Thief (28 page)

“Thank you, milord. I would not have taken you and Caden for brothers, but for that same square jaw and dimple in the chin. It’s supposed to be a sign of a dominant nature.”

“Then we are betrayed by our chins,” Ronan countered with a smile full of teeth that put Caden to mind of a mule with the colic.

“And you, Caden, are you well?” She placed a hand on his chest, and his heart lurched as if it had been mule kicked. “I truly didn’t mean to run you and your champion down with Elfwyn.”

“You can run me down on a crazy warhorse any day, milady.” Egan chuckled. “’Twas worth seein’ the look on that buck’s face”—he pointed to Caden—“if nothin’ else.”

Both Egan and Ronan made fools of themselves, but Caden was no better. He’d yet to find his tongue. As she’d adapted to the role of warrior queen earlier, Sorcha now played the refined lady to perfection. Who was this woman, really?

“I think you must have knocked his tongue loose, meself,” Egan observed wryly.

The taunt broke the spell, and Caden clutched at the anger he’d felt when he’d seen Sorcha and the horse barreling toward them instead of hying to safety as he’d instructed.

“My tongue is just fine, O’Toole. As for
you
, milady,” Caden said to Sorcha, “I am glad to see that you’ve recovered your mind. You could have been killed out there. I told you to make for the tavern. If that Saxon had held his ground—”

“But he didn’t.”

Abba help him, he could fall into the round pools of green she turned so sweetly upon him.

There came a time in battle when a man had to fight or flee. Caden had nowhere to run. Not that he’d ever chosen that option. “Now you listen well, woman. I didn’t risk life and limb to bring you home to your mother with a broken—”

Sorcha stood on tiptoe and kissed Caden into silence. It wasn’t a long or passionate affection, but just as effective as a sword slice through his bluster.

“And I thank you, sir, for all the risks you took for my sake.” She glanced toward the door facing the river, her face turning grave. “And for those all of you may be taking for our sake.”

Leaving Caden standing speechless, Sorcha took a seat on the bench next to him and folded her hands before her. Delicate hands with long fingers that could make a harp or pipe sing. And no doubt any man with blood still warm in his veins.

“So now, gentlemen, what are our options?” she asked.

Myrna took a place at the board as well, allowing her daughter the role she’d held for Sorcha for so long. The woman fairly beamed with pride and joy.

“Tunwulf will not go away without a fight.”

Caden swallowed an oath batted forth from the fray in his mind among anger, exasperation, and something he’d not felt in a long time. The urge to take this firebrand in his arms and show her what a real kiss was.

“The man cannot be reasoned with,” Sorcha continued.

At least that much they agreed upon.

Chapter Twenty-eight

The night passed without further incident, but no one rested with the threat of imminent attack. Sorcha hadn’t had time to meet Malachy, her uncle. The priest-turned-laird had taken it upon himself to gather his levy of local farmers and fishermen to fortify Trebold’s dilapidated fort in case the Saxons forded the Lader downstream and tried to outflank the Glenarden troops by seizing the upper ground on its knoll behind the tavern. They were few in number and with little more than the tools of their trade for weapons, so Ronan had sent a small detachment of spearmen to reinforce them. They at least could warn of a rear attack and detain any ambitious Saxons until the warriors could organize a shieldwall around the tavern. Beyond that, no one ventured to plan, for it would be muscle against muscle, will to will.

The rest of the men had worked in the cover of darkness to dig a ditch the full length of the crossing, which they filled with brush and such pitch as the local fishermen kept for repairing their boats. A hastily assembled wicker and stave fence hid the fire pit from Saxon view. It was only natural for Sorcha to help her mother and the women and children of the men in the hillfort, who’d sought the shelter of the tavern. They kept the children in the kitchen and worked to keep the men’s cups and bellies full. In between trips to and from the chaotic kitchen, which was attached in the back with a covered archway, they listened to the men make their plans.

It would be a long and drawn-out battle, with Tunwulf swooping in with his men, stinging like bees, and retreating until one of them had expended their weapons or their manpower. There was no hope of support from Arthur via the Angus at Strighlagh, involved in holding the Picts north of the Clyde, or Modred of Lothian, who was bound by politics and surrounded in Bernicia. Glenarden and Trebold stood alone.

“Our best hope is that Tunwulf will grow weary of losing men,” Ronan observed. “As for us, we’ve made the best defenses we can, and thankfully we’ve plenty of food and water.”

When Sorcha wasn’t busy with the warriors or the refugees, she and her mother continued their reunion in snatches. She answered Myrna’s questions, assuring her mother that she’d had a happy childhood with Wulfram and Aelwyn, that she’d been educated to read and write by her Cymri cousin, and that music was her love.

