Deirdre (45 page)

Father God, be with him now, for he is torn … we are torn by this dark twist before us.

“I ask for one more indulgence, for my duty as king calls before my obligation as host. And this immediate concern is not one I relish.” He didn’t have to say it. The burden tortured his brow beyond his years. “But first, I ask you to hear me, for I will not decide between a Saxon and an Irishman this day. Nor will I weigh the word of my brother-in-law against the word of cousin and champion.”

Deirdre stiffened, as thrown by her brother’s declaration as those around her. “I pray for the wisdom God gave Solomon in deciding which of two mothers spoke the truth. The babe laid before Gleannmara this day is truth, and I have no desire to see it slain.”

Never had she heard her brother wax so poetic. He held the attention of his audience like the druidic bards of old, who took up the Light of Christ.

“You have heard Alric of Galstead’s allegation against my kin. Why do I even listen to this man, you ask?” He smiled at Deirdre. “Believe me, I was no less incredulous regarding my sister’s marriage. I escaped my kidnappers, crossed a hostile country, and stole into his lodge to save her, only to have Deirdre crack my head open for trying to skewer him with my blade. I asked my sister why she
married
him.” Cairell’s devilish charm lighted in his gaze. “I knew then that the first man to
turn my sister’s head was no ordinary man … even if he was a Saxon.”

A titter of laughter rose among the ladies in the hall at Deirdre’s expense. Sure, she was an old maid by most standards, but she didn’t care if the tale softened hearts toward Alric.

“I still wanted to slit his throat.” Cairell’s candor roused more male response. “Until she pointed out that Alric was no more a pirate than our Dalraidi kin’s captains, who prey on ships bound for Albion with supplies and arms for our enemies.” He pointed to Kyras. “Your own brother commands such a ship under the commission of Scotia Minor’s kings, does he not?”

“It sounds to me as though your decision is made, the way you defend him,” their cousin grumbled.

The corner of Cairell’s mouth tipped up. “That’s why
I
won’t make the decision. I will leave it to our revered holy fathers. I simply speak for a stranger in an antagonistic court.”

A king’s testimony even a prince’s, carried much weight according to law, Deirdre knew, but sentiment was another issue. Alric and his men were being as warmly received as the plague. Love had blinded her to the reality of human nature. Before she’d left Gleannmara, she would have felt the same as those muttering among themselves.

Father, there has to he a way to get these people to see Alric as the good and noble man he is
.
And if he is mistaken, Lord, help him to back down. You know he’s not himself.
Deirdre hesitated, uncertain as to what to ask for. With a tentative heart, she added.
Thy will be done.

“I need no one to speak for me, Irish.”

“Alric, wait—” Deirdre reached for her husband, but he pulled away from the restraining hand she put on his arm.

“God will speak for me.”

“This man is obviously mad.” Dealla’s words were filled with more compassion than condemnation. “Kyras is a loyal subject. I find it an insult to him and to me to suggest that we conspired to take Gleannmara’s throne.” She looked at Deirdre. “I know you never understood this, but I loved your father. My bride-price was in that ransom.”

Deirdre started. Her stepmother wanted Cairell brought home so
much that she’d given her own property to save him? It didn’t fit the opinion Deirdre held of the woman. “Then how … how could you marry so soon after Father’s death?”

“I am not you, Deirdre. I was not bred and trained to power. I haven’t the strength of mind, nor the will, to govern Gleannmara.”

Bemused as she was at the moment, Deirdre did not trust her own instincts. From the look on his face, Cairell was no less at a loss. Like trying to separate two fighting dogs, it was a dangerous task.

“Perhaps one of Your Worships has some advice?”

The bishops deferred to their senior of Armagh.

“Have you no trial by sword in Erin?” Alric demanded before the man could speak.

Deirdre saw the burden disappear from the older priest’s shoulders as he considered Alric’s challenge. No longer were the man’s shoulders quite as rounded and bent. Even the furrows of his brow lightened.

“It is a viable option.”

Kyras leaped at the chance. “Done! I defend my honor with my blade against this Saxon.”

Yesterday Alric was so unsteady on his feet he’d had to be carried to the tavern. Yet as Deirdre turned to object, her words died on her lips. Her husband smiled—not the pearly grin he flashed at her in flirtation or taunt, just a satisfied upturn of an otherwise set line. Try as she might, she could not fathom the trap the wolf had so obviously laid.

