Deirdre (18 page)

Instead of taking the seat Alric indicated, Father Scanlan helped himself to one of the sausages, which he wrapped in the discarded crust Alric intended for a sail. His thoughts so absorbed him, that he could not stop the priest before it was too late.

“This is more than enough for me, milord, and I thank the heavenly Father and you for your hospitality.”

“You’re not staying?” Alric made a pretense at being disappointed. The truth of the matter was, Father Scanlan made him uncomfortable. Most priests did. They were so quick to judge souls as lost who did not subscribe to their beliefs. Some said as much in words, others with their eyes. “I’d hoped you might tell me more about Lady Deirdre.”

“If you truly intend to marry her, I imagine you do.” Scanlan chuckled, as though privy to some jest that Alric was not. “I grew up at Gleannmara, her father’s tuath.” He settled back on his seat. “Her mother and I are of the same clan, distant cousins.” He shook his head. “I have seen the princess transform from a bright child into a remarkable young woman. She knows her mind and has never been afraid to speak it. Some men find her intelligence combined with her will intimidating.
Deirdre puts more stock in books than in suitors.”

This surprised Alric. “The princess is a scholar?”

“She is gifted beyond the imagination.” Scanlan paused, resting in the cloud of his admiration. “Although her zeal is exasperating at times. Her fancy is to rule in a scholarly world, not her father’s kingdom.”

“A teacher.” Had his bards looked like Lady Deirdre, Alric might have enjoyed his study far more.

The smug quirk of the priest’s lips indicated that Alric might qualify as the lady’s first student. It was gone as quickly as it appeared. “I do hope you will keep all this in mind when you take her to wife … if that is your intention.”

His intention? Frig’s mercy, his mind was in a spin of doubt and befuddlement that shamed the worst hangover, though the questions were not so different. What had he done? What would be the consequence? Was he certain he wanted to stand by his actions? Could he afford not to?

Despite these vexing thoughts, his answer was firm. “It is.”

“She is a prize worth cherishing. A gift from God.”

Alric stiffened. Not another prophet! They surrounded him, he who had sought none of them. “I recognize her for her beauty and her station, Father. That will have to do for now.”

“Of course. Love must be nurtured for a lifetime to keep it fruitful.”

Riddles again. “So I have heard,” Alric replied, uncertain as to whether he was agreeing figuratively or literally. “But rest assured, she will not suffer the shame that my mother did but retain all the rights of a proper wife under the law.”

“Under God’s law as well?”

Alric hesitated. “I make no commitment to that with which I do not completely agree.”

“Then perhaps you do not understand them, for I take you to be a decent man on the whole. We should speak before you make your vows.”

Alric grunted in reluctant agreement. He had enough to wrestle with now without the priest adding more to the weight on his shoulders. A marriage of the law was enough for him.

“Well, I must be off.” Scanlan brushed crumbs from his robe and stood. “While I would love to speak on the matter and enjoy your fine table, I wish to return to the protection of Saint Peter’s before the full pitch of night has fallen.”

Rankled, Alric was tempted to engage in a game of riddles to prove he had no need for tutelage of a scholarly or clerical nature. His mother had seen to his education in both spheres. Instead, he gave the man leave to go. “I’ll have someone accompany you,” he offered, ignoring his ingrained obligation to offer the hospitality of a bed for the night. He assuaged his conscience with the knowledge that travelers and a few local Christians enjoyed sitting in that damp little pile of stones, sharing their faith and fellowship as much as his men enjoyed the camaraderie of the mead halls. He’d been dragged there enough as a boy.

Alric stood at the small open foyer of the villa watching Pauls lead Father Scanlan toward the east gate.

“Scanlan didn’t stay.”

Turning, Alric saw Deirdre standing in the tiled entrance. She bore no resemblance to the ashen, frail creature he’d left with Doda and the priest earlier. Indeed, her priest was a miracle worker.

“Milady” Alric cleared hoarseness from his throat and offered his arm to the stunning vision in blue and gold. “You are … recovered.”

“Aye.” A half smile graced the rose curves of her lips, as if she was fully aware of her disconcerting effect upon him.

