Thief (20 page)

“God alone is certain,” Eavlyn averred. “He controls the heavens and the earth … and the prayers of the righteous availeth much.” A smile settled softly on her lips. “So it is with faith that I go to my husband now for whatever future lies ahead. We are in God’s hands, for ill or good.”

God’s hands. Locked in this place and chained like a villain was hardly what Caden imagined being in God’s hands felt like. Nature must be against him and Sorcha as well. Tunwulf’s bad nature.

“I don’t understand all this talk of stars and nature,” Caden grumbled, “but I do understand the workings of a scoundrel. Better I could get my hands about his neck or face him squarely, sword to sword. That is more to my liking.”

“But it may not be to God’s,” Martin reminded him. He clapped Caden on the shoulders. “Have faith, Caden. ’Tis stronger than a sword … or poison. You’ve seen as much with your own eyes at Glenarden.”

Glenarden. Aye, Caden had seen it. Poison that didn’t work. Though his father’s recovery alone could have been luck. But one after another of his and Rhianon’s attempts to seize Glenarden for their own had failed. Neither magic, nor demon, nor sheer numbers had prevailed against the simple faith of his brother’s wife. The healer Brenna.

He met Father Martin’s earnest gaze with his own. “Then help me pray for such faith, Father, for all reason works sorely against it.”

Chapter Eighteen

“Caden of Lothian and Sorcha of Din Guardi, you both are charged with the murder of Thane Cynric of Elford and the attempted murder of the woman Rhianon,” Din Guardi’s sheriff charged, his voice booming in Hussa’s hall.

Sorcha didn’t want to be here. Even her spare and cold cell would be better, thanks to Lunid’s visit during the long night. In addition to clean bed linens, the maid had even brought a kettle of tea, a calming one … and shared it with Sorcha. Before she left, Lunid even offered to pray.

“You might be a pagan,” she said, “but the Lord has seen you have a good heart. It is never too late to turn to Him.”

So Sorcha had tried praying after Lunid left but found her words were not nearly as eloquent and worthy as those she’d heard in her short exposure to Christians. Instead, her mind was consumed with her defense. She re-created the day just passed in meticulous order, especially recalling how Rhianon had been present, the draft of beer already drawn. How Tunwulf had knocked it from her hand—

“What have you to say for yourselves?” the sheriff asked, once more calling her attention to him and the proceedings.

Back to the hearing that would determine her fate.

“The charges are false against us both,” Caden declared before Sorcha could find her voice.

The sight of Tunwulf standing next to the potbellied official with her belongings at his feet robbed her of it. They were hers, bequeathed by his father’s dying breath.

“Milady?” the sheriff demanded of her.

Anger breathed into her, stiffening her spine. “As false as Tunwulf’s heart, my lord sheriff.”

“We are here to determine whose heart is false and whose is not,” the sheriff replied, as though haughtiness added to his short stature. “But first …” He stooped, picking up the upholstered chest containing the jewels Cynric had given her. “Are the contents of this chest not yours?”

“They are, sir,” Sorcha addressed the king. “You heard my lord Cynric declare it so with his dying breath.”

“And it has been under your lock and key in the Princess Eavlyn’s bower?”

“Aye …” Wariness slowed Sorcha’s reply. “I keep the key in my pocket.” She fished in the folds of her gown and found it. But as she withdrew it, she could see plainly that the lock had been broken. “I see you no longer need it, sir.”

“Milord King,” the sheriff said, turning to face Hussa, “I personally broke the lock this morning while searching through the lady’s things and found this.” He opened the lid and withdrew a pouch. “Your own doctors confirm the contents as the same poison that killed your hearth friend Cynric and nearly killed the woman Rhianon of Gwynedd.”

“Nay!” Sorcha staggered back. “Never have I seen that pouch before.” Was it possible the sheriff himself conspired against her?

“Then how, milady, did it find its way into your locked chest?”

“Locks can be opened without a key, milords.”

Sorcha would know that voice anywhere. Pure joy flooded through her as she turned to see Gemma standing at the fore of the crowd.

