” Rhianon sniffed. The viperish look she gave Mildrith might have withered the stone goddess, but not the seneschal’s wife.

“And now, Milady Sorcha,” Mildrith said as Rhianon huffed away after the servants with her trunk, “Princess Eavlyn is most anxious to meet you. It seems someone has been singing your praises in her ear.”

“Oh?” Not Cynric. Rhianon said he had arrived only this afternoon from Elford’s southern borderland.

“Come along,” Mildrith prodded when Sorcha’s tumbling thoughts caused her to fall behind. “Just because you’re young doesn’t mean this damp air won’t settle in your joints as well when you lay your head down tonight.”

Sorcha sped up, unable to hold her grin back any longer. She liked Mildrith. Thank the Wyrds that Mildrith seemed to like her as well.

Chapter Thirteen

Mildrith admitted Sorcha to the princess’s bower and told her to wait until Eavlyn, who was in the queen’s hall, joined her. The building was little more spacious than Sorcha’s main room, but divided by screen into what Sorcha assumed was a private sleeping chamber to the rear and a section containing cushioned benches around the central hearth. A shelf beneath a mirror on the wall near its single window held a carved ivory comb and a brush, as well as an oil lamp and vials, perfumes no doubt.

In the corner nearest the door, Sorcha spotted a harp with Celtic knotwork carved into its rich, oiled wood. The edges of the frame were gilded in contrast. Surely such an instrument was fit for a princess.

Unable to resist, Sorcha picked it up and plucked at the gut strings. Whoever played it kept it in good tune. Pleased, she began to play a soft, soothing melody that Eadric had taught her. It was supposed to have eased the pain of the Irish god Dagda’s wife during childbirth. Closing her eyes, Sorcha let it work its magic until she no longer played the melody but was a part of it, swaying in time.

It was thus that Princess Eavlyn found her, though how long the lady had stood listening in the door, Sorcha had no idea. Only when her fingers had wound down to the final notes was she aware of her audience.

“Don’t stop, please!” the lady implored in the Cumbric of the Britons. In a flow of soft blue woolen skirts lavish with gold embroidery, she took the bench next to Sorcha by the hearth.

But Sorcha was on her feet, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, milady,” she responded in the same tongue. “I didn’t mean to be presumptuous, but I’ve never played such a fine instrument as this.”

“It’s never been played so well,” Princess Eavlyn replied sheepishly. “My father had it made for me, but alas, my interest was more in the stars and their secrets than in music.” She motioned for Sorcha to sit. “And in truth, the commotion of the men in the hall, boasting about who will take down the biggest prize on tomorrow’s hunt, has left me with a slight headache. So you have come to my rescue in more than one way.”

A hunt. Now that piqued Sorcha’s interest. But her duty was to the princess. “Has your maidservant prepared a medicinal tea for your head?” she asked, adopting Gemma’s caring yet authoritative manner.

“She fetches it from the kitchen as we speak.”

Eavlyn smiled, her inner beauty lending a glow to what were, at first glimpse, plain features. It was her eyes, Sorcha decided, that caused the glow. Bright as a fawn’s on a spring morning. And warm as sunshine.

“Thank you for your concern, Sorcha. May I call you by your given name in the privacy of my chamber?”

Sorcha was taken aback by the woman’s humility. Such a vast difference between this princess and Rhianon. “By all means, milady. I was just plagued with the same ache yesterday, so I can surely empathize.”

“Just the walk from the hall has helped.” The gentle lady clasped her hands in delight. “God has so blessed me! You not only speak my language fluently, but you play the harp like an angel.
And
,” she added in a low voice, “I heard you sing like one too.”

An angel. A Christian’s fairy or elf, or so Sorcha had heard. Regardless, it was intended as a compliment. “Thank you, milady. Although, if you know that, you also know that I am but a lowly scop who sings for a living in a tavern … when I’m not carrying on my father’s business.”

“Lady Sorcha, I can tell you now that you have more heart and honor than most of the royal ladies with whom I’ve spent this day,” Eavlyn declared. “They cackle like hens in their own tongue about me, and I know enough Anglish to tell my interpreter is not translating all that is said.”

