Thief (31 page)

The room was in an uproar as Caden took Sorcha in his arms and kissed her, long and soundly. The floor trembled from stomping of feet and tables rattled with the ear-shattering beat of fists and cups on the boards.

And if that kiss took Caden’s last breath on This Side, it was worth it. But he breathed another against her ear, his whisper soft. “Abba be thanked for giving me a reason to live.” And another as he kissed her forehead. “A reason to hope.”

Abba, may I waste not so much as one breath more that is not spent for this woman.

Caden found Sorcha’s mouth again with his. “And a reason to love.”

Epilogue

The dam of life held through the Long Dark but burst forth with the coming of spring, flooding the fields and forests with vibrant shades of green and the bright bursts of blossoms. Hearths that were cleaned and allowed to grow cold received new flame, some from the pagan Beltane fires dedicated to the old gods and others from like fires consecrated in the name of the Christian God, whose Son was resurrected.

Trebold brimmed with life as well. On the hillock, new timber and stone sprang from the old. It fairly crawled with men from Glenarden and Trebold. The Glenarden party had arrived for the Paschal celebration a week earlier and to celebrate the late Leaf Fall wedding that most had not been able to attend. They'd stayed on to help Caden with the new hall.

Thanks to Gemma, who'd arrived just before winter fully set in with Ebyn and a handsome sum of gold from the sale of Sorcha's warehouse and business, they were able to start the renovation of Trebold Law.

Sorcha adjusted the wolfskin blanket beneath six-month-old Joanna and sat her niece up so that the babe could see Ebyn, Gemma, and Glenarden's heir, Conall, playing with a wooden ball that Caden had carved and painted for him. She and Caden had adopted Ebyn as their own, but how she longed to have more children, a baby like Joanna.

“Let us build a place to put them first,” Caden had consoled her when her courses had not cooperated. “God will know when the time is right.”

Lady Brenna and Lady Myrna came out of the tavern, engaged in what had been since Brenna's arrival an off-and-on-again conversation on the use of herbs and spices in cooking and healing. Running a tavern required knowledge of both, and Sorcha's mother thought the healer of Glenarden had no equal.

“Look, our men approach,” Brenna said as Sorcha dabbed a bit of drool from Joanna's rosebud lips.

“Well, we've enough food to fill their bellies,” Myrna observed proudly. Her servants had set up benches and boards piled high with fresh breads, boiled roots glazed with fresh butter and herbs, and roasted meats and fowl in the tavern yard. “Even the big one,” she said, nodding to Egan.

Sorcha drew herself away from her adoration of the baby girl to see the man of her heart ambling down the hill with his brothers and Egan O'Toole. Caden and Ronan shoved their younger brother, Alyn, from one to the other, their boisterous laughter preceding them.

“Poor Alyn,” she said halfheartedly. “They tease him unmercifully.” Of course Alyn gave as good as he got. And most times he gave it first.

“I don't think I've ever seen the men so happy.” Brenna sighed, her face radiating the same emotion that welled in Sorcha. Love.

Sometimes Sorcha caught herself just staring in wonder at Caden while he slept, thanking God for sending him when she needed him most. God's timing was impeccable, she reminded herself as she nuzzled the angel-soft wisps of Joanna's hair.

Brenna put her hands on her hips, her head cocked in defiance. “Leave the laddie be, you two,” she ordered as though her tall but slender frame, clad in shirt, tunic, and trousers, were big as Egan's.

She and Glenarden's champion had gone hunting, accounting for some of the smaller game on Trebold's tables. 'Twas that talent that impressed Sorcha as much as Brenna's healing skills, although it was Brenna's loving nature that instantly won Sorcha over. Never could she have chosen a better sister. But for God's grace, Rhianon might be her relative now.

“He's too full of mischief to be a priest,” Caden complained. He landed another cuff on Alyn's head. “Someone has to beat it out of him.”

“I've more brain than mischief, which is more than you can say,” Alyn shot back. He tried combing his tousled dark hair with his fingers to no avail.

“I'm thinkin' he'd make a fine husband for me daughter.”

Alyn gave Egan an appalled look. “'Twould be like marrying my
sister!”

Egan winked. “But she's not your sister.”

Alyn rolled his eyes heavenward. “Those fancy warriors at Gwenhyfar's court turn Kella's head, not a dull priest. We are like night and day. We never did get along.”

Something about her younger brother-by-law's words made Sorcha suspect that Alyn protested too much.

But at that moment, little Conall raced up to Sorcha and snatched the wolf pelt out from under his sister so fast, Sorcha nearly lost her grip on the baby girl. “Mine!”

