Thief (17 page)

Another just as curious carving was of a giant fish spitting out a man. Or about to swallow him. Sorcha couldn’t decide.

“That’s Jonah,” Martin said, seeing her interest. “He refused to follow God’s command to preach to a city of sinners and was swallowed by a whale as he ran away by ship. But during his time in the whale’s belly, he prayed for God’s forgiveness and promised to go to the sinners, if God would spare him. So God made the fish spit him out.”

“Is that how
you
were persuaded to come to us?” Sorcha teased. Harm to a priest was not as taboo among the Saxon as it was among the Cymri. Perhaps this one took the risk because he had the protection of the Lothian princess.

Father Martin boomed with laughter. “Nay, milady, though I will admit, it might take a while in a whale’s belly to get
some
British priests to bring the Word of God to the Saxon people.”

Sorcha had heard of the riches plundered from British churches and of the slaughter of their men and women. “Yet here you are,” she said. “And Princess Eavlyn.” She didn’t understand Christians but had to admire their courage.

“We come because God is so wonderful to us that we want to share Him with others,” the priest told her. “To tell others what He’s done for us and how He is always with us.”

“And what is that?” Sorcha pointed to three crude crosses carved at the top of the crosier beneath its mounted silver one.

“The middle one is the cross of Christ. The others belonged to two thieves who were crucified with him,” Father Martin replied.

The mention of thieves riveted Sorcha to the spot.

“One thief,” he continued, “believed Christ was the Son of God and asked to be remembered. The other scoffed at the Savior and made fun of Him.”

“But the one who asked to be remembered,” Eavlyn added, “was told he would dine with Christ in paradise that very day.”

A thief dining with the Christian God in paradise? Wonder rilled over Sorcha, so much so that she had to resist the urge to pull her cloak close about her shoulders. “Just by asking to be remembered, the thief was accepted by your God?”

“God loves all of us, even though we all are sinners who don’t deserve that love,” Martin answered gently.

A thief.

“They ask, and He forgives them,” Eavlyn explained, “bidding them to go forth and sin no more.”

“And if they do?” Sorcha asked, skepticism slowing her words.

“If they fall and are truly sorry and willing to try to do as He bids again, He forgives them again.”

“How many times?” There had to be a limit to this God’s patience.

“If our repentance is true, seventy times seven and more,” Eavlyn replied. “God’s love of us has no limit. We are His children.”

It simply made no sense to Sorcha. “A father who allows his children to do wrong over and over and doesn’t discipline them will have hellions for children.”
And thieves.

“Ah—” The priest held up a finger of caution. “We are often disciplined on This Side, not by God, but by man’s law. Or by other consequences of our wrongdoing, reaping what we sow,” he explained. “Yet when it’s time to cross over to the Other Side, God is waiting with His forgiving love.”

“In paradise.” A thief dining in paradise … with a God. Sorcha couldn’t help but warm to the thought that this God might understand her and Gemma’s need to steal. Especially if they never stole again, as Sorcha hoped would be the case. “That is quite a tale, Priest,” Sorcha murmured. “Quite a tale.”

“I believe on penalty of death that it is a truth that leads to eternal life with the Father who loves us,” Martin told her, “or eternal torment by the demons who rebelled against His love. In the end, every man and woman must make a choice as to whom they will give their lives.”

Just when Sorcha expected, perhaps even wanted, him to expound more—especially about demons and torment—Martin pointed to where the queen stood with her falconer. “It appears Her Majesty’s hunt is about to begin.”

At the queen’s nod, the falconer untied the straps securing the fowl’s hood and removed it to reveal the bright eyes and curved beak of a slate-blue peregrine falcon. With a great spread of dark-fringed wings, the graceful hunter fluffed its breast feathers and took flight, to the admiring applause of Aella’s companions. Sorcha watched it shoot away so fast that in moments it was but a tiny speck in the heavens.

“Can your God see the falcon?” she asked.

“He sees even the tiny sparrow when it falls,” Martin replied. “He not only created man and all of nature, but He watches over them.”

Trained to watch the dogs and heed the clicking object its master used for commands, the falcon just as quickly returned, circling overhead with its sharp gaze fixed on the burnished copper-and-white setter now loosed from its leash. The dog raced along the hedgerow on the meadow side of the water, weaving in and out of brush, searching for hidden prey. Grouse, quail, dove, seabirds … it was a rich hunting ground. A second dog, a brown spaniel, remained with its master. But it watched its partner, its tail wagging with eagerness to join the hunt.

