Deirdre (23 page)

Below, Alric signaled his men to join them. On a downhill slope, Deirdre’s party made good time while Alric, Gunnar, and the thick-bodied leader of the troops continued to speak to one of the mourners—a scrawny yellow-haired man in a ragged shirt and trousers. The rest were gathered around the cart bearing the coffin, as though to protect it. From what?

She watched as two of the armed troopers dismounted. Handing their painted shields to companions, they approached the wagon.

“I’d last heard that you were with the bretwalda in the north, Hinderk,” Alric said to the commander.

While thicker than Alric at the waist, Hinderk was undoubtedly as hard as the prince beneath his leather tunic and armor. Like good horses, some men were built for the race, others for endurance. His armor and his long, brown hair spoke not just of command but of affluence.

He shoved a polished helmet back off his forehead, wiping perspiration away with the back of his hand. “The death rate from Saltersford has been uncommonly high. I’ve been sent to investigate.”

“Since when has it been against the law to die?” The low, wolflike rumble still raised the hair on Deirdre’s arms. Conflict didn’t seem out of the question yet. “Or do you seek to take over my father’s duties as king of Galstead? I believe it is up to his aldermen to collect tribute from his people for the bretwalda.” Alric clearly was not pleased at this infraction on Lambert’s rights. His hand rested on the hilt of his scramasax, ready to either sheath or use it.

“It isn’t against the law to die,” Hinderk answered. “But if the corpse is packed in salt, there is a tax due. Considering the drop in revenues from Galstead, Ecfrith asked me to investigate.”

“Investigate Lambert?” Alric’s bellow made Deirdre flinch. “You dare—”

“I dare nothing more than to look for something your
loyal
father may have overlooked.”

On the edge of her seat, Deirdre glanced around anxiously Hinderk’s men numbered the same as Alric’s. Whether they were as seasoned as the prince’s warriors remained to be seen.

“Well, milord?” The mourner who’d been speaking for the rest looked anxiously at the prince. “Will ye have him disturb my cousin in his own grave box?”

“I’m sorry, Dak, but let the king’s thane see the man so that you and your good family might see him properly buried before sundown.”

“But—”

The prince cut the churl off. “Unless you’ve something to hide in there? I’d hope my father’s salters have more respect for the law than to embarrass him by resorting to such a morbid charade.”

“And our bretwalda as well,” the armed leader added.

“Your loyalty to Northumbria would do you honor, Hinderk, were it not for that Mercian in your ranks.” Gunnar glared at one of the men beside the banner carriers. Clearly Alric knew the bearer, for the man looked no different than the others to Deirdre.

“Your queen is a Mercian,” Hinderk reminded Alric’s friend smoothly “Besides, he is an envoy to Ecfrith’s court, sent on behalf of our neighbors. He has a proposition that is of interest to all Saxon shires bordering Welsh land.”

Whatever Gunnar had been about to say, the loud thud of the coffin lid against the side of the can as it broke loose headed it off. The two guards reached inside and scooped out handfuls of gray-white crystals and allowed it to pour back into the box between their fingers.

“By cracky milords, the salt’s done eat up the body,” one of them derided.

“Not a bone left of the dear departed,” the other said, digging through the salt.

Alric looked down at the salter, his expression grave. “This was a foolish thing, friend.”

Dak lowered his head while the others drew together in a knot.

“What would ye have us do?” one of the women cried out. “All we wanted was to put aside a little to buy food for the winter. The fields about us are gone already.”

“What is it the Christians say? Ashes to ashes and dust to
salt
?” Hinderk’s derisive laugh fell off abruptly “Arrest the lot of them.”

“Hold a moment!” Alric gigged Dustan forward with his heels, blocking Hinderk’s men. Gunnar joined him. The
Wulfshead
’s crew tightened the circle around Deirdre’s can.

“You dare defend them?” Hinderk’s glare spoke volumes.

“Nay but they are men of Galstead, and I will arrest them in the name of King Lambert,” Alric declared. “He is the authority here, not you or your men. Let our king decide their punishment.”

Neither of the Saxon lords were the sort to back down. Alric sat upon Dustan cool as a statue, but the kindling in his eyes betrayed his readiness to fight. Like the motionless scramasax he held, cool did not mean less deadly. Hinderk bristled before the prince’s look, but Deirdre
sensed his experience and discipline held the anger flaring from his nostrils in check.