“Milord, this woman’s statement has no bearing on this. She’s naught but a gleeman.”

If anything, Gemma stood taller before the sheriff’s disdain. “My word may not count as much as the sheriff’s, but I will open any lock you provide with naught but this cloak pin to lend them the weight of the truth.”

“We are seeking the truth, are we not?” King Modred asked Hussa. The Cymri lord’s presence placed all the more pressure on the bretwalda to see a just decision made.

Hussa nodded. “Show us, little woman.”

The guard stood aside to let Gemma beyond the bounds of the onlookers. Her cloak pin brandished, she promptly opened one of the shackles on Caden’s ankles. Straightening in triumph to the astonished gasp of the onlookers, the dwarf addressed the king with a great show of humility.

“My father was a locksmith, your majesty,” she announced, head bowed.

“It seems it is possible that someone might have put the poison in Sorcha’s chest to make her, and hence me,” Caden added, “appear guilty of a crime we did not commit.”

Hope surging, Sorcha chimed with a hearty “Yes.”

“But how many are the children of locksmiths?” Tunwulf pointed out. “It is possible, but not
probable
.”

“To what purpose would I murder my father’s dearest friend and my benefactor?” Sorcha cried out. “He had agreed to my returning to my homeland and mother. I had his blessing.”

“Perhaps it was this will, leaving all his wealth to you.” Tunwulf drew a document from the leather pouch slung over his shoulder and presented it to the sheriff.

Blood plunged from Sorcha’s face. “I … I had no idea such a will existed.”

For every argument Sorcha put forth for her innocence, Tunwulf and the sheriff managed to take it and twist it toward her guilt. And Caden’s. Father Martin’s testimony against Rhianon put Caden in a guilty light. Caden’s greed led him once to murder, so why not twice to become lord of Trebold? Sorcha’s accusations against Rhianon handing her the filled pitcher and Tunwulf’s breaking it before anyone else could be served was counted as coincidence. Why would the murderer poison herself?

Even the charge that Tunwulf coveted his father’s estate slid off the villain like rain on a steep roof. “I need not remind my lord bretwalda that the ultimate decision as to who becomes the protector of your border lies solely with you, not my father’s wishes,” Tunwulf replied smoothly. “I know that I have to prove myself worthy of that consideration.”

There was only Sorcha’s and Caden’s denials against a preponderance of unfavorable circumstances. As the noon hour approached, Hussa was clearly reluctant to make a judgment. The Lothian king’s influence was all that stood between Sorcha and Caden and a hangman’s noose, for the witan judges favored her guilt.

“Lord bretwalda, in such a case as this, where clarity of guilt is not forthcoming,” an elder judge by the name of Elread spoke up, “I see no alternative but to resort to trial by ordeal.”

Ordeal.
The word curdled in Sorcha’s stomach. No one survived that, regardless of its nature.

Caden rallied at her side. “Aye, I’ll fight any man among you to prove our innocence.”

The witan cast a disparaging glance at the Cymri. “
Ordeal
, not combat.”

“Boiling oil will show if the woman tells the truth or lies,” a fellow judge agreed. “If she heals well, she is innocent. If not, they both die.”

Oil. Not burning in fire, nor drowning in water, but boiling oil to fry the arm of the poor soul forced to fetch a ring from the bottom of the cauldron.

The appeal of the solution to his quandary settled on Hussa’s face.

“It is barbaric. No one survives such burns, even if they retrieve the ring,” Father Martin objected. “Infection is certain. Your doctors know this.”

“So you say your God can’t save her if she is innocent?” Tunwulf taunted.

His smug satisfaction sparked a fury within Sorcha as intense as the one that had killed her parents. Before the guard beside her knew what she was about, she had the dirk from his boot in her hand.

Nothing mattered now. If she were sentenced to death for murder, best make it worth the cost. Hanging for a murder she committed was better than the tortuous sentence for one she’d not. She snapped her wrist to fling the weapon, but a jerk of her dress just as it left her hand sent it flying off course, away from Tunwulf’s heart and grazing his arm.