“Whyever not?”

“She’s a Saxon, herself a slave purchased by my father when I was twelve,” Eavlyn explained. “It’s natural, I suppose, that her loyalties lie with her own people, no matter how well we’ve treated her.”

Slavery. How Sorcha detested the notion. Yet it was widely practiced, accepted as the norm in all the known world. “Mayhaps your woman hopes to save you from embarrassment or insult.”

Eavlyn grew somber. “That may be so,” she admitted, “and shame on me for not thinking of that. But I need to know who my enemies are and who are not. I need someone who will tell me all. Surely you know my position is weak in this foreign court.”

“And yet, you trust
me?”

“We have common ancestry in Lothian. More than that in common,” Eavlyn added.

Sorcha’s wonder continued to climb. “Oh?”

“We’re both to be married not for love, but for a larger cause.”

Had Caden told the lady about the children? Somehow Sorcha imagined him as a lowly guardsman, not someone with the lady’s ear. Though he’d said he was once a prince.

“My hope,” Eavlyn continued, “is to bring God’s Word to my husband’s kingdom, and yours is to save captured children.”

So it
was
Caden. Except this lady had naught but admiration in her eye for Sorcha’s quest. No disdain or looks of pity.

“I have tried to see as many as I could back to their homes. Sad to say, I couldn’t save them all.”

“Nor will all listen to God’s Word,” Eavlyn commiserated. “But for each one who does accept Jesus the Christ as Lord and Savior, all Heaven celebrates.”

Christian Valhalla. Somehow Sorcha couldn’t imagine the warriors who’d gone on caring whether those left behind joined them or nay. The main objective of a warrior was that those who were left behind remembered the warrior’s greatness in song and esteemed his family as well for it.

“The important thing is that we
try
,” the lady emphasized. She leaned forward, animated with passion. “
We
have a purpose for our lives, Sorcha, more than filling a lord’s cup and warming his bed.”

“Aye.” Though Sorcha would consider herself blessed not to be reminded of her future in Cynric’s bed. “And I am honored to help you in any way I can.”

Still, she liked the Princess Eavlyn. Never in her dreams did she think she could have something in common with a woman of Eavlyn’s rank, much less a foreigner. Yet here Sorcha was, drawn to want to help and protect her. And made to feel like a sister, rather than a servant. It was almost magical, this common ground they found.

A tap on the door brought Eavlyn to her feet. “That must be Lunid with the tea.”

A slender, shy maiden, muffled in a robe the gold of autumn oak leaves, entered the room, carrying a tray with a teapot and three cups. After introductions, Lunid served them, lacing Eavlyn’s tea with ground elm bark, and put the teapot over the coals to keep the water warm.

“God has answered our prayers with Sorcha, Lunid,” Eavlyn assured the servant, who kept a wary eye on Sorcha.

“But she’s still a heathen,” the maidservant pointed out.

Sorcha stiffened at the quiet reproof in Lunid’s tone.

“Sometimes
we
are as well,” Eavlyn said over the cup of steaming tea. “As when we forget the source of our blessings and try to move on without Him. We are all on a spiritual journey, but not always on the same road.”

“I’ve never given much thought to such things,” Sorcha admitted. “But I work too hard to offer sacrifices to some god who may or may not exist. Better the food be in the bellies of my family and the children or my coin toward their welfare.”

Lunid crossed herself.

Had she sensed evil, Sorcha would have spit like her fellow
heathens.
In this case, all she felt was Lunid’s pious disapproval. Perhaps even fear of her. Christians were a superstitious lot.

“Though I do swear to Freya,” she added, just to see what Lunid would do.

Another cross.

“Not that I worship the goddess,” Sorcha explained. “But ’tis better than swearing on my loved ones’ bones when I can find no words to suit my exasperation or anger.”

Unlike Lunid, Eavlyn neither shrank from the subject nor acted superior.

“We believe that Christ made the sacrifice of His life for us,” Eavlyn told Sorcha, pulling her from her mischief. “That freed us from such burdensome sacrifices.”

Sorcha scowled. “Your God sacrificed Himself? What manner of god would do such a thing?”