Even the soft breeze, which had made the sun’s heat bearable, seemed to hold its breath as the silent battle of wills continued.

The commander finally gave in. “Let this would-be king have his knaves,” he said, with a slow-spreading warp of a smile. “Besides—” he selected a more subtle weapon from his arsenal—“it wouldn’t do to make him appear more of a fool than he already has to his bride to be.” Hinderk shifted in his saddle and looked straight at Deirdre. “Milady I would be honored to offer you my steed, since we are all bound for Lambert’s court.”

The blow landed at the weakest link in Alric’s armor. The prince leaned forward, resting his weapon across his lap. His manner suggested a leisurely exchange of words, but his voice was lethal. “She’ll ride with you over my dead body Hinderk.”

Deirdre had no doubt that Alric meant it.

Hinderk recognized it as well. He feigned being wounded, hand clutching his chest, and let the beast out of its corner rather than tangle with it. “I would ride with one of my men, milord.”

Deirdre brightened at the prospect to save her backside and put a thorn in Alric’s for subjecting her to her misery “So there
are
gentlemen among you.” Not that she believed it for a moment. She considered one as bad as the other, but Alric needn’t know that.

“If your definition of
gentlemen
include those who raided Ireland with Ecfrith.”

Deirdre staggered under the weight of the revelation. Alric might as well have smitten her across the chest with the flat of his blade, for the wind left her lungs and blood congealed in her still-struck heart. This was one of the murderers, the bloodletters who’d raped the monasteries along the coast and left a trail of mutilation and bodies in their wake? Nay, she wanted nothing of this man, save one thing—his blood.

Above the beating drums of her rising indignation, Scanlan tossed another fagot into the fire, knocking it down with one word. “Cairell.”

Cairell
! If she was this close to one of the blackguards, then Deirdre
was close to finding her brother. God was in charge. Mastering her spontaneous lust for the bearded leader’s blood with newfound hope, she lifted an imperious chin. “I am Princess Deirdre of Gleannmara. But then, I imagine you’ve heard of our fair land,”

Was Hinderk the name of the Saxon who sent the ransom letter to the Northumbrian monastery where Gleannmara was to have sent the ransom? She didn’t know, or even if Cairell’s captor had been mentioned specifically.

The dark-haired Saxon snorted after a moment’s contemplation. “No, milady but if I had, rest assured that I’d not have let Alric claim you first.”

She had learned one thing if nothing else since her capture; All Saxons were not alike. Alric was a prince among men, and, despite her annoyance with him, he grew more so in her estimation all the while. Deirdre focused on her mission. “Surely you’ve heard of my brother, Prince Cairell, heir to Gleannmara’s throne.”

Hinderk scowled, apparently nonplussed. “No, I never heard of him. But then we didn’t go there to socialize.” His men joined him in mocking laughter. “We took gold and some peach-faced scholars, who fancied themselves warriors. Like as not, those fair lads are on their way to Rome for the sport of some—”

“How dare you—!”

Scanlan caught her by the arm, stopping her. “Milady, I am certain Lord Hinderk means no affront to you directly What is done is done. Our purpose is to forgive.”

In no humor for priestly serenity or conscience, Deirdre continued to glare at Hinderk.

The thane brought his horse about, looking past her at Scanlan, as if noticing the young man for the first time. “Ho, what have we here? Be you druid or priest?”

Well Deirdre knew that Scanlan wore the same tonsure as those Hinderk and his kind had mutilated. His thick, brown hair grew lion-like from his shaven forehead in the style of the ancient druids who’d embraced Christianity, giving up the prestige of their station to serve the One God who they believed lived in the sun.

“I suppose both, milord.” Scanlan’s reply was soft, “As our sainted Columcille once said, ‘Christ is my druid.’ He is my Master and Teacher too.”

Feeling helpless, Deirdre cast a frantic look at Alric. His mother was a Christian. Would he do nothing?

Hinderk started round the cart to Scanlan’s side, his hand resting on the hilt of a sheathed dagger. “Have you Irish priests not learned your lesson yet?”

“We are always learning, milord. The school of life has many lessons, but the Word of God has more.” Scanlan smiled, his philosophical posture smacking of either courage or lunacy.

“Keep your religious war to yourself, Hinderk,” Alric spoke up, as though tiring of the game of wills holding them all suspended. “It has no place here. The priest is my betrothed’s companion, just arrived and under Galstead’s protection.”