Sorcha’s attention was halfhearted as she mulled over what Father Martin had said about his Christian God, who created and watched over all nature. The same nature many worshipped as gods. She settled next to Eavlyn on a sun-warmed stone beside the narrow crossing.
A God who died and then dined with a thief,
she thought. Perhaps He even watched the setter as it stopped poking around the brush and grew stone still.

“Look, he points,” Eavlyn said in a hushed voice.

The master of the hounds gave a signal and unleashed the brown spaniel. It raced toward the spot to flush out the bird. As the dog plunged into the thicket, a startled grouse gave up its cover and flapped desperately for the sky. The ladies, now being served wine, bread, and cheese about the fire, erupted with applause and cries of delight.

The hawk moved like lightning, straight for the hapless bird. Sorcha almost felt sorry for it. Still, she could hardly tear her gaze away as the birds collided in a flurry of feathers. The hawk lifted its prey, soaring in triumph to applause and cheers of the company. The falconer allowed it its glory for a few passes before clicking the command for it to return with the catch.

And God saw it all. The very notion was somehow comforting … providing one wasn’t the grouse, of course. How could there be such an all-knowing, all-loving God as that? Like as not, her new Christian friends had been filling her head with stories. Sorcha believed that Martin and Eavlyn believed, but Sorcha needed more than stories. The other gods had marvelous stories too, and she’d seen no proof of their existence, either.

“Look,” Father Martin said, diverting their attention to the forest. “I think I hear the hunting party, the hounds at its head.”

The blast of a horn sounded above the distant clamor of the dogs, men, and horses tearing through trees and brush.

“The men return!” one of the queen’s ladies exclaimed, distracting the others from the hawk, now delivering its still-quivering prey to the falconer and his men.

Flashes of the men’s clothing appeared in and among the distant trees, but their shouts disintegrated beyond Sorcha’s understanding. Either the hunters were most anxious for the food and drink awaiting them, or the thrashing of limbs and stampede of hooves meant the hunt was coming to them.

Father Martin grabbed Sorcha’s arm and pulled her up. “Get the princess to safety!”

The reason for his urgency was clear now. Another prey ripped through the dense undergrowth, beating a path where there was none. Except that it wasn’t a quivering grouse or even a terrified deer. A giant of a boar tore through the underbrush and headed straight for the narrow passage crossing the stream. Blood sprayed from its huge nostrils and throat, from which broken remnants of spears dangled. Its huge black eyes rolled wild in every direction. So fearsome was the sight that Sorcha froze, unable to move.

But at the outburst of screams and the chaos ensuing behind them, she thawed. Grabbing Eavlyn, she pushed the still-struck princess toward cover around the boulder, but Eavlyn tripped over the hem of her skirts.

Sorcha tried to catch her, but in her effort was pulled down across the woman. Time slowed. Enough for Sorcha to reason that the beast might gore her, but the princess might be safe.

Beyond them, the queen’s guardsmen, white-faced, raced for the weapons they’d left with the horses. A babe who’d discovered his first legs could have moved faster. There was no way the men could retrieve their spears and stop the beast from plowing straight into her and the princess in its death rage.

“God before me!”

Sorcha looked over her shoulder to see the source of the thunderous summons. Father Martin waded into the knee-deep water, planting himself squarely in the beast’s path, his staff of carved stories extended like a spear. Perhaps if it had a blade instead of an ornate cross, the holy man stood a chance.

“God beside me!” he shouted as the beast broke free of the wood, speeding all the faster for him. As though he were the source of its pain.

Sorcha heard herself scream, long and dragged out by the same sluggish passage of time that suspended the beast’s great lunge. Its tusks were aimed at the priest with only the staff bridging the two. She closed her eyes and buried her face in the princess’s shoulder, bracing for their turn. But a loud rip of cloth bade her look in spite of herself. Instead of boring into Martin, the beast careened off the priest as though he were a stalwart oak.…

And rolled to a stop within a finger’s length of her and Eavlyn. The tusk that had run through the holy man’s robe still bore a remnant of it. Yet Martin himself somehow still stood, unmoved. And, unlike Sorcha and Eavlyn, unbloodied by the fountain that sprayed with the animal’s dying spasms.

With one great shudder, the boar heaved a last breath, the hot stench assailing Sorcha’s nostrils, making her gag.

“Blessed God in Heaven,” Eavlyn whispered as Sorcha struggled away. The princess pulled herself to her knees. Hands clasped, she rocked to and fro, repeating the words again and again.

