Deirdre (20 page)

“I thought I’d find you here.”

Startled out of his skin by the velvet stroke of words behind him, Alric leaped to his feet.

The voice and the petite figure outlined by the moon belonged to his friend, not his mother. All was suddenly alive again, the water flow, the birdsong, the rustle of leaves. Had he fallen asleep?

“Aelfled,” Alric managed, looking beyond her for her companion. Yes, he must have dreamed it. “Where is your … guest?”

“He left.” Aelfled offered no more. Alric would not ask for it. “You wear your clothes?”

“Aye.” His humor darkened at being the source of hers. “And if what I have been through these last few days is love, as you suggest, then it agrees no more with me than green apples and sour grapes.”

Aelfled had the nerve to laugh, despite Alric’s drilling glare.

“Spare me.” He stepped out of the pond to make his way to where she stood. “I’ve no second sight, but I’ve seen things this night ominous enough to curl your nails like a crone’s.”

His companion sobered instantly. “Then you must tell me.” Producing a towel from behind her back, she handed it to him.

Less than ready to give absolution, Alric left her to hold it while he stripped off his shirt and wrung it dry. As he repeated the same procedure with the balance of his clothes, he summarized the gist of what had happened since he’d left the glen—of Deirdre’s miraculous rebound from her fevered delirium and of her marriage contract.

“And then she ate my ship,” he finished, as he wrapped the dry towel around him in a huff. “Now tell me, what do you make of
that
?”

At Aelfled’s uncommon silence, Alric looked at her, thinking the ramification even worse than he feared.

“Perhaps she was hungry?” A chuckle nearly strangled her suggestion.

Without a word, Alric picked up his wet clothes and left her to catch up with him … if she dared.

“Oh, Alric, wait!”

Too angry to share his other
revelation
, Alric ignored the plea, just
as he did the water that shot out of his sodden footwear as he made his way along the path. His mother had been right about one thing at least. The worth of Aelfled’s powers had been an illusion, nothing more.

“Alric of Galstead, you need a friend, not a seer. Now come to your senses and wait, or stew in your own juice alone.”

Astonished at the size of voice coming from such a tiny figure, Alric stopped and turned to make certain it was indeed Aelfled who spoke. There she stood, hands fixed on practically nonexistent hips, her foot tapping with the same impatience that magnified her presence. It was rare that Aelfled resorted to threat, yet even then, she was charming.

Where would he go? Back to Deirdre, who twisted him in knots and wrung him out like he’d done his wet clothes? Frig spare him! Alric laughed shortly and extended the crook of his arm.

“Aye, I suppose a man can always use a friend … even if it is a halfling.” Besides, no seaman worth his salt turned away from an offer of a star to guide him, be it hung by God or by fickle fate.

D
eirdre awakened in a startled daze at the sound of Tor’s excited bark, the panic subsiding as she realized it was morning. The night had passed without incident. Stunned, she threw aside the covers and padded across the floor to peer out into the courtyard. Aside from the diligent water nymph, there was no sign of activity; although the dog’s barking was evidence that someone was up and about. The tantalizing scent of baking bread confirmed it.

Her stomach growled, but she ignored it, recalling that for the next three days until the Sabbath, she was to fast and pray regarding her marriage to Alric. Although the more she considered what had happened to her the day before, the more convinced she was that Scanlan was right, that it was God’s will. Why she had to fast when she’d already agreed to the marriage in writing eluded her, but since she’d made such a bungle of things, Deirdre was inclined to rely more on Scanlan to interpret heaven’s intent. Perhaps it would prepare her better for what lay ahead.

If Alric signed the contract, Father Scanlan would post the banns. To date her prayers had been answered, for the door and lock were still intact. Alric had not even tried to follow her, much less force his way into the room.

Stirred by the swirling hem of her gown, something moved at her feet and skittered across the cool tiled floor. The contract! Slowly, she knelt and picked up the parchment, rumpled as if Alric had literally slept on it. On the back was a pristine seal with the impression of a wolf’s head in wax.