“Conall O'Byrne!” Brenna scolded.

“My goodness, he's strong,” Sorcha gasped.

Ronan scooped his son up in his arms. “I thought you said you were a big boy now and that only babies needed blankets.”

Conall buried his face against Ronan's shirt. “Mine.”

“Someone's coming,” one of the men trailing down the hill shouted. He pointed toward the east road leading to the river crossing. “Saxons!”

Sorcha's blood ran cold. But they should be preparing and planting their fields, repairing their homes … the same as Trebold's people.

“Get the women and children inside,” Caden shouted over his shoulder as he ran inside. “Ronan—” He tossed a horn hanging by the tavern door to his brother.

“I'll summon the men,” Ronan replied.

The men working on the fortress did so with some weapon close by. It was only prudent in a time where the enemy might be a foreigner or one's neighbor.

Sorcha handed off Joanna, who screamed at her father's loud horn blast, to Brenna and raced after Caden for the upstairs view of the river road from the bedchamber window.

“They've women and children with them,” Caden announced as she joined him.

Behind the front line was a cart lined with fur in which some ladies traveled. Hardly threatening. There was even a female riding in the lead with the men traveling under a white banner with a stag painted on it.

Sorcha leaned against her husband's strong arm, excited. “It's Princess Eavlyn!” They'd exchanged missives, but she'd not seen Eavlyn since the escape.

Caden opened the window and shouted to Ronan below. “The warriors' shields are upside down! They come in peace.”

There was still chaos, but by the time Prince Hering and Princess Eavlyn's company forded the river, it was tempered with wariness, not panic. Eavlyn, who was huge with child, rested on a bench in the shade with some of the women, while Prince Herring spoke to the men gathered round him.

Hussa was dead. Hering had been with Eavlyn in Burlwick when he received the news. But before the prince could hie to Din Guardi, word came that Aethelfrith had summoned a Dieran army and intimidated Hussa's thanes to elect him as the new bretwalda.

“I'd wager my sword arm that Tunwulf knew of Aethelfrith's plan,” Caden told the angry prince.

“Nay, my cousin only slays in the name of justice.” Hering's acrimony belied the meat of his words. “And the gods.” He swept his arm about to encompass his followers. “These men and women have accepted the Christian God.”

So Eavlyn's mission to bring Christianity to Bernicia had not been a total failure. Sorcha looked about. There had to be at least twenty families.

“Did Aethelfrith have anything to do with Hussa's death?” Caden asked.

“Father had been ill this winter,” Hering replied. “Although I would not put anything past Aethelfrith. Including sending troops to dispose of me, my wife, and family. Which is why we are here, along with others who will not fight for Aethelfrith.”

“These men are loyal to us and to Christ. They
will
fight Aethelfrith,” Eavlyn spoke up. “But their women and children need a place to stay.” She eased to her feet. “I thought of the abandoned homes here at Trebold … if you would have them.”

“Saxons is Saxons,” someone from the crowd gathered round them growled. The translator who had been converting their conversation into Saxon grew silent.

Myrna stepped off the stoop of the tavern and surveyed those gathered with a sharp eye. “And people in need are people in need,” she reminded them.

The translator started again.

“
Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to me.…”
Myrna quoted from her one book of Scripture, a worn copy of Matthew that she paid dearly for from the son of a deceased priest. Her mother used that quote often in administering Trebold's affairs.

Sorcha had used her gift to memorize the entire book that winter. “I agree with my mother. We cannot change all of Alba that one man might live in peace beside another, but we can change Trebold.”

“And I cannot change all men's hearts, only my own,” Caden agreed. “I serve a God of second chances. He gave me a second chance with good men like you and with Sorcha … with my family.”

Some of the onlookers looked away, struck by guilt.

“We need families to work our fields, to help us prosper. To defend our homes. But I will not offer homes and land to these families without the blessing of the majority of Trebold's people.”

The translator repeated Caden's words.

“Those who will welcome fellow brothers and sisters in Christ, I ask you to stand with me.” Caden walked a distance away and waited.

Myrna and Sorcha joined him. Then Gemma. For a while, it seemed as though all the crowd would do was murmur and argue among themselves. The first to cross to where Caden and Sorcha stood were two wives, herding their children like mother hens. Their men followed. Then more men. More women. Not all came, but more than half the number. And when that became clear, the others moved over as well.