One of Kyras’s men produced his shield and sword. The silver studs on the rich, black leather covering on both glittered as the champion accepted them.

Alric turned to Cairell. “God is my shield, but I will need that sword.” He pointed to Kieran’s sword. “I lost my weapon in a battle with demons, and my rescuer gave me that one.”

The three holy men fell into conversation, crossing themselves at the mention of demons. With an uneasy glance at Deirdre, Cairell handed their ancestor’s sacred weapon over to Alric. Around them, an uncomfortable murmur rose, not loud enough for outright defiance.

Cairell cast a glance at those gathered around them. “What Alric
speaks is true. We found him unconscious, washed up on the beach on a hatch cover, and laid out as if for a warrior’s burial, with the king’s sword folded in his hands. It was the strangest thing I’d ever seen.”

If she ever loved her brother, she loved him more now. If she ever was more frightened, she could not remember it.

Someone folded her hand in Deirdre’s. She turned in surprise to see her stepmother. “I pray that you will not be left alone with the love for your Saxon that I see on your face.” If Dealla said nothing more, the pain grazing her face exonerated her of any remaining suspicion that she had not felt Fergal’s loss.

God forgive her, Deirdre had never really seen this side of the woman. But then, she’d never tried to see past the obvious age difference between her father and his bride.

“Have no fear, muirnait.” Alric lifted her other hand and brushed her knuckles with his lips. “No one will die.”

Deirdre gripped his fingers, wishing with all her heart that she could understand—and share—her husband’s confidence.

I
t was easier to take the challenge outside the keep than move the guests, but most of the visitors followed Alric and the others. A circle of Gleannmara’s guards marked a large arena. The royal party and the priests climbed up to a wooden parade platform over the exercise yard, where Deirdre’s uncle had trained Kyras, Cairell—and even herself, when she’d give him no peace. The royal bench carved by Ryan, father of Maire, some two hundred plus years before was brought out for Cairell, along with benches for the royal ladies and the bishops.

The excitement of such a contest precipitated the inevitable wagering between noble and commoner alike. Children pressed their faces between the guards only to have them firmly but gently shoved back. Older boys and men alike crowded up on the roofs of the buildings and stalls built against the stockade. As news of the development spread to the outer keep and beyond, Cairell ordered the gates to the inner yard closed.

Deirdre’s concern escalated at the sense of an almost festive atmosphere, with morbid curiosity as its companion. The crowd erupted in a roar of approval as Kyras strutted out before the raised platform and bowed before them.

“Are you certain?” Deirdre mouthed the words to the man—
her
man—who blew her a kiss over the hilt of the king’s sword, for it was impossible for him to hear her over the commotion.

With a gaze that warmed her more than the afternoon sun, he nodded. Oh, to share that silent confidence! As Alric strode to the fore, she detected the faint strains of the hymn that had become such an integral pan of their short time together. Her husband was … singing?

Drawn to her feet, she joined him against the drowning tide of disapproval, her hands folded in prayer. Whether they heard Alric and her with their ears or their hearts, Alric’s men took up the song as well.
The familiar tune slowly struck the gathering dumb with its unfamiliar Saxon lyrics.

The bishop of Armagh smiled as he raised his hand, calling the group to order. “It is good to know that our great and omnipotent heavenly Father speaks Saxon as well as Irish. It does us well to be reminded we are
all
His children,” he reminded the people gently “God has no favorites, save the righteous.”

“You’ve nothing to worry about, Kyras. The king’s sword will not spill innocent blood,” someone shouted from the mass of onlookers.

Gleannmara’s champion glanced in the direction of the comment as the priest bowed his head, and Deirdre had the distinct impression her cousin was not comforted by the reminder.

It had not taken the senior bishop long to ascertain the situation. His prayer favored the love Deirdre felt toward her Saxon captor and God’s willingness to forgive even blood spillers and thieves, be they pirates or soldiers of war. It lifted the ancestral pride and honor of Gleannmara represented in Kyras, but it raised God’s will above all. “We look to thee for blessing, in the name of the holy Triune of Father, Son, and Spirit. Amen.”