“One who came to earth in human form so He would know firsthand the trials we face. And He, who was sinless, sacrificed Himself to pay for all our sins.”

Stories were filled with gods taking human form to practice their mischief upon the mortals, but this was the first Sorcha had heard of one coming to be sacrificed for mankind’s sake. Still—

“Why should we have to sacrifice anything, sinful or not?” she objected. “Fate cast us our lot, no matter how good or bad we are. Life is naught but in the hands of the Wyrds.”

“So if we’ve done something bad, you don’t think it affects us and our future?” Eavlyn asked.

“Aye, but we are punished by a blood price. If you commit a crime against another man, you’ll have to pay the wergild. That blood price is the consequence. Or death, if the crime is vile enough,” Sorcha reasoned aloud. “That has nothing to do with gods.”

Eavlyn smiled. “That is mankind’s justice. We have similar judicial practices for dealing with breakers of the law on This Side. But God’s justice may not be dealt to the offender until after his or her death. Christ’s sacrifice or pardon applies on
both
sides of the divide between life and death.”

“
If
there is life beyond death,” Sorcha countered, wondering just how many times she could force the silly maidservant to cross herself.

Some Saxons believed in Valhalla like their fjord-dwelling neighbors to the north, though it seemed reserved for warriors or people of great accomplishment. Certainly such a place was beyond her means. Others said the deceased was given another life, one better blessed by the Wyrds than the last one. All she knew was that when one was buried, the body stayed in the ground until naught but bones remained … along with whatever material goods that would not perish. Goods that could better have been put to use by the living left behind.

“We believe that upon death, the spirit, not the body, ascends to Heaven, a paradise, if one has accepted Christ as their Savior. If one has not, then their spirit is trapped in hell, a place of the dead where eternal torment awaits. The body itself returns to the earth, for it was but a house for the spirit on This Side.”

“But you cannot know this for certain,” Sorcha challenged. “No one has returned from the dead.”

“Christ did.”

“You
say
He did,” Sorcha replied.

“There were witnesses who saw Him after His death and burial,” Eavlyn assured her. “It is His resurrection that we celebrate every spring.”

When Sorcha’s skepticism did not waver, the princess tried another approach. “Does not human life mimic all nature with its seasons?”

Leafbud—birth; Sun Season—prime; Leaf Fall—old age; and the Long Dark of death.

“Aye,” Sorcha said slowly. “But no one knows where mankind’s next Leafbud will be.”

“Jesus came back to tell us. It will be in Heaven for those who believe in Him. He told His followers of the many mansions in His Father’s Heaven being prepared for them.”

“Jesus Christ isn’t the Father God?”

“God is three forms in one. The Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”

That was it. Sorcha had heard enough to make her head spin.

Apparently sensing that Sorcha had reached the limits of her curiosity, Eavlyn reached across and patted Sorcha’s knee. “We’ll speak more of this later if you so desire. If the Holy Word is so great that it cannot be fit into one book, how can we possibly absorb it all with our small brain?” She pointed to her head and laughed.

It was a lot to fathom and an interesting story as well. And Eavlyn was adept at telling it.

“You would make a good bard, were you not so curious about the stars,” Sorcha complimented her.

“Perhaps because this is more than just a story to me. It is the truth indelibly etched in my heart and soul. I live my life for it, according to it.”

Indeed the fire of the lady’s belief burned in her gaze.

“And you, Sorcha, follow Jesus’ commands, even though you aren’t familiar with Him,” Eavlyn told her.

“
Milady!”
Lunid would surely wear the front of her overdress threadbare if the conversation continued much longer.

But Sorcha had to know what it was she did that would please this Jesus God. “And how is that, milady?”

“God instructs us to care for the widows and orphans. You care for the helpless,” Eavlyn explained, “just as He does, by saving the children orphaned by captivity and returning them to their families. The same love in your heart that presses you toward such a goal is the very love that made Him die for those of us who didn’t even know Him.”

Sorcha wrapped herself in the thought. Aye, she’d risk her life for the little ones.
Had
already risked her livelihood.

“I see much of Jesus in you, Sorcha,” Eavlyn went on. “And I pray that you will see His love in me.”