“That was your father’s,” Myrna said, pointing out a harp hanging on a peg over the stairwell. It was plain compared to Eavlyn’s, engraved with simple spirals. “He made it himself and played it more to soothe his nerves than for entertainment. I know that neither he nor I could be prouder of you than if we’d raised you ourselves.”

If there had been any bitterness left in Sorcha’s heart, it was no longer there. Her birth parents had done all they could to find her. And her mother’s God had watched over Sorcha when they could not. Even when Sorcha hadn’t known Him. The fickle Wyrds had naught to do with her life, and God had everything to do with it. The wonder of it was more than she could grasp.

Her spirit shot upward with such joy, only to plummet when she realized that these men, these brave strangers, were about to fight and possibly die because of Tunwulf’s ambition. Sorcha could not rest when the men finally retired to grab the last hours of darkness in sleep. Even Myrna collapsed on the bed next to Sorcha after praising God and thanking Him for bringing her daughter home. Her mother’s words weren’t bard-worthy, but Sorcha couldn’t help the tears that trickled down her cheeks, nor withhold her own “Amen” to them.

Home. Sorcha eased out of the bed and walked to the window of the upstairs bedchamber. Tunwulf’s fires had dimmed beyond the river fog that separated the enemy from her home. Soon this side would be a battlefield between two fierce armies, putting the lives of her family and the man she loved at risk.

Sorcha had known when she’d first laid eyes on Caden that her life would never be the same. And Myrna had confirmed that love was what had developed in Sorcha’s heart for the man. “Why else would a woman put up with a man’s clumsy and surly ways?” Myrna had teased when Sorcha confessed that she would readily die for Caden on the one hand and just as fast slap him senseless with the other. “Because we can see the heart that beats beneath his growling, the one that tells her she is everything to him. The heart that makes hers dance.”

Sorcha wrapped herself in her arms. There had to be an answer besides warfare. There was no easy victory in store for either side. And there was no plunder worth taking at Trebold. Only the revenge of one crazed man. A shudder ran her through. She’d die first before submitting to Tunwulf.

Forcing back her panic, Sorcha focused on the still encampment beyond the water. The best Tunwulf’s men could hope for were more weapons, armor, and some warrior rings.

But what if she made it worth the while of his men to go home? Warriors fought for wealth from plunder or their lord for their service. She knew what made their hearts beat in anticipation and in fear. She was a scop. A bard.

Her gaze traveled to the hook on the door where she’d hung her harp bag. There was a small fortune in jewels in there. Gold as well. And the Elford wolf ring with its ruby eyes. ’Twas all worth more than weapons and warrior rings hammered from the iron of a conquered enemy’s spear blade.

The image of her father’s harp hanging over the staircase came to her mind, and words began to flow in her heart. Her plight. The enemy’s plight. The foolishness of it all.

Oh, Heavenly Father!

Caden stirred from the pallet he’d made of his cloak near the fire. His nostrils filled with the stench of stale mead, wood smoke, and—he opened his eyes—Egan O’Toole’s mucked boots. Caden gathered Delg under him and turned over to face the other way. He always slept with his sword, even among comrades. Though Delg was a poor substitute for a certain soft, warm, redheaded thief. Thoughts of the silken brush of her hair beneath his chin made him smile.

Guilt wiped it away. He hadn’t exactly been gallant or grateful over her mad rescue. But then, the greater distance he put between them the better. He didn’t need the distraction, and she needed no encouragement to think of a future that would not be. They weren’t like Brenna and Ronan. Brenna brought out the best in Ronan. Sorcha seemed to bring out the worst in him, mostly by scaring him witless with her impulsive nature and angering him. Jumping out of a boat, charging on a horse she couldn’t ride …

“
Come rise, ye men of valor, and hear a tale of hope.…”

The strong and beautiful voice brought Caden bolt upright and shook the men around him with invisible hands. Most just lifted their heads, as though not certain if they were dreaming or waking. With a wonderstruck oath, Egan beat Caden to his feet and led the way to the tavern door, which he threw open. It banged against the side of the building, causing the guards on duty, who stared off into the mist from which the voice emanated, to jump.

“’Tis a fairy,” one said in awe.

“An angel,” said another.

A woman sat on a horse in the middle of the river. Indeed, with the sun’s light barely brimming on the horizon and casting a golden glow onto the lingering mist and the bronze robe swathed about her, she did look otherworldly. Especially when her cloak of shining hair caught its fire.

Caden’s heart plunged as cold as the fast-running water under Elfwyn’s belly as Egan corrected the men.