“No!” With an oath, she spun to see Caden holding a bunch of her skirt in his manacled hands. “What have you done?”

“Spared you from blood on your hands.”

“You fool!” With all her might Sorcha punched his face, taking out her hopelessness on him. The blow staggered him, but the one that struck her from behind exploded in a flash of light and pain worse than that reported from her fist. Thankfully, darkness consumed it all. Pain, anger, and utter despair.

Chapter Nineteen

Sorcha’s head hurt like thunder. She’d come to her senses back in the guardhouse with Gemma tending her. But Sorcha would drink nothing to soothe her aching head. She wanted it clear for tonight. While the wedding celebration approached its third day, she would escape. Caden as well, if he had an inkling of sense when the time came. But Sorcha would not be a victim.

“Hussa wants to preserve the peace bound by my wedding,” Eavlyn had told her earlier that afternoon.

But the Bernician ruler also had to placate his witans and those who distrusted Eavlyn’s peaceweaving. So no matter how much the priest and Princess Eavlyn prayed over her and assured her that the Lothians would see her spared, Sorcha preferred Gemma’s escape plan. Better to die trying to get away than wait submissively on chance to save her from placing her arm in the burning oil for a crime she did not commit.

For now, Sorcha kept her secret to herself, lest someone overhear her sharing it with the man in the cell next to her. It was all arranged. The tavern keeper Mann and serving girl would help. Utta would pose as kitchen help to bring the night guards some beer while the feasting and revelry continued in the hall. Beer laced with mandrake, just enough to make them sleep. Once they were in a dreamworld, the maid would set Caden and Sorcha free and give them what money Mann and Gemma had scrounged together for travel.

Meanwhile Gemma would perform at the tavern to avoid being associated with the escape or giving them away. Certainly two traveling alone would not draw as much attention as two with a dwarf and child in their company. Gemma and Ebyn would catch up with them in Lothian, beyond Hussa’s reach, if Princess Eavlyn’s peaceweaving held. If not—

Then God help them. If He listened to such as her.

The hours stretched interminably toward the midnight change of the guard. The priest and Lunid came to visit, to pray, and to commiserate. Sorcha joined them, wanting their faith that God was in control. Yet she couldn’t help but take more comfort in knowing escape was at hand, rather than resting on their prayers and promises to keep searching for the real culprit behind Cynric’s death and change the nature of the ordeal to one of combat. As for who murdered Elford’s lord, the answer was as plain as Hussa’s beard. It was Tunwulf and Rhianon. But there was no proof.

“We must take care not to upset the fragile peace between Bernicia and Lothian,” Father Martin had reiterated as he prepared to leave. “But so must the Bernicians.”

“Can your God spare me from the boiling oil … protect my arm so that it won’t burn?” Sorcha asked. She hoped against hope that He could.

But Lunid’s answer did not reassure her. “God’s ways are not ours.”

What did
that
mean?

Sorcha only knew what it didn’t mean. Escape. How foolish she’d been to even entertain the idea that the Christian God could do any more than the pagan ones.

Except for the incident with the boar. That still played across her mind.

Her mind seesawed from groping faith to heart-seizing doubt until the guard finally changed at midnight. Sorcha strained to listen for Utta’s approach above the excited beat of her heart. She paced back and forth till she wore a path in the rushes covering the earthen floor, stirring the scent of old urine in the dampness of the night. At the slightest hint of sound, she stopped and listened.

“Trouble sleeping?” came Caden’s husky voice from the other side of the wall. He’d snored on and off since supper had been brought in as though he had not a care in the world.

“Only a fool wouldn’t,” she shot back. “But then, it’s not your arm to be fried tomorrow, is it?”

“Martin will find a way out of this for you. He and Modred both press for a trial of combat by working on the bretwalda’s warrior pride. Hussa understands might more than spirits.”

“And you will fight?” Sorcha pushed down a second guess at her own plan. But while Caden had the look of an able warrior, her escape plan was more certain. “And you believe God will save us?”

“I’ve seen His miracles firsthand.”

