Deirdre (5 page)

Deirdre let out a short breath of relief—for with the likes of Alric of Galstead, she was certain relief would be nothing if not short-lived.

A
lric stood, arms folded, feet planted squarely on the rolling deck of the merchant ship. A quick inspection showed the vessel had suffered little damage during the battle. He allowed a small smile. Sale of both the
Mell
and its cargo would fatten his purse. Indeed, the tribute due the Northumbrian subkingdom of his father, denied forever to Alric by birth, would someday pale in comparison to what he took from the sea.

He’d show his family that the illegitimate son of his father’s captive Scottish princess neither wanted nor needed Galstead—not even that which his father offered out of earnest affection. The offer had only worsened the tension at court, making his stepmother, Queen Ethlinda and half brother, Ricbert, green as their greed. How could his father expect Alric to someday pay homage to his elder half brother as Galstead’s king when no love had ever been lost between them? Not in this world, at least, and there wasn’t likely a next.

“I reckon this will put us ahead some,” Gunnar, his second in command said. “Did you find the treasure chest yet?”

They were much like brothers, both noble second sons who would have to make their own fortunes, although Gunnar was not the bastard of a slave.

“Yes, it’s fine as any you’ve ever laid eyes upon but empty as a witch’s heart.” The loose lips of a drunken merchant in Dublin had tipped the two pirates that a royal treasure chest was included in the hold that carried his future fortune. At least he’d been half right.

His dark-haired mate looked stricken at first and then returned to his usual good humor. “Ach, to hear you speak of our beloved queen so.”

Lack of love for Ethlinda and Ricbert was yet another commonality they shared. Gunnar beat his fist against the hard leather plate of his armor, his only body protection save his helmet. His mail shirt, like
Alric’s, had been left ashore. One false step and that particular protection could prove death in the water.

It was a less bloody demise, that was for certain, Alric mused, watching as the last of the dead were tossed over the side. Water was as good as earth for a grave. Either way, creatures waited to devour a man’s flesh and bone.

“Do you suppose our drunken friend meant a treasure
chest
and not a royal treasure?”

“Or mayhap he was spinning tales from his imagination.” Alric glanced over to where the curious sister of the church and her companions tended the wounded. It was a shame such beauty had a lame leg, for she’d be a delight to chase about a plump bed, given the right frame of mind. Alric had never forced a woman to placate his needs, but he had managed to charm a few into forgetting their initial refusals.

“Imagine her in silk instead of sackcloth,” Gunnar reflected beside him. “By Frig’s sweet breath, she’s as long-shanked as a warrior and twice as comely …. Although I favor the more compact, brown-haired lass she’s escorting.”

“Well, don’t dwell overlong on either, for they are worth more to our Frisian partners untouched … at least the little one is. The other claims to be a sister of the church.”

The force in Alric’s voice was as much to convince himself as his friend. That he had to do so astonished him. There was something about the wench, something that reached beyond her beauty. It was her fire that swirled beyond the blue glass of her gaze, stirred by spirit. It was a shame if she was really intended for the church—and not just because Alric’s respect for his mother would not permit him to sell clergy into slavery.

“Have the young priest and the women brought aboard the
Wulfshead.
Then fit this ship with a crew to sail for Albion.”

“No point in transferring the cargo when our destination is the same,” Gunnar agreed.

It wasn’t the first time they’d taken a ship intact and done the exact same thing, but Gunnar was drunk with easy triumph and more than likely had already calculated his share of their prize, just by the
position of its waterline. It was exasperating that his longtime friend was always within his own blood worth of being correct, whether the cargo be wool or gold.

Alric preferred the sure way of doing the sums himself. Nothing was certain until he knew it was his and his alone. Estimation was as unreliable as the wind—like an empty gilded and jeweled treasure chest.

Or a prophecy.

Frig’s mercy, it had been five years, and Alric could still see his mother and hear the strain it took to draw breath enough to tell him what she’d clung to life for. Out of respect for her, he’d taken no part in King Ecfrith’s travesty on the Celtic church. There was plunder aplenty in the Irish ships bound for Argyll, heavy with supplies to aid the Scots and the Picts in their border war with Northumbria. The seamen, at least, were armed, and if they were not … well, Alric had no mercy for fools.