“’Tis dead, milady,” Sorcha assured her from the much-needed support of the rock at her back. Yet in her mind’s eye, she could still see the beast charging into the priest. Could hear an ear-splitting crack, as though it had struck the crosier and snapped it in its lunge for the priest. Yet the staff that Martin held frozen in front of him was as untouched as he was. Only Martin’s lips moved in fervent prayer.

Two guards reached the princess, pulling her to her feet.

“Are you harmed, milady?” one asked.

She and Sorcha were both covered with the beast’s gore.

“Did you see him?” Eavlyn asked.

“Aye, milady. Your priest is either a brave man or a fool,” the other remarked.

“Either way, he’s the luckiest man I’ve ever seen,” said the first.

“Nay,” Eavlyn snapped, impatient. “I meant the warrior who appeared from nowhere and jumped in front of Father Martin. He grabbed the boar by the tusks and threw it to the side, breaking its neck.”

Reluctant, Sorcha translated, for she’d not seen anyone but the priest.

“I saw this brave Saxon lady throw herself over you to protect you, but no warrior,” the guard replied.

She’d fallen, but Sorcha was in too much shock to set the man right. Though she would have done her best to protect Eavlyn.

Only when touched by the other guardsmen did Father Martin seem to shake off his paralysis. When he did, the poor man dropped to his knees and gathered his staff to him. With his other hand, he crossed himself.

“God be thanked!” he said again and again.

Meanwhile one of the guards who’d come to Eavlyn’s aid lifted the head of the dead beast by the tusks. Disbelief claimed his blunt-featured face as he turned to his companion. “What the lady said is true. The priest broke its neck with his bare hands.”

Except that Martin hadn’t done a thing. Sorcha had seen that much, even if she hadn’t seen Eavlyn’s warrior. He’d just stood there holding out his staff.

“’Twas a miracle.” Eavlyn beamed at Sorcha. “A miracle.”

The same wonder infected Sorcha, though she wasn’t certain what she’d seen—or not seen. Without doubt something truly amazing had happened. She supposed
miracle
was as good a word as any for it.

Chapter Fifteen

Weddings were much ado about nothing as far as Caden was concerned, especially if they were held inside a smoke-filled hall. But the morning had come cloaked in clouds that appeared thick with rain, so Caden was all but pressed by the privileged inside guests against one of the gilded carved columns supporting the high roof. A decorative garland of fresh greenery pricked his tunic while he waited with the rest for the arrival of the bridal party, but he’d have to elbow the man next to him to scratch.

Already Prince Hering and the Bernician and Lothian nobles had taken their places at the head of the hall, each contingent boasting its holy man. A richly robed Saxon witan hovered by a makeshift altar brought in for a sacrifice so that Woden might bless the marriage. Akin to Cymri druids, who were doctors, judges, teachers, and more, this witan was a priest. Next to him stood his Christian counterpart in plain undyed wool, belted by a worn and knotted prayer rope. Draped around Father Martin’s neck was a narrow scarf of scarlet, adorned with a golden embroidered cross and tassel. Caden had never seen the former hermit wear such trappings before.

Though Martin needed no such finery to impress the heathens. No one in Din Guardi doubted the priest’s supernatural favor after yesterday’s hunt. No witness told the same story as to what exactly happened, but all agreed it was a miracle that neither the priest nor the two ladies were hurt. Having been with the hunters, all Caden witnessed were the two bloodied, visibly shaken women.

Though that wasn’t the first close call with death that day. The prince himself had had a near miss with the boar. Hering had stalked the boar into a thicket and cast the first spear. It hit its mark, but the wild animal charged him. His cousin was supposed to assist the prince, help with the kill if needed, but for some reason, Aethelfrith danced around the then wrestling prince and beast instead of going in for the killing blow. It was only when Hussa lunged in and sank his spear into the animal’s throat that Aethelfrith threw his weapon. With a third spear lodged in its neck, the beast wrested free of the three of them and bolted off.

A round of cheering from the outside guests for whom there was no room in the hall signaled the approach of the ladies from the women’s quarters. That sent a ripple of excitement over the more privileged clustered inside—and sweating like hard-ridden horses, if Caden was any example.

Such revelry, and for what? An arranged marriage that, if God smiled upon the couple,
might
turn to love. His mother and father’s had not. Or a love match that would turn to hate, as Caden’s had. The festivities would drag on and on, especially a royal affair like Hering and Eavlyn’s. With Sorcha having made her choice to marry Elford, there was little to keep Caden around, were he not part of the Lothian entourage. As such, he was required to wait for at least another two days of revelry after the couple had shared their bower joys for the first time.