But Sorcha recognized his hesitation for what it was. “And you
believe?”

“I’m trying hard to, woman!” he snapped, impatient. “I
know
what faith can do. It broke the chains from Paul’s hands and feet, opened his cell door.”

Sorcha pressed against the bulkhead separating them. This language she understood. “Who’s Paul? What had he done?”

But before Caden could answer, Utta’s voice sounded from outside.

“Well now, what ’ave we here?” she cooed, although her tone resembled more that of a crow than a dove. Fortunately, with Utta’s buxom curves, men didn’t seem to mind. Sorcha could almost see her friend sidling up to one of the guards.

“Paul is an apostle,” Caden began.

“Shush!” Sorcha rolled her eyes. All the day and half the night had passed, and
now
the man wanted to talk.

“Two men left to duty while the rest revel the night away,” Utta continued with the same coquettishness that earned her a good night’s wage beyond Mann’s meager pay.

One of the guards said something, and the barmaid let loose a raucous laugh. “Maybe,” she replied, “after ye have a sip o’ the beer the ’ousethane’s wife sent ye lads.”

“What makes that old bull so kindly?” one of the men queried.

Mildrith oversaw the dispensing of her lord’s drink as if it were her own, but Utta couldn’t know that.

“In ’er cups, why else, luv?”

Quick-witted and saucy, Utta was. Sorcha hoped the silence meant that the men were drinking.

“Oh, bother,” the tavern maid exclaimed in alarm. “Someone’s comin’!”

Sorcha’s breath caught. No, not now.

“’urry ’n’ finish it up, lads, a’fore we’re all in trouble.”

After another pause, the clang of tin cups being gathered signaled they’d been emptied.

“Hide round the back,” one of the guards instructed. Punishment was severe for drinking on duty.

“Something’s amiss,” Caden observed under his breath from the other side of the wall. “Who’d visit at this—”

“Aye, now hold your tongue!” Sorcha leaned against the cool plaster. A midnight visitor was definitely not part of her plan. What if Utta were scared away? Worse yet, what if she were caught? Although Utta was resourceful. She might play tipsy, finagle her way out of it, but—

What if the guards fell asleep during this nocturnal visit?

Alarm pelted Sorcha from all sides.

“Open the door. We’re here to see the prisoners.”

Tunwulf!
Sorcha groaned. Not him. Not now.

“Expecting company?” Caden whispered.

“Aye, but not him,” Sorcha complained aloud.

The outer door creaked open. “This way, milord and lady,” a guard instructed.

Lady? Had Rhianon recovered?

Light from a lantern entered the darkness of the narrow hall. The guard hung it on an iron hook for the visitors.

Caden gave a low laugh. “You look well for someone who lingers at death’s door, Rhianon.”

“I thank the goddesses my stomach rebelled at the poison, ridding me of it,” the woman answered. “Though I am still weakened.”

“What mischief are you about now?” Caden asked.

“Regret should spill from those lips, Caden, not mockery. I came to say good-bye, for fortune has turned against you.” Her voice dropped, suggestive. “After all, you were my husband.”

Sorcha pressed her ear to the small opening that allowed the guard to look through the door into the cell as the guard let Rhianon into Caden’s chamber. But when another light swung her way, Sorcha backed to the far wall. Whatever Tunwulf was here for, it did not bode well for her or her plan.

When her cell door swung open, Tunwulf filled its frame, the upholstered box that had contained his mother’s jewels and the incriminating evidence against Sorcha in his hands. Brandishing a sardonic grin, he held it up.

“I brought you your inheritance, milady.”

Anger fired Sorcha’s pulse. Oh, for a handy dagger! She’d yet to forgive Caden for ruining her aim. “’Tis a late hour to mock me, sir.”

“Something told me you might have trouble sleeping.”

“You changed your tunic,” she noted. “I hope I drew blood.”

Tunwulf chuckled. “I have always admired your fire, Sorcha. So I thought, as a token of our friendship—” he closed the short distance between them—“I’d let you spend your last hours with your
inheritance
.” He leaned in, adding in a low voice, “But I am here to make you one last offer to save your beautiful skin.”