The Saxon dog was not pleased to have such an easy bone snatched from his reach. Whipping his horse’s head about, he sneered at the one who’d taken it. “You assume a lot of responsibility for the son of a slave.”

“Nonetheless, I wield the power of a king’s son … and this.” Alric drew Kieran’s sword with his free hand. Dustan moved at the click of his tongue and, with a single leap, brought his master within sword’s length of the slanderer.

Deirdre’s heart mimicked the steed, taking her with it. “Enough!” She pulled out of Scanlan’s hold and jumped from the cart before he could stop her. With no idea of what she intended to do, she shoved through her circle of defenders. “There is no doubt that each of you fine warriors are capable of inflicting untold damage to the other,” she blurted as she lifted her shoulders, throwing up her hands in an exaggerated shrug that caused Dustan and the other steed to rear back their heads at the sudden movement. “Who’s to say that a slash or puncture might benefit you, given your grossly overblown estimation of yourselves. I’ve seen dogs fight with more dignity.”

Tor, who’d been at Dustan’s heel, got up and trotted to her, tail wagging. Ignoring the beast, Deirdre boldly marched between the
dumbstruck prince and his nemesis. They might run her through, but one way or the other, she’d have relief from this web of anxiety.

“As entertaining at that might be for me, who has no great love for either of you—” She ducked under the extended blade of her ancestor’s sword, somehow emboldened by its touch—“I am weary of travel, hunger, and this verbal chest beating. So if your beloved mothers ever instilled in you a wisp of gallantry, for their memory’s sake—” The mother’s guilt was a stroke of genius. She’d seen fierce men wither at the mention of their mother—“Let’s be on our way Your men and I long for the hospitality at Galstead.”

Not a soul moved. They just stared at her, Alric included. Seizing at the last strand of her nerve before it snapped, she stomped her foot and shouted. “Now sheath your weapons!”

It sounded like her voice, but it was much bigger than she felt at the moment, now that her insanity had run its course. From the corner of her eye, Deirdre saw Scanlan cross himself, lips moving, no doubt in a prayer of exorcism, for even she did not recognize the woman in her memory’s replay of the last few moments. Her knees grew watery requiring all her effort to keep her upright. She not only risked her life, but Scanlan’s as well.
Father in heaven, help us now … or Scanlan at least.

A soft, sliding sound drew her gaze to where Alric returned Kieran’s sword to its sheath. “My apologies, milady Lord Hinderk,” he said, his gaze never leaving her, “I invite you and your men to accompany us to Galstead. Gunnar, see to these smugglers and their goods.”

She glanced at Hinderk as he nodded and proceeded to give corresponding orders to his own troops, but Alric would not release her from the shackling silver of his gaze. Prodded by some silent command, Dustan carried him toward her, stopping abreast of her. Was he going to cut out her tongue with the scramasax still in his hand?

Without a word, Alric slid off the stallion’s back and lifted Deirdre up in his place. She flinched as he leaped up behind her and took the reins. Only when he took the lead did he whisper in her ear. “How long, milady have you spoken our language so fluently?”

How could the same voice warm and chill her at the same time? Why was her life a clash of opposite feelings and sensations where this
man was involved? Through bombardment of sense and sensibilities, the meaning of Alric’s words sunk in. She’d spoken Saxon? Deirdre sought out Scanlan in disbelief, but he was busy coaxing the cart horse back onto the road. They’d agreed she not do so until …

No wonder the priest prayed. When had she switched from Latin? How could she explain, when she didn’t understand herself.

Behind them, Hinderk chuckled, not as much at Deirdre as to himself. “Your betrothed certainly has command of our tongue, milord. She not only wields it as artfully as my mother, but with like comfort and authority.”

“There seems no end to her accomplishments,” Alric agreed. “I continue to be overwhelmed by my good fortune in finding her.”

Caught up in her own quandary, Deirdre let the blunted barb slide.

G
alstead had been an old legion fortress situated in the mineral-rich hills and river valley that had fallen into ruin until Lambert and his thanes were awarded it as sword land, claimed by their fierce scramasaxes and spears. Upon realizing its strategic location on the crest of a natural hill, Lambert established his settlement there. Like most of the Saxon towns, it came together a piece at a time. First there were soldiers, then farms, and then tradesmen to support the increasing center of population.