Claire Delacroix (20 page)

Garth had confided once that the sheep were terrified at the sight of his cab.

Baird couldn’t blame them.

Garth himself was as mismatched as his cab, but a genial sort beneath his crusty exterior. He had a penchant for wearing a blue plaid shirt with orange shorts that were an unwelcome reminder of the psychedelic sixties. The ensemble coordinated with a pair of green Wellington boots, none of it varying, regardless of the weather.

It was frightening to think that a man could have more than one pair of shorts like that. Baird didn’t want to know.

Garth’s carrot orange hair always resembled a severely abused brillo pad and his eyebrows seemed to crawl across his brow with a life of their own. His nose was permanently red and it was no real surprise that the phone number for Garth’s Cab Livery was exactly the same as that of the Boar and Thistle Pub.

Garth had taken it upon himself to give his conveyance the decoration he thought it deserved as the island’s sole taxi for hire. The inside had originally been upholstered in crimson vinyl, but now that interior had seen better days. It was patched with mismatched strips and lavished with mementoes of Prince Charles’ wedding to Lady Diana Spencer.

A cross-stitched cushion illustrating the glorious event was sealed in plastic for all time and held a position of honor in the center of the back seat. Stickers and posters covered the interior walls of the cab.

Aurelia’s eyes rounded like saucers when she climbed in and Baird couldn’t blame her. He’d had a good look himself when he first stepped into Garth’s cab.

Garth started the vehicle and the pair of commemorative teaspoons hanging from the rear view mirror shuddered. The cab coughed, farted, wheezed, then settled into an approximation of a consistent hum.

“Where you off to today, guv?” Garth came complete with a diluted variant of a Cockney accent.

“Just into town.” Baird leaned forward as the car slid into gear with a whine. He thought he heard Aurelia gasp, but then, he had been surprised that this dilapidated cab could actually move, as well. He braced his elbows against the back of the front seat. “Is there a women’s clothing store there?”

Garth whistled through his teeth. “You’ll be needing to see Marge, I’ll wager. She’s the only one as follows the trends.”

Baird shrugged, hoping that Marge had something worth buying. “Then, Marge’s place it is.”

Aurelia caught her breath when Garth cleared the resort’s new gates and accelerated to a dazzling twenty-five miles an hour. The sheep ran in all directions, fleeing in terror before Garth and his trusty cab.

Aurelia looked as spooked as the sheep. She gripped the armrest as though she was seeing her life pass before her eyes.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said in a low voice that Garth wouldn’t be able to hear over the grumbling engine. “He’s not that bad a driver.”

“I am afraid of nothing!” Aurelia retorted, though her death grip on the armrest said otherwise.

“Right. Half Viking. I remember.”

Baird settled back in his seat and wondered whether Aurelia had only been used to horses and carts. He certainly hadn’t seen a lot of cars out here and this might just be another unfamiliar experience for her.

At any rate, shopping would cheer her up.

It worked for women everywhere.

* * *

The strange chariot carried them away from Dunhelm and around the curve of the coastline. After Aurelia gave up looking for the horses that pulled the chariot, she was amazed at the smooth black surface of the road that had recently been a track in the dirt, riddled with ruts. The only thing familiar about the scene before her was the slope of the land and the hundreds of foolish sheep, bolting in every direction.

Aurelia attributed this to Julian’s magic, because she could think of no other reasonable explanation.

The chariot lurched to a halt in the midst of a cluster of stone homes that Aurelia did not recognize. There had been no dwellings here, she knew very well, though these looked soundly rooted to the spot.

A stone cross rose high in the middle of the cobbled square, a reminder of the ascendency of Julian’s faith. It was amazing that so much could have been constructed so quickly - let alone that it could look so aged.

Aurelia wondered again how much time could have passed while Julian’s herbs kept her sleeping.

Could it have been an entire year? Her father could be far across the sea if that were so!

Aurelia watched with fascination as Bard doled out pieces of vellum to the driver. That remarkably garbed man grinned from ear to ear as he closed his hand over the notes.

“Thank you, guv! You’ll know where to find me when you’re set to go back!”

Bard nodded, flicking a wry glance Aurelia’s way. The driver winked, left his chariot where it stood and trotted toward a building wrought of dark wood with wattle and daub between.