Sorcha lifted a brow in disbelief as Tunwulf put down the chest at her feet. What
was
he up to?

“The jewels are yours …” he went on, picking up volume, his mockery returning for the sake of any listeners, “until death do you part.”

Sorcha struck him. At least she intended to. But before she could lay a hand on him, Tunwulf caught her wrist and pinned it to the plaster until the rough surface bit into her skin.

“Listen, little fool, and listen carefully,” he whispered, urgent. “Marry me, and I will see that you are freed. Even the Cymri.”

The stench of his breath mingled with beer forced her face away from his. “What is in this for you?” For there had to be an advantage, one Sorcha couldn’t see. Tunwulf offered nothing without motive.

“Besides
this
…” He groped with his free hand where no man had before … at least not since she’d been a child captive. “Father awarded you two estates as betrothal gifts.”

But she was no longer a frightened child. Seizing anger over the rise of nauseating panic, Sorcha wedged her hand after his. Finding his little finger, she bent it back with all her might.

“Vixen!” Tunwulf shoved her against the wall with his body, pinning both hands above her head with his.

“I’d sooner die than marry you!”

“You will … and horribly … unless you agree.”

“Why?”

“If my wife owns a portion of Elford, it’s only right that Hussa—”

“Award you the rest,” she finished.

A movement beyond Tunwulf’s shoulder caught Sorcha’s eye. Perfect. She dared not focus on the woman standing frozen in the doorway, lest she give Rhianon’s presence away.

Instead, Sorcha moistened her lips as though preparing them for a kiss. It riveted her assailant’s attention. Tunwulf forced himself against her all the more.

“You are not only the most desirable woman I’ve ever met, but you’re smart. You know I’ve always fancied you—”

Sorcha turned slightly, dodging his descending lips. “Your mistress murders your father and,
you,”
she emphasized as they grazed her ear, “poison your mistress—”

“Rhianon poisoned herself to take suspicion away from her.”

The witch! That never occurred to Sorcha in her wildest imaginings. “And yet you would repay her by making me your
wife?”

Tunwulf shrugged. “I’ll keep her as mistress.” He half chuckled against Sorcha’s neck. “You shouldn’t object to that.”

“Nay, sir, but
I
,” Rhianon grated out, “do!” She flung herself across the cell as if her outrage had given her wings.

Tunwulf pulled Sorcha to the side with him so that the blade Rhianon thrust at his neck snagged just the sleeve of his tunic and skidded down the wall. Sorcha tripped over the jewel box, knocking it over, and scrambled away. Rhianon lunged after Tunwulf like a fury. There was no sign of the weakness she should have had as a result of the poisoning. Instead, she slashed and shrieked loud enough to bring the entire kingdom down upon them.

This time the warrior was ready. He caught her wrists and spun her around so that she was back to him. “Let go the knife, Rhianon,” he demanded, trying to shake the dining dagger from her grasp.

“I’ll kill you before I let someone else become Lady Elford!” Rhianon kicked back at him, her heel catching his kneecap.

Tunwulf erupted with a string of curses such as Sorcha had never heard as Rhianon broke her knife hand free and stabbed frantically at his thigh. Again he caught her wrist, but not before she’d drawn blood.

“You
promised
me. You
promised
me,” Rhianon seethed through clenched teeth.

“That you would be richly rewarded,” Tunwulf replied. For all his strength, it was all he could do to restrain her.

Sorcha backed along the wall, away from the unfurling nightmare, and reached for the harp Eavlyn had sent. It was her only hope. That and the effects of the mandrake on the guards, who’d yet to show their faces.

She swung the instrument, still in its bag, hard against the back of Tunwulf’s head. Time froze the pair in midstruggle … for so long that Sorcha drew the harp back again for a second blow. But before she could let go, both Tunwulf
and
Rhianon pitched forward onto the earthen floor. Realizing that she still had to deal with Rhianon, Sorcha shouldered the bag, keeping it ready.