“Father, let his signature be on it,” she whispered as she broke it open. That was what she wanted, wasn’t it … to follow God’s lead?
Yes.
She could do more as a prince’s wife than as a slave.

The first thing that struck her as she opened it fully were the bold strokes that edited her delicate script. His was a clear, strong hand,
more suited to a scholar than a warrior. Some sections of the proposal had been altered, others deleted altogether. The addendum at the bottom drew her immediate attention.

“‘The freedom of a lady of her station,’” Deirdre whispered, as though to convince herself that it was really there, signed and witnessed for all to see.

Taking a deep breath, she perched on the edge of the bed to scrutinize the amendments. She was to have her bride-price as her own. Gleannmara’s treasure was safe, praise God! Alric agreed to inquire as to the whereabouts of her brother for her; God was using the enemy to help her find Cairell. Why hadn’t she listened to Scanlan before?

Father, thank—

Deirdre stopped in midthought as she saw the line struck through her proposal to publicly dedicate her virginity to the church. It had been replaced with another.

With trepidation, she read the new terms. Alric would privately honor her wish to remain a virgin wife for as long as it was her will, as he would allow her to practice her faith freely in his home, provided this was known only to the oath helpers assigned below—Scanlan and the reeve. Their silence was pledged by their signatures as well, except should they have to act on the behalf of an injured party.

Deirdre scowled as she read and reread the clause. It
appeared
fair,
but this was the one term she was not at peace with … although Alric had kept his word thus far. She folded the parchment, reluctant to give into the exhilaration welling in her chest. Nay, she’d not celebrate with a free mind until Father Scanlan approved of every word.

A sharp knock on her door brought her up from the mattress with a quick intake of breath. But before she could answer it, Doda called out. “Good morning, milady Will you take your breakfast in your room or shall I serve it in the salon?”

“Where is Alric taking his meal?” Deirdre tensed for the answer.

“He has been away all night, milady, and not yet returned. I cannot speak for him.”

Her shoulders dropped with relief. “Thank you, Doda, but I will not be having breakfast. I’ll be going out as soon as I’m dressed.”

“Do you need help?”

The servant didn’t even question her. Alric must have sent a message to his staff advising them of her new freedom. Thrilled, Deirdre rushed over to the door and unbolted it.

“That would be lovely Doda. Thank you for offering.”

Before Deirdre knew what she was about, Doda embraced her warmly and gave her a loud buss on the cheek, “You are going to marry the prince, no?”

“Possibly …” How much more of their agreement had Alric shared with the steward and his wife? “I would go to the chapel and discuss our contract with Father Scanlan.”

“But you should eat—”

“I fast, Doda. By fasting and prayer, God shall confirm that I have made the right decision.”

“Orlaith fasted,” Doda observed, not entirely put off by the idea but clearly not impressed either. “I sometimes believe it made her weak.”

“My mother was not as pious as my bride to be.”

Deirdre didn’t need to look to know who’d joined the conversation. Ignoring Alric as he strode in through the open door, she took the housemistress’s hand between hers and gave it a squeeze. “You see, I must be certain that this is the man with whom I’d spend the rest of
my life. Surely you, as a woman, understand the importance of being certain.”

“But I already
am,”
Doda assured her with a wide grin. “And so will you be pretty soon.”

“Nonetheless, I will go to the chapel daily and fast to be certain.”

“And I shall accompany you for the same reason,” Alric announced, dropping down onto the bench at the end of the bed. “To be
certain.”
With a grunt of effort, he pulled off one of his boots.

Doda looked from the prince to Deirdre and back to her master again. “But it is not fit that you should share this room with your bride to be, milord.”

“I did so the night before,” he pointed out, tugging at the other boot.

“Then she was your slave.” Deirdre started at the housekeeper’s boldness. “I do not think your mama would approve of this.”

“I don’t think
my father
would approve of your meddling.” Alric rose and kicked his boots beneath the bench. “But I’m in such a good mood, I will humor the two of you.”