Ears growing hot at her silent amusement, Alric hardly noticed Belrap and Doda’s efforts until he’d helped the princess arrange her royal robe on the bench so as not to crush the rich fabric. As pale as the lighter shade of her eyes, it was hard to discern if the velvet shot with gold threads was blue or a soft pearl gray A matching cap crowning the golden cascade of her hair was of the same fabric and flocked with tiny seed pearls, as was the modestly dipped bodice. Where the small cross had graced the creamy flesh of her neck, a twisted ribbon of gold now sparkled—a torque worthy of a princess.

Though what he longed to finger most, the gold or the living satin against which it was displayed, Alric would not admit.

“My apologies, milady, for such a mean repast, but your priest suggested that I … er … rather that you would—” What the blazes was he saying? “He said you wanted broth.”

Alric resumed his place at the head of the long table and pretended to assess his servants’ efforts. The lavish silver candelabra cast dancing shadows on the ceiling as unfettered flames reflected in the gaze she raised to his.

“Broth will be excellent, milord.”

The filigree of her lashes dipped fanlike upon cheeks ripe with vitality Alric’s insides mimicked the motion with such effect that he was grateful for the seat beneath him. He’d felt this sensation before, just before the unbroken Dustan sent him airborne on his first attempt to ride the stallion. He had to take charge of the situation before he struck the ground hard.

“Will you have wine, milady?” His leather drinking cup had been removed, and glassware from the Rhineland put in its place. As Alric reached for a decanter, Doda rushed in with another.

“No, no, milord. This is the milder wine you asked for. That is a Rhenish one for—” Upon seeing Deirdre, the housemistress broke off, her mouth dropping open. “Look at you, my pretty girl.” The servant put down the wine bottle and clapped her hands to her round cheeks. “Oh, I am wishing the prince’s mama were here to see you.”

“You’re making the princess blush, Doda,” Alric observed, futilely resisting the enchantment swirling around him. How could this lovely creature possibly be the bane of his existence?

Doda placed a matronly hand on Deirdre’s forehead, crushing the comely fringe of hair that spilled upon it. Like its owner, it sprung back as the housemistress withdrew her palm and tested her own brow. “It is cooler than my own. Praise God!”

“Indeed,” Deirdre agreed softly “He is ever my protector and benefactor.” She cut Alric a sideways glance. “Even in this captivity”

Ah, the beguiling rose still had her thorns. Alric wanted to argue that this luxury was hardly
captivity
but could not. Were he to offer her the freedom to leave, he had no doubt that she would.

“Belrap must see this—”

“That won’t be necessary,” Alric interrupted, his guard raised by the prick of reality. The sharpness in his tone drew a bemused look from Doda. “I would like privacy with my bride to be.”

Alric met his servant’s critical gaze steadily The silence in the room grew until Doda acquiesced to his will. At the open portal, she hesitated. Alric braced, expecting the beloved servant to exercise the privilege of having witnessed his birth to offer further objection, but instead, she stalked away in a self-righteous huff.

“She was of great comfort to me,” Deirdre told him, a prompting hand resting on the gilded stem of her empty glass.

“Doda and Belrap were among my mother’s favorites.” Alric cursed the tremble of his hand as he poured the dark wine. He was the master of this situation, yet he felt like a toy boat caught in the tide, swept away by a force he couldn’t see.

“Your mother must have been a gracious noblewoman, even though she was a slave.”

“Aye, that she was. Which is why I take you not as a slave, milady but as a wife, with all the rights accorded you by the law.”

Instead of sampling the broth steaming in the glazed porringer, Deirdre focused on Alric’s makeshift bread boat, which had been inadvertently left behind by the servants.

“May I?” She asked the question with the innocence of an angel.

“By all means.” Pleased that she was intrigued by his handiwork, Alric reached across the silver platter of meat and cheeses and handed it to her. Pride vied with sheepishness, the latter heating his neck and face as she peered inside the outfitted rig.

“How clever,” she murmured, taking out one of the little cheese benches and popping it into her mouth. “Now, about this
possible
marriage,” she said, taking time to swallow daintily Distracted and dumb, Alric watched as Deirdre broke the bread craft in half and dunked it into the broth. As it took on the liquid, the hair lifted at the back of his neck. Frig’s mercy the priest had destroyed his sail, and now this revived enchantress sank his ship!