Gunner’s startled voice struck through Alric’s unwitting lapse into the past. “Ho, what’s this slipping out from beneath your robe?”

The note of alarm sent Alric’s hand to the hilt of his scramasax as he turned to see his first mate back away from the flaxen-haired female in sackcloth, his mouth agape, an empty scabbard in his hands. And what a scabbard it was, inlaid with jewels and precious metals—worthy of a bretwalda or high king. The wench wielded its sword with no lack of skill. Nearly as many riches sparkled on its hilt as did on the scabbard. Both she and Gunnar struggled to maintain their footing on the swaying plank that connected the two ships.

“Hand over the weapon, milady … I mean, Sister …” Gunnar swore in exasperation. “Whatever the blazes you are!”

“Never! This sword is a sacred relic of the church. I’d rather die than hand it over.”

So
that
was the source of her affliction. Almost smiling, Alric inched his way toward the plank, trying not to catch the fiery vixen’s eye.

“Milady, have you taken leave of your senses?” the other woman cried from the deck of the
Wulfshead.

“Orna’s right, Deirdre. Give up the weapon. It’s not worth your life,” the priest said.

This was no nun, of that Alric was now certain. The way the priest and the other female addressed her seemed to confirm it.

“Hold, Galstead, or I’ll skewer your comrade where he stands,” the woman called as he came within good lunging distance.

She had a warrior’s stance and eye. His certainty regarding the female’s station with the church faltered. He had read of both priests and nuns who were accomplished with swords of righteousness. The famous Columba of Iona was one such anomaly. And there were rumors that the small abbey near the coast was run by a woman of God, who, on her first mission into heathen territory, cut down a horde of armed unbelievers bent on murdering her small party, lightning had followed her blade, killing any and all—some without so much as a scratch—who stood in her way.

Alric looked beyond this enigma to Gunnar. “Let her be.” Most likely it was more Christian nonsense, but he saw no reason to challenge it. The day was his.

Gunnar wasn’t as easily dissuaded. “But look at it!”

“Use your head, mate. Where is she going to go with it?” Alric jerked his head toward the
Wulfshead.
“Just leave her be. She’ll have to yield to one ship or the other eventually”

Scowling, Gunnar leaped to the deck.

With a victorious smirk, the female turned slightly so that both decks were within the periphery of her vision. Had a man struck the same lofty tilt of the jaw, the pirate would have taken great pleasure in breaking it with his fist. With the lady, he resorted to a verbal jab. “With luck she’ll fall overboard and save us all a great deal of aggravation.”

Her eyes widened, spitting defiance in reply. Suddenly, she dropped to the plank between the two vessels in a huff and puff of sackcloth, her garment taking moments more to settle than she did.

“Now what?” Gunnar called to him,
I told you so
ringing in his cryptic tone.

“Put another plank over till our business is done. Sister Deirdre can keep watch on
our
sword.”

Deirdre clamped her mouth shut, most likely swelling with the
indignation building within, and laid her prized possession over crossed knees. She had pluck. Much as it annoyed him, Alric had to admire it.

The rise and fall of the sea beneath the two vessels made Deirdre’s perch no more precarious than a pleasant horseback ride. Nonetheless, she kept a keen eye on the ends of the board to be certain they didn’t work their way clear under the constant movement. Now that the heat of her defiance had waned with the indifference afforded her by her adversaries, she felt foolish. But when the strip holding Kieran’s sword to her thigh had given way as she climbed up on the plank, her gasp of dismay was involuntary. She caught the precious weapon before it fell overboard, but not without drawing the attention of the dark-haired man in front of her.

Gunnar had pounced upon it like a hungry cat upon a fat mouse, but his greedy hands claimed only the scabbard. Before he knew what had happened, Deirdre drew the magnificent weapon. Only Providence kept her from stumbling over the hem of her robe as she swung around into a ready stance, but ready she was for whatever the dogs had in mind—except being ignored altogether. Her pride had crumbled around her like her robe as she sank to the plank out of sheer spite.