“I’m thinkin’ it’s Caden’s bard.”

“Lady Sorcha,” Ronan echoed from behind. “Fetch two horses,” he ordered one of his men calmly. “Be quick.”

“I’ll get her.” Caden started away from the tavern, but Ronan caught him. “You take men to the left side of the ditch. I’ll take the rest to the other. But hold there, lest we provoke yon spellbound Saxons into an attack.”

Spellbound? This was exactly the kind of distraction he’d worried about. Caden buried his panic to assess the situation as a seasoned warrior should.

Saxons stood beyond the thinning mist, still and speechless. But then they weren’t as given to the protocol of exchanging eloquent insults before battle as the Cymri. When the Cymri hurled insults, the Saxons simply raised their axes and charged.

But no weapons were raised. Aside from guards, the rest of Tunwulf’s men stood as though caught in a dream from which they’d not yet awakened. The mist was a mixed blessing, for while Ronan and Caden’s small force made its way unseen around and to the wings of the disguised fire ditch, Caden could not make Tunwulf’s tall, arrogant figure out among the wild-haired, fur-clad enemy.

What did Sorcha hope to do? Sing them to sleep?

It was only as her words penetrated Caden’s consciousness that he caught on. She told their story. How she and the Saxon renegades came to be here at this moment. She pointed out Tunwulf’s treachery against his own father and Rhianon, who had stood loyally by him.

“Such is the fate of those who serve a mad lord such as he.”

By Abba’s wonders, a few of the men exchanged glances, although Caden couldn’t tell if they laughed or took the words to heart. Sung as the song was, filled with soul sent on the wings of music, it was only a truly hard heart that could not be moved by Sorcha’s plight. And what deeds she attributed to the Christian God who protected her. He cast a spell upon the guards, caused Caden’s chains to fall away, and enabled her to overcome Tunwulf’s untoward advances with a hard blow from her harp.

Snickers from the Saxon warband goaded Tunwulf into revealing himself. He stepped forward, swathed in a black cloak that billowed with his movement. No doubt the bones of some of his victims had been sewn to it. Caden had seen such used for intimidation.

“You lie, vixen.”

But if Sorcha was shaken by the sight, she never flinched
. “If I lie, villain, then you were overcome by a mere woman with naught but a song and a harp, sir,”
she replied in song with a royal disdain. Like a queen, a fairy queen bathed in sunlight
. “Do you wish to tempt my God again? For I have just begun to tell of the wonders He has worked on our journey, including the one many have already heard about. He protected me from a wild boar’s charge at the king’s hunt with nothing more than a priest with a story staff that gloried this God.”

Seemingly uncertain, Tunwulf stepped back. Were she not in danger, Caden would have laughed at him. Instead, he watched the Saxons like a hawk. A few fetched weapons and donned armor, for Sorcha had clearly caught them before they had stirred. But most were enchanted by the ethereal vision who had touched hidden places where fear and awe dwelt.

“And, mark my words,”
she warned them,
“He watches your slightest move as I speak.”

Her threat gave those collecting themselves pause. But if Tunwulf took one more step, Caden was ready to lead a charge at them—afoot, if need be. Delg was already drawn and hidden in his shadow, lest the sun give away its polished, newly sharpened blade.

With flying fingers, Sorcha drummed up the storm in which they’d escaped in a leaking boat that had miraculously run aground on solid beach in the midst of the marsh. ’Twas the home of a golden angel who cared for them three days and then vanished into thin air. His upriver neighbors had never heard of the beautiful, gentle Owain, and only one other had seen him.

“Vanished.”
She plucked a high chord.
“As though he’d never existed at all.”

Caden almost believed the story himself, the way she spun it. He wanted to.

By the time Sorcha reached Elfwyn’s magnificent change, the thin mare had pranced sidewise upriver against the current, almost to where Caden could easily reach Sorcha with the horse that he’d now mounted.

“And how, good men, could I allow the man I love to be cut down by those whose only quarrel with him was conjured by the vengeful heart of a villain?”

Love?
Caden struck his chest as if to knock sense into his skipping heart.
Watch the Saxons, not her.

“Poor nag that Elfwyn was,”
Sorcha sang,
“God made her into a fierce warhorse who attacked men with her hooves and snorted fire.”
As if to prove herself, the mare heaved up on her haunches and snorted fierce as the thunder god’s breath.

The Saxons stepped back as a group, Tunwulf included.

For a moment, Caden thought Sorcha and her harp would tumble into the unprotected water, but she somehow managed to hold on, her copper hair flying behind her like a war goddess. How could he not love her?