Caden snorted. As if the coupling of royal enemies could bring peace. From what he’d seen of Hussa’s court the last few days, the king had his hands full watching his back against his brothers and their kin. And Caden knew from his own past actions how low one brother would stoop to usurp another’s rights.

“But that was in the past.”

Caden perked up, listening, wondering if that voice had been his wishful thinking or from the God he’d committed to serve. How drunk he’d been with joy and thanksgiving that afternoon on the beach, yet now he grumbled as if he were the one having to marry. Why God had smoothed his way to Sorcha and run him smack into a stone wall vexed him.

Unless his task wasn’t finished.

A blast from the herald’s horns pulled Caden away from his indecision and called everyone’s attention to the hall’s main entrance. A small golden-haired girl, clad in white linen and wearing a crown of flowers, backed into the room. Her task was to mark the bride’s path with dried rose petals. Following her came the maid Lunid, bearing a fine sword, its hilt inlaid with jewels and gilt.

Admiration rippled through the throng.

“Made in Caron,” came a wisp of admiration from nearby.

“Maybe magic, like Arthur’s sword.”

The swordsmiths at Caron’s ironworks were unequalled, and this sword was polished to a mirror sheen. But Caden doubted the Lady of the Lake would share the secret of Excalibur’s making for a Saxon’s use. Some said it contained a metal from a fallen star that gave the weapon a finish that wouldn’t tarnish or rust and a strength that could cut through its iron counterparts. Only the Grail keepers knew its secret.

The horns faded. Harpists and pipers struck up a gentler music the moment Eavlyn entered and proceeded toward her waiting groom. Her dress was the color of sun-bleached clouds, flecked with bits of gold sewn into the fabric. With each movement, it made her tall, slight body shimmer in the light. From her shoulders fell a blue silk robe that seemed to float endlessly behind her.

Graceful and stately as Gwenhyfar, Caden observed. Blaise of Dunfeld had every right to swell with pride, while Modred smiled like the cat that ate—

Caden’s breath caught.

Carrying the hem of the long robe was Sorcha. If Eavlyn was the purity of gold and snow, Sorcha was fire, like her namesake. Her knee-length robe of bronze brocade caught and threw back the reflection of the torch flames mounted high on the hall pillars. She walked like a queen, with naught but a golden band to tame that glorious mane of red hair.

“Never would I allow a woman in my wedding party who was prettier than I,” a female exclaimed from somewhere beyond them.

The remark had merit. No longer pale from shock as she’d been when the hunting party caught up with the boar, Sorcha outshone the bride and stirred the blood of any man with eyes, if Caden was an example. He’d wanted to speak to her yesterday, but Hering and Elford spirited her and the princess off to Din Guardi.

Curiosity drew Caden’s gaze to the Elford party. On sighting Cynric, Caden’s stomach curled. The man clearly seduced Sorcha in his mind. Caden swore beneath his breath. He needed air. Lots of it. And maybe some beer to make Cynric’s expression go away. Except that leaving now was almost impossible, so thick was the throng. Would that he’d left yesterday … the wedding be hanged.

Sorcha fought a gag reflex as the witan slit the throat of a bleating goat at the altar. Its blood spattered his robe and drained into a ceremonial bowl as Sorcha’s drained from her face. After yesterday, she’d seen enough blood for a lifetime. And from the pallor of Eavlyn’s face, so had the princess. Sorcha tore her attention from the grisly sight of the still-twitching animal. Between that and the heat of the crowd surrounding her, she felt faint.

Or maybe it was due to the fact that she’d spent yet another night trying to muster the courage and words to tell Elford she could not marry him. Eavlyn and Sorcha retired early from last night’s feast without censure, given their harrowing experience yesterday. Lunid informed them that it was rumored Father Martin had used magic to turn the boar, but Sorcha was more intrigued by the tall, golden warrior Eavlyn swore had killed the beast with his bare hands.

Sorcha wondered if Eavlyn had seen God Himself.

Lunid, of course, crossed herself. “No one has seen God except Moses!” That launched a story of how the Christian God had allowed His people to become slaves because of bad choices they’d made. Sorcha thought a father who’d do that wasn’t much better than Ebyn’s folks and said so. The last count Sorcha had, Lunid had crossed herself over fifty-six times.