“Amen,” Deirdre whispered.

She flinched with the first clash of swords but became impervious in the following succession of blows. Alric’s strikes were met by Kyras’s shield; the champion’s blade was met by Alric’s counter swing, which the Saxon followed up with an aggressive strike of his own. So lightly did he wield Kieran’s sword that one might think it made of tin, not steel. While the younger man was quicker, Alric possessed a skill and grace that soon held the onlookers spellbound. Deirdre knew Alric’s feral temper, but she had never seen him fight. His feet moved as if dancing to the music of the sword song. Indeed, the slashes and circles seemed to pluck chords in the air itself, a haunting sound that made the heart pound with each shrill note. Every time he dodged Kyras’s raging, headlong charge, Alric smiled, which only whetted the champion’s thirst for blood all the more.

Perspiration streamed down the fine physique of Alric’s dark-haired opponent, streaking the film of din kicked up by them.

“Curse your Saxon hide, you cannot run out the day!”

“Nor can you, deceiver.” Unlike Kyras’s ragged gasps, Alric’s breath was even. The film of his exertion made his bronzed skin glisten in the light. “Give up the truth, lad. You do not wish to see what I have seen for a forgivable mistake.”

Kyras lunged at Alric with his shield, the latter knocking it away with his forearm, which was already bloodied from the studs. But when the champion’s blade followed, it met the king’s sword with a teeth-shattering clash. With one leg firmly planted, the muscled ridges of Alric’s thigh straining against the trim fit of his trousers, he kicked with the other at the shield that had drawn the only blood that day, dislodging it from Kyras’s grasp.

Face-to-face they leaned, nostrils flaring, neither giving way. Suddenly Alric reared back his head and struck Kyras’s nose hard with his skull. Deirdre gasped, the recollection of the stitches Abina had made fresh in her mind. The stalemate broke. The two adversaries staggered away from each other, one as dazed as the other.
God help him!
she prayed as Alric drove the weapon into the ground as if to pin a spinning earth into stillness. Indeed the slight wobble of his walk suggested it tried to throw him.

Without warning, still holding his bleeding nose with one hand, Kyras spun and swung his blade at the retreating Alric. This was the end. Deirdre closed her eyes, unable to watch it bite into her husband’s unprotected back. A brittle crash and scrape of steel resounded, and the crowd erupted with a few shouts of gut appreciation.

Impossibly Alric was now on the other side of the pillar of steel, which had stopped his adversary short in midswing. Unnerved, Kyras stumbled back, sword arm dragging at his side. Leaving his weapon planted in the din, Alric charged the younger man, plowing into him with such force that his weapon fell away. Down to ground they went, rolling over and over with the momentum of the crash.

“’E’s the cap’n’s now,” Wimmer exclaimed, his fists drawn as if he was in the middle of the fray.

“If his head holds together,” Kaspar said, echoing Deirdre’s very thought.

Alric was on top, a bloodied forearm to Kyras’s throat. “Give way lad. Love’ll make a man do strange things.”

What an odd thing to say! Deirdre ventured a glance at Dealla, but her stepmother seemed impervious to the entire scene. One second in time away from Deirdre’s watchful eye, and Alric grunted loudly. When she looked back, he was sprawled on his back, wiping his eyes furiously Kyras vaulted to his feet and kicked Alric in the side, and then raced toward the king’s sword, still standing stalwart in the sand.

“Alric, get his sword!” But Deirdre’s panicked cry came against a drowning tide of cheers. The words of Kieran’s dedication spilled in its midst like a balm:
“Never spill innocent blood.”
Alric was innocent as a new babe, washed with the forgiveness of Christ’s own sacrifice. He believed.

But he still could not see Kyras, nor the bright steel blade the champion swung at his neck. The scene that unfolded took its leisure, and as she watched, Deirdre recalled Scanlan’s teaching … that lessons in faith must be etched indelibly in the mind that they might endure and be shared over and over for generations to come. Alric dropped as though he heard death’s sharp breath coming at his ear, but not enough to duck it altogether. Deirdre could foresee the blood spurt from her husband’s skull, imagine the top of it, along with the long golden hair she’d run adoring fingers through, coming at her like a gory dagger to her heart …