The Boar and Thistle read the sign, though Aurelia could make no sense of that.

Aurelia slanted a glance in Bard’s direction to find him looking thoughtful. “Why is he so glad to have vellum from you? Is it scarce in your kingdom?”

Bard glanced to her in what must have been surprise. “It’s money. I was paying him for the ride.”

Aurelia frowned. “With used vellum? What merit is it to him with its surface already covered?”

Bard studied her for a long moment. “It really is like stepping back into the middle ages around here, isn’t it?” he murmured finally.

Aurelia did not understand the reference.

“It’s money, paper money.” Bard pulled out a couple of banknotes and she studied them with curiosity. “I guess you still barter for most things.”

Aurelia looked up with surprise. “Barter?”

“You know, trade some of this for some of that. My oats for your hay. That kind of thing.”

Aurelia shook her head. “We grow our own oats and hay. You must have found all the stores when you took Dunhelm.”

Why would Bard pretend he knew nothing of this?

“What about your clothes?”

Gods and goddesses! Did the man understand nothing of domestic matters? What kind of upbringing had he had?

“We have sheep, as you well know,” Aurelia explained patiently. “And my father employed many spinners and weavers to make cloth, dyers to color it and seamstresses to make garments of it. Were I not nobly born, I would know to do it myself.”

Bard snapped his fingers as though remembering something. “What about that cloak you told us about? The one made of the fabric your father brought from somewhere...”

“It was samite. From Micklegarth. We cannot make such fine cloth here and it was a treasure to be cherished.” Aurelia’s eyes narrowed suddenly as she realized that her cloak had disappeared.

Had the whore taken it for her own?

“Right. Wherever that is.”

Aurelia was incredulous. “You do not know of Micklegarth?”

“No.” Bard shrugged, looking untroubled by the stunning inadequacy of his education that admission revealed.

“How could anyone know so little of the world?” Aurelia demanded. “Even I have had enough teaching to know Micklegarth!”

Bard looked grim again. “Let’s just say we’ve had enough of this colonial stuff, all right? I’ve had a perfectly good education, even with the remarkable omission of your Micklegarth.”

Aurelia folded her arms across her chest, unconvinced of that.

Bard shoved one hand through his hair. “My point is that wherever Micklegarth is, your father must have bought that samite stuff there.”

“Bought?” Aurelia arched a brow skeptically. “No Viking exchanges hard-won coin for whatever he desires.” She waggled the banknotes at him. “Nor even used vellum.”

Bard’s brow darkened. “You don’t really expect me to believe that your father is a Viking, do you?”

“No longer,” Aurelia conceded. “But he went a-viking when he was a young man, as does every man worth his salt.” She fixed Bard with a considering glance. “Did you not go a-viking in your youth?”

“I’m not that old.”

Aurelia shrugged. “Old enough to be done with such things.”

Bard’s lips tightened. “I went to university.” At Aurelia’s blank look, he continued. “School.”

“But your tutor did not teach you of Micklegarth!” He was lying and Aurelia did not care whether he knew that she knew it. “All men go a-viking.”

Bard grimaced and shook his head. “No one does that anymore.”

Aurelia was unconvinced. Any inadequacies in his upbringing did not reflect the world as she knew it.

“Perhaps not in your sorry kingdom!” she maintained archly. “My relations do precisely thus and with great success.” She turned to sweep away, not at certain where she was going and could not resist a parting shot. “Of course, they are truly men, not mere barbarians.”

And she turned to stalk away.

Aurelia did not get far before Bard caught at her elbow and pulled her to a halt. His piercing gaze locked on hers and Aurelia braced herself against his ability to read her thoughts. “Wait a minute. Your relatives can’t be Vikings!”

Aurelia tossed her hair, proud of her mixed descent. “Of course, they are!”

“You mean they’re from Scandinavia,” Bard corrected. “They have Viking ancestry, but aren’t actually Vikings any more.”

His words recalled Aurelia to her senses. What was she thinking? She would destroy any chance her cousins had of surprising him with their attack!

“Of course, you are right,” she said hastily. “I have no Viking relatives.” She giggled foolishly. “Indeed, I have no relatives at all! They are all dead, except for my sire.”