He was no saintly prophet nor mystery-cloaked seer, but even he had a queasy premonition that this somehow was a portent of his future.

D
eirdre was no prophet, but Jeremiah had been. By the time she was dressed and ready to face Alric of Galstead, she’d committed God’s assurance to His chosen to memory. It was her armor, and the bizarre fact that she now miraculously spoke the Saxon language, her secret weapon.

At first Alric’s almost boyish awkwardness upon seeing her had been as engaging as it was reassuring. She’d had not just a renewed confidence but the upper hand of surprise. Still, as she dunked his little bread boat in her broth, one would have thought it was the
Wulfshead
itself from his expression. Yet how could that be? Surely the cook or someone in the kitchens had filled an idle moment by carving the bread and cheese. Surely, it was meant to be consumed …

The candlelight seemed to become brittle in his gaze as he clenched the very blood from his knuckles.

“
For I know the thoughts that I think toward you, saith the L
ORD
, thoughts of peace, and not of evil …”

Thus girded, Deirdre spoke. “Since there is no one to speak for me regarding the marriage negotiations, I shall have to do so for myself.”

“Indeed?” A slight pull of his upper lip hinted at a snarl. “I said that
if
I did marry you, milady I offer you more than any slave can expect.”

“I am not
any
slave, and you know it.” Faith, had she gone through this agony of accepting marriage as God’s plan for naught? Thankfully the glass she lifted to her lips did not betray her bravado. The man was still as dangerous as the predator portrayed on his belt. She took her time, recouping from the unexpected blow. “Well,
if
you do decide to marry me—and trust me when I say I’d as soon raise swine in a mud hole—I expect what a bride of my station deserves.”

Alric took the glassware from her hand and put it aside, leaning forward. “And what would that be?”

Deirdre remained steady beneath the intimidation of his glare. “A bride-price is the custom of my people.”

“I paid for you already, and dearly, I would add.”

“But some filthy Frisian has my bride-price, not I, nor any of my family And that, sir—” she took the wine back—“is unacceptable. Without it, your family would consider me no more than it did your mother, a purchased slave.”

Deirdre cut a piece of the broth-sodden bread with her spoon and focused on getting it past the knot threatening to trip her tongue. Her nemesis watched her every move like a wolf, watching for the advantage through a seemingly indifferent slant of mercurial eyes, though the remark regarding his mother seemed to set him back.

“I do not wish that on any woman,” he admitted, “although a little humility might do you well.” He considered her as though searching for her very thoughts. “And just what would that bride-price be, milady?”

“My brother’s ransom—the contents of the barrel in which you found my cloak and brooch, the trunk, and, of course, Kieran’s sword.”

“The king’s sword belongs to this Kieran and not your father?”

“The sword is a family heirloom, handed down from one of our great kings.” Pride filled her voice. “Kieran dedicated it to the altar of the church he built on Gleannmara, vowing it would never draw innocent blood and be used only for God and Gleannmara. It was part of the ransom, which shows how desperately we wish to save Cairell.”

Alric took the decanter of the stronger wine, removed the stopper, and drank straight from it. Slamming it on the table after he’d lowered the level by a good third, he tapped on the top as if counting. The more he counted, the more Deirdre noticed the veins beginning to swell in his neck and temples.

“If you were your brother,” he murmured, like the low, distant rumble of an approaching storm, “I would slit your throat and leave you for the hounds, thus relieving myself of the trouble you have caused me.”

She refused to let the raw comment rattle her. God was on
her
side, not this heathen’s. “If I were my brother, you would not wish to marry
me.” Deirdre glanced at his empty plate. “You aren’t going to eat?”

“I’m not sure I can afford to.”

“May I use your dining knife then? I’d like one of those sausages.” She added with wide-eyed innocence, “Someone took mine.”

“I’m not sure I can afford
that
either.” Alric speared a sausage with his knife and placed it on Deirdre’s plate. As he chopped it into bite-sized pieces, she thought he’d hack the design on the tableware into oblivion.

“Thank you,” she said as sweetly as she could manage.