“'Tis done then.” Caden beamed. “What say we welcome our new neighbors?” He took the lead, walking up to the biggest of the lot, a great hulk of a man with long straw-colored hair, and offered his hand with a hearty “Welcome, friend,” in Saxon.

The two peoples merged, some of Trebold's Britons and Scots mangling their Saxon as badly as the newcomers mangled their Cumbric. But Christian charity overcame the language barrier.

Gemma caught Sorcha's arm as she moved forward to join them. “You have married a good man, sweetling.”

Sorcha sought out Caden's blond mane above the heads of most of the others. Or she tried to. It was hard to see through the mist glazing her eyes. “Aye,” she whispered softly.

But she held Caden in her heart's eye and always would from This Side to the Other.

God be thanked.

… a little more …

When a delightful concert comes to an end,
the orchestra might offer an encore.
When a fine meal comes to an end,
it's always nice to savor a bit of dessert.
When a great story comes to an end,
we think you may want to linger.

And so, we offer ...

AfterWords—
just a little something more after you
have finished a David C Cook novel.
We invite you to stay awhile in the story.

Thanks for reading!

Turn the page for ...

• Glossary

• Arthurian Characters

• The Grail Palace

• Bibliography

• Scripture References

• About the Author

•
Prologue from
Rebel

Glossary

Alba—
Scotland

Albion—
the Isle of Britain

Alcut/Alclyd—
Dumbarton on Firth of Clyde

anmchara—
soul mate

arthur—
title
passed down from Stone Age Britain meaning “the bear,” or “protector,” connected with the constellation of the Big Dipper; equivalent of Dux Bellorum and Pendragon; the given name of Arthur, prince of Dalraida

a stór—
darling

behoved—
beholdened

braccae
—Latin for woolen drawstring trousers or pants, either knee- or ankle-length

bretwalda
—leader/king of Saxon warlords or thanes

cariad—
dearest

Carmelide—
Carlisle

Cennalath—
ken'-nah-lot;
Pictish
king of the Orkneys killed by Arthur for treachery

Cumbric—
language of western Celtic peoples of Britain, close to today's Welsh

Cymri—
brotherhood of Britons and Welsh, united by the common foe of Saxons

druid—
an educated professional—doctors, judges, poets, teachers, and protoscientists, as well as priests.
Druid
meant “teacher, rabbi, magi, or master,” not the dark, hooded stereotype assumed by many today. Those who were earnest sought light, truth, and the way. Others abused their knowledge, which was power.

Dux Bellorum
—Latin for duke of war, high king, Pendragon, or
arthur

earthways—
to death/burial

Eboracum—
York

fell—
rocky hill

foolrede—
foolishness

gleemen—
entertainers for the common people akin to circus performers, as well as singers and dancers

Gwenhyfar—
Guinevere;
considered by some scholars to have been a title like
arthur
and
merlin,
as well as a given name. Some scholars believe the Pictish Gwenhyfar was called Anora.

haegtesse
—witch

haws—
medieval term for a house in a town/burrough that is part of a larger country estate; a house on a small lot in a burrough

hillfort—
an enclosed fortress/village on a hill, usually with earthenwork and/or wood stockade about its perimeter

Joseph, the
—the high priest of the Grail Palace on the Sacred Isle

Leafbud
—spring

Leaf Fall—
fall

Long Dark
—winter

mathair—
mother

merlin—
title for the adviser to the king, often a prophet or seer; sometimes druidic Christian as in Merlin Emrys, or not, as Merlin Sylvester

Merlin Emrys (Ambrosius)—
the prophet/seer/Celtic Christian priest descended from the Pendragon Ambrosius Aurelius; thought to be Arthur's merlin; suggested to be buried on Bardsley Island

mind—
remember or recall

mo chroi—
my heart

Pendragon
—Cymri (Welsh-Briton) for “head dragon” or high king, dragon being a symbol of knowledge/power; see
arthur, Dux Bellorum

rath—
walled keep and/or village

scop—
Saxon bard or entertainer

Strighlagh—
strī'-lăk;
Stirling

Sun Season—
summer

thane—
a high-ranking chief, noble, or warlord of the Saxon bretwalda/king; the king's sword-friend (comrade in arms) and hearth friend, who usually led his own warband and received his own lands in reward

toll—
interest on a loan

tuath
—t
ǔ
th; kingdom; clan land

wergild
—money paid for injustice, or a blood price, akin to the Celtic
eric

widdershins—
counterclockwise

witan
—akin to the Celtic
druid:
a Saxon adviser, doctor, judge, historian, genealogist, and magician/wizard/priest or any other educated professional of that era