After digging through a trunk and retrieving fresh clothes, he made a sweeping bow before Doda. Then, brandishing a roguish grin, he approached Deirdre and slipped his arm behind her before she had the chance to slip away.

She stiffened as he pulled her against him, those disarming lips worked their magic without even touching her own. “Ah, milady” he said, nuzzling the tip of her nose with his. “I shall await your readiness with most hearty anticipation.”

Wary, Deirdre dug her toes into the cool tile under her feet. How did the saying go? Beware the hoof of a horse, the horn of a bull, and the smile of a Saxon?

“Well, the longer you stay milord, the longer you’ll have to wait.” Doda snorted, oblivious to the skillfully disguised threat behind his adoring declaration.

The twin edge of Alric’s parrying words was not, however, lost to Deirdre. The caress of his fingers through the linen of her night shift;
the warm prison of his arm—strong enough to protect her or break her in half; the rising temperature of the mercurial pool of his eyes told her that Alric of Galstead was not speaking of today or tomorrow, but of a time no less inevitable.

An hour later, Deirdre stepped out onto the seaport’s dry, rutted street on the arm of her pirate captor and soon-to-be husband, Alric was well known in the town and obviously as well liked. At every corner, someone stopped to engage him in conversation. Men and women alike eyed Deirdre with outright curiosity. The story of Alric’s plucking her from the slave compound only increased their intrigue and disdain. Deirdre endured their bad manners with a sweet smile, even though she understood every remark they made. Men not in the company of their wives made lewd suggestions as to Alric’s motivation, while the women could not possibly understand why the prince didn’t choose a buxom Saxon bride.

Deirdre almost hoped he might reveal his true reason, but instead, he cordially put most of them in their places regarding his business being his own and needing no explanation to anyone. He even steered the conversation toward Latin for her sake, but the little said directly to her was stiff with condescension.

The smells met them before they turned into the square, where vendors hawked everything from produce to livestock to freshly prepared foods for the visitors. The scent of roasted sausages and meat pies blended with that of the rounds of cheeses and baked breads on display.

“I think I’ll have one of those pies. Hilda makes the best in the market,” Alric said, pointing to a short, round-figured woman carrying a tray of pure temptation resting against her aproned belly “Will you have one?”

Deirdre shook her head, grateful that the general noise drowned out the rumbling protest of her stomach.

“Ah, I forgot. You will fill your belly with the Holy Spirit until Sunday.” Switching to Saxon, he asked the jovial lady for two of her meat pies,

“Only two?” Hilda asked, glancing at Deirdre. “What about your lady?”

“I tried to tempt her, but she declined.”

“A voman shouldn’t have no sharp edges, derling.”

“She said a woman shouldn’t have sharp edges,” Alric translated. “And she’s not even heard that well-hewn tongue of yours,” he added with a chuckle as he handed over a coin in exchange for the pies. “Thank you, Hilda, but you will never make enough pies to take the edge off my companion’s disposition.”

Hilda looked at Deirdre and burst into laughter. “
Ja
,
ja
, you enjoy now.”

“Oh, I will; I’m sure of it.”

Quite smug in his conviction that Deirdre had no clue what he’d said, Alric bit into the sealed crust envelope. Eyes growing round in alarm, he tried to breathe in air to cool the hot mouthful without choking.

There was justice
, Deirdre thought, responding with a genuine smile this time. “Milord enjoys it overmuch, I think.” His answering scowl had no edge to it at all, diluted as it was with the water streaming from his eyes. She couldn’t help but giggle, appeased that his discomfort made her own easier to bear.

“I could have choked, you know,” Alric grumbled, when the food in his mouth was cool enough to swallow. “Then what would you have done?”

“I’d have been free.” Deirdre heaved a dreamy sigh and walked slightly ahead of him to where a dog, clad in shirt and breeches like a little boy sat. She glanced back at her disgruntled escort with an impish twinkle in her eye. “Or at least had the pleasure of beating it out of you.”