A growing murmur of awe and approval drew Sorcha to the present, where the gifts between the father of the bride and the groom were exchanged. Never had she seen the like of chests filled with torques of gold and silver, Roman hand mirrors, flasks of Roman glass, piles of jewels, necklaces, brooches, ewers, pins, and clasps.

Sorcha fingered one of the three strands of amber resting against her neck. She’d have to give her jewels back, of course. And the dresses, no matter how she reveled in the feel of the fine linen against her skin and the elegant flow of the russet wool about her form. This was as close to being a noblewoman as she would ever get.

Yet, for all the riches, reality struck when the bride’s father handed over her shoe to Hering, who tapped her gently on the head, passing full authority over Eavlyn from father to husband. The princess’s life was no longer her own, even if she would live in the lap of luxury. The elegant slipper would later be placed at the head of the nuptial bed as a symbol of Hering’s authority. Not a partnership, as Sorcha’s parents had shared.

Sorcha wiped a trickle of sweat from her temple. If the ceremony did not end soon, she’d swoon or be sick from this smother of people. Hering exchanged the keys to his household, establishing Eavlyn as its lady, for the magnificent sword that showed she recognized him as her lord and protector.

Then the Christian priest wrapped their hands in his mantel and prompted them with vows made till death took them. Mercifully, he was not as long-winded as he’d been yesterday at the service. His prayer for the union to bring about peace between the two kingdoms, to demonstrate all things were possible with the living God, brought an end to the ceremony.

“And now by the power of the Holy Spirit,” Martin announced with his boar-stopping voice, “I give you Prince Hering and Princess Eavlyn of Bernicia, now husband and wife before God and all witnesses.”

Thunderous huzzahs filled the room. Guests closed in to congratulate the couple, but Sorcha left Lunid to tend to Eavlyn’s robe and made her way with as much haste as she could against the converging tide toward the nearest door … that leading to the kitchens. The moment fresh air filled her lungs, her dizziness subsided. Would that she could keep on going through Din Guardi’s gate and down the causeway to her home and Gemma.

But that was not an option. She had a duty to serve the Elford party, though it would be some time before guests settled enough to pass around the drink. She also had to face Cynric. She was not the courageous woman Eavlyn was. She was not willing to sacrifice like the princess and her God. Sorcha wasn’t worthy to carry the hem of Eavlyn’s robe or bend the ear of her God with her quandary.

Though if You are listening, Cymri God …

“Milady Sorcha, are you ill?”

Sorcha winced at the sound of Cynric’s voice.
Nay, I’m just a coward who goes back on her word.

She gave up the support of the plaster wall at her back to see her father’s longtime friend exiting the hall in concern.

“I am, sir,” she replied. “Ill with dread for what I must tell you.”

Garbed in a splendid black tunic trimmed in silver thread and with gold adorning his neck and every finger, Cynric approached her and put his thick hands on her shoulders. “Am I so fearsome that my bride-to-be grows distraught at the notion of speaking to me?” he asked gently.

Sorcha met his gaze through a glaze of emotion. His expression was as kind as his voice, magnifying her guilt. “I cannot marry you, milord.”

There. It was out.

“But I will give you the deed to my father’s business and warehouse, just as I vowed,” she blurted out. “I owe you as much. And, of course, I’ll return your gifts.”

“My little Sorcha.” Cynric pulled her to him in a bear of a hug. “You’ve never been as good a thief or vixen as your mother and Gemma. You possess Aelwyn’s fire and gift of music and song, aye, but your heart is too big, and your father’s honesty runs too deep.”

Uncertain what to say, Sorcha held her tongue and backed away as the thane let her go.

“Which is why I ask you now,” Cynric continued. “What has changed your mind?”

“I’ve found my birth mother.” That was when this tortuous indecision started. The night Caden of Lothian walked into the tavern. “Or, rather, she found me.”

Cynric’s brow shot up. “Your birth mother here? In Din Guardi? Is she with the Lothian company?”

Sorcha shook her head. “Nay, milord. She sent a Cymri warrior to bring me home to Trebold.”

“Trebold. And where is this Trebold?”

“Somewhere in Lothian. I … I don’t remember much about it.” She moved farther from the door as a contingent of servants paraded past with large tortoise shells piled high with breads. “But if my mother needs me, how can I refuse her? Especially since I missed her so much when I was first taken in by Wulfram and Aelwyn. ’Tis something I must do.”

Cynric pulled thoughtfully on the tip of a bush of mustache. “Then do it, child,” he said with a nod. “Go to her and bring her back to Elford. I will see her well cared for.”