Oh, heavenly Father
,
how short is the fall from holy warrior to earthly fool! Father, I bleed with remorse … and confusion. What am I to do now? Must we lose the sword pledged to You to that heathen swine
?

Much as she listened and stared into the sea’s blue-green depths, Deirdre heard only the creak of wood against wood as the current seesawed the two vessels.
Stu-pid, stu-pid
, it seemed to say. As if that weren’t harsh enough, even the to and fro swish of the brushes on deck joined the chorus. The stream of blood-stained water pouring out the drain and spilling into the untarnished sea drew her attention from her personal contrition. It was as if the vessel shed tears for the dead. Surely God did.

Deirdre hung her head lower, stricken by the thought. Aye, she’d
tended the wounded, aching for them, but keeping a lifeless length of jeweled steel had preoccupied her mind rather than the prayers Father Scanlan said with both friend and foe. The sword was not worth anyone’s life. Besides, how could she be of any use to her brother, or her friends, if she risked death for something so paltry in comparison?

She ran her fingers along the taper of the blade, memories of its history—Gleannmara’s history—stirring afresh in her mind. What joy she’d taken in the bards’ accounts of Kieran and his lady, Riona—he a wild man of the sword and her example of faith—the weapon that tamed him.

“Well, fair warrior of the church, your time to decide what you will do has expired. We all await milady’s wish.”

The comforting cloak of nostalgia in which Deirdre wrapped herself vanished, torn away by her captor’s derision.
Father, forgive me, but this is one enemy I cannot love. I hate the man.

With a look as hard and sharp as the steel in her hand, Deirdre handed him the weapon—point first. “It will never serve the likes of you, you know,” she told him, drawing what little satisfaction she could from the moment.

A single golden eyebrow arched in challenge. “Oh?”

“It won’t spill innocent blood.”

He smirked. “Neither do I.”

Deirdre swallowed a dubious and unladylike reply. To voice it would only prolong the game he was enjoying entirely too much. She was tired. He held Kieran’s sword
and
the day. Tomorrow remained to be seen.

“Well?”

Deirdre gathered up the folds of her robe, balancing carefully on the swaying plank as she steadied herself on her knees, no different than she did when preparing to stand on the cantering horse her father gave her. When confident, she stood as straight and proud as her situation allowed, unprepared for the sharp jerk of her clothing on one squared shoulder. Grace and dignity abandoned her as she scrambled for a foothold and grasped at thin air for support.

The gasp of alarm that filled her lungs one second was knocked
from her chest as she struck the icy water below. Her shriek of bubbles rose toward the surface as she sank into the depths.

Deirdre struggled toward the bright water over her head, but the gangly robe strangled her efforts. Her lungs ached, devoid of life-sustaining air, choking her from within.

I won’t give up!

With all her strength, she kicked her feet in the course tangle and used her arms to propel her body upward, but her garment seemed to partner with the monstrous sea to draw her deeper into the suffocating shadows of the vessels.

Surrounded on all sides, Deirdre fiercely battled the oppressive foe toward the water’s surface. Against her will, liquid death seeped into her lungs.

Father …

Unmercifully, panic snuffed out her prayer with its impenetrable fingers.

T
he impact of Alric’s dive threatened to force the air from his lungs, and the cold water assaulted the pores of his flesh with a million pinpricks of ice. The algae-rich water made it hard to see more than an arm’s length away. Making wide sweeps with his arms, he searched blindly for the wench in the silent but deadly pull of the current.

Suddenly something brushed his foot. Spinning around, he grabbed blindly and snagged a coarse fold of the clerical robe. Reeling it toward him, he soon encountered the woman struggling within its confines, but instead of accepting his assistance, she began to kick and claw at him as though he intended her harm.

The impact of her foot—for surely no female had the strength in her fists to strike so hard—knocked the remainder of air from his lungs. If he shot to the surface for air and came back down, he might not find her. With no choice save letting her drown, Alric lunged toward the flailing figure and gathered robes, arms, legs into his embrace. Lungs constricting, he propelled himself and his struggling baggage toward the blinding, brilliant surface.