Aurelia pivoted and marched quickly down the street. Bard seemed to have rooted to the spot behind her and she hoped desperately that he was not seriously considered what she had said by error.

Had her fickle tongue betrayed her relations’ plans?

* * *

Chapter Thirteen

Aurelia became aware as she walked that many eyes were on them. Behind lacy curtains and in shadowed doorways, people had paused to watch their arrival and discussion. Even now, heads were bending together and Aurelia heard the whispers begin.

She wondered whether they were calling her the king’s new whore and felt her cheeks heat.

Stones crunched as Bard strode up behind Aurelia and he caught up her elbow with a proprietary gesture. “I thought we had that all straightened out,” he growled. “No more playing dumb.”

Aurelia lifted her chin proudly. She tried desperately to think of something to say and failed.

Bard, apparently undeterred by her silence, steered her into an adjacent building. Bells tinkled as he opened the door - obviously a crude copy of Julian’s alarm - and she knew they would be caught as intruders.

“You cannot simply barge into peoples’ homes!” she hissed and tried to step back into the street.

Bard determinedly pushed her forward. A slender older woman inside the home watched the transaction with interest and Aurelia’s cheeks burned even more hotly. Bard smiled for the woman with all his usual charm.

“It’s a store,” he muttered through his teeth. “Anyone can come in here.”

“A store?”

“A shop. Where a merchant does business.” His voice was gritty with impatience. “Where they sell their merchandise.”

Understanding dawned. “Oh! There was once a merchant who brought his wares to Dunhelm on his back,” Aurelia whispered, her gaze dancing over the goods displayed. “But my sire oft told of the merchant’s stalls in Micklegarth.”

Baird breathed a sigh of relief. “Right. Just like that.”

“May I help you?” the woman asked.

Bard loosened his grip on Aurelia. “You must be Marge. I’m Baird Beauforte, from Dunhelm.” Aurelia hated how the woman’s manner became coy once she knew who had crossed her threshold.

The vain cur had to have every woman groveling at his feet!

Bard gestured easily to Aurelia. “This is Aurelia - perhaps you’ve met?”

“We have not met,” Aurelia said stiffly and the woman shook her head in turn.

Bard looked disappointed, though how he imagined Aurelia would know a merchant from his kingdom, Aurelia did not know.

“Well, Aurelia needs a few things.”

“I see. Lost luggage?”

Aurelia did not know what that meant, but Bard quickly agreed. The woman erupted from behind the table with purpose in her step. She scanned Aurelia, then fixed Bard with bright eye.

“Anything in particular we have in mind?”

“I’m sure that your advice will be invaluable to the lady,” Baird said smoothly. He dropped into a chair by the door and scooped up a wad of colorful vellum. “You do take American Express, don’t you?”

The woman smiled.

And Aurelia wondered what in the name of Odin had just been transacted.

* * *

It quickly became clear that the merchant woman had been hired by Bard to assist Aurelia in choosing more garb. Though she could have found the intimation that she did not know her own mind insulting, Aurelia was soon glad of advice. The array of colors, the choice of fabrics, the variety of cut of the garb in even this one shop was completely overwhelming and Aurelia was grateful for the woman’s patient guidance.

She argued briefly with Bard about his buying her garb, but he was adamant that she was his ‘responsibility’, at least until her father was found. He was obviously trying to win her approval, but the prospect of shedding his whore’s chemise was simply too tempting to be refused.

Aurelia settled on the familiar, or at least the closest thing to it that she could find. Their leggings were made of a wondrous stretchy matter and were wrought in the most delightful array of bright colors. These were no herbal dies that Aurelia knew! And if the cloth was woven of wool, then even the spinners had been bewitched by Julian’s spells. Aurelia had never felt fabric so smooth.

This merchant, too, insisted on the same “undies” that the whore had tried to foist on Aurelia. She finally conceded to the briefs, but would not have anything to do with the harness for her breasts.

They had tunics and shirts of gossamer fabrics, though none had the embroidered hems Aurelia so favored. She imagined another merchant sold lengths of embroidery, or perhaps one was expected to do that oneself. The merchant had a great creamy sweater, not unlike Bard’s own, and Bard insisted on a burgundy cloak of the same strange fabric as his.