Thief (21 page)

At first, the fair-haired woman remained motionless, face to the floor. But when Sorcha reached for her, she rolled to her side with a moan.

“H … help me. He’ll kill us both.” She dabbed at where blood trickled from her nose and tried to get up.

Now Sorcha saw the dark circles and wan cheeks beneath the woman’s terrified gaze, marks of the poison’s effect. With the fuel of her rage knocked out of her, she’d weakened. At last, Rhianon held out her arm for help.

Sorcha hauled her to her feet. But what would she do with the wench now? Certainly not take her with her.

“You … you saved my life,” Rhianon said, breathless.

“
Our
lives.” Sorcha steeled herself against a rise of pity. Witch or nay, Tunwulf had sorely used her.

“No,” Rhianon stiffened. “
Mine!”
With a snarl, she drove the dagger that had been hidden in the fold of her cloak at Sorcha’s abdomen.

Instinct kicking in, Sorcha pivoted away from the coming blade and shifted the harp into place to receive the blow. The blade glanced off the hard wood frame beneath the thick leather, giving Sorcha time to put a distance between them. With a frustrated shriek, Rhianon tightened bloody fingers around the dagger’s hilt, though whether it was her blood or Tunwulf’s was hard to say.

Sorcha hefted the instrument as a shield between them. The witch was mad. Her nose bled freely down the front of her dress, and her full lips curled in an animal-like snarl.

As Rhianon and Sorcha circled each other, the frantic rattling of chains told Sorcha that Utta was freeing Caden, according to plan. All Sorcha had to do was hold Rhianon off—

Rhianon charged again, grabbing for the harp with one hand and swinging the knife with the other. But Sorcha dodged her, spinning full circle and bringing the harp soundly against the back of her opponent’s head.

It landed with a terrible crunch of flesh and bone. Rhianon bent over double but didn’t fall. It was as though she fought against unconsciousness, slashing blindly. One step … two—

Sorcha sprang out of her way.

Three steps the witch staggered before she went down.

“Sorcha!”

Utta rushed into the room, but Sorcha’s eyes were fixed on the wound pouring dark lifeblood from the back of Rhianon’s fair head onto the rush-covered floor.

Until Caden knelt beside his fallen wife and blocked the view. He rolled Rhianon over and, with a grunt of surprise, backed away, straightening.

“She fell on her knife.”

“I tried to help her and she …” Disbelief, outrage, and the blood rush of battle all razed Sorcha’s words. “She tried to kill me! Those two were made for each other.”

Caden cast a look of pity at the broken and bleeding remnant of his wife. “She got what she deserved.”

Utta tugged on Sorcha’s arm. “We haveta hurry. Night is wastin’, and you need a head start.”

Sorcha looked up to see that the wench had donned a horsehair wig black as pitch to disguise herself. “Aye,” Sorcha agreed. Their plan had worked so far, in spite of Tunwulf and his witch. The longer they delayed—

“What’s going on here?” Caden turned, his face furrowed, as though still trying to wrap his mind around what had just happened.

“The guards are drugged for only so long.” Utta tugged a purse from the depths of her bodice and handed it to Sorcha. “Now ’ere’s the money for you two to escape to Lothian.”

Caden grabbed Sorcha’s arm roughly as she tied the moneybag to her belt. “When were you planning to tell me about this great escape?”

“Would you have had me shout it to you through the wall for all to hear?” she snapped.

“But Martin and Modred worked on our behalf. Now look at this mess.”

Mess! As if she’d planned on a midnight visit from the two people responsible for all this, much less contemplated killing one of them. “You ungrateful dullard!” Sorcha raised her chin inches from his, as though daring him to cross her further. “Would that work be before or after
my
arm was fried in oil?”

Utta wedged herself between them. “See now. More’n yer lives are at risk,” she reminded them, “so ye’d best be goin’. I’m beggin’ ye.”

“Great—” Caden swallowed the epithet on the tip of his tongue. He seized Tunwulf by the feet. “I’ll put this one in irons. It’ll hold him for a while.”

“He deserves to die.” Sorcha kicked at Tunwulf’s ribs. “
She
took poison for him, and he had the nerve to ask me to marry him!” A high pitch penetrated her words. “And
that
after making me face a pot of burning oil.”

Now she’d begun to shake. Of all things, of all times, now was no time to lose her nerve. She needed to hold on to what men called
battle frenzy.
Just a little longer.

“If you want him dead, do it yourself.” Caden jerked his head toward Rhianon. “There’s a knife.”

Sorcha’s stomach turned at what, only moments before, she could have done without thinking. Hadn’t she crushed the woman’s skull in? Yet Sorcha reeled away, mustering all her will to push down nausea as Caden tugged Tunwulf into the hallway.

“Chains and a gag will keep him and the guards till morning,” Caden called back. “Dead or alive, half of Bernicia will be after us come daybreak … at least to the river Tweed.”

Sorcha leaned against the wall. She’d just fought for her very life and as much as killed a woman, though none would believe it was self-defense. There was no turning back now. Losing her nerve was not an option. Her gaze fell upon the chest of jewels as she straightened.

Her inheritance. The jewels would fit in her harp case. While what was done couldn’t be undone, the gem-studded gold would go a long way in a new life. If anyone deserved them, Sorcha certainly did after what Tunwulf had put her through. She huffed, working up her rage. Anything to banish weakness and doubt.

Would there was more she could take from the villain. Something that would wound his pride to its black core.

The image of Cynric’s ruby-studded dragon ring came to her mind. Elford’s symbol of power and prestige.

Calculation pulled at her lips.

Perfect.

Chapter Twenty

Caden couldn’t help his annoyance. Martin had been certain his and Modred’s diplomatic pressure for trial by combat would be granted. It was the best hope. That, and Caden’s sword arm.

But there was no explaining this mess. No bringing Rhianon back to life. Funny, how someone so evil could look so angelic in death. Even now, after all she’d done, he felt nothing but pity. This time she’d met her match in Tunwulf. More so.

“We’ll head inland to the Berwick road till daybreak. Then we’ll have to stay off it, for that’s where the Bernicians will catch up with us. Unless you’ve got horses,” Caden said as Utta reentered the cell. It was too risky to try to fetch Forstan from the royal stables.

“No horses,” Utta apologized. “But I got a cousin married to a cottar who lives at the ford of Hahl Burn. He says if ye follow the burn to its head, ’twill take ye through the moors, if ye always bear to the north. Thing is, ye’ll need a boat. An’ there’s not enough coin in the purse for that.”

She glanced to where Tunwulf wore naught but a scrap of blanket and his gold torque. “But
that
will buy the man more boats than he can use.”

“
That
won’t draw much attention to us.” Caden snorted. Though the Bernicians wouldn’t expect them to go through the moors. Tunwulf would head straight for the old Roman road leading to Berwick. “I suppose seeing how it’s the villain’s plan that got us here,” he reasoned aloud, “his gold will get us what we need.”

Caden hoped God would see it that way. He’d done a lot of things in his time. Sinful things. But stealing was not one of them. For the first time in his life, he had a Father who accepted him. He struggled to the best of his understanding to keep it that way, praying as he dragged the unconscious guards in from outside.

Abba, stay with us. I’m counting this as a sign of what You want us to do. By all rights, this crazy plan shouldn’t have worked. Wouldn’t have until Tunwulf and Rhianon turned on each other.

A flashback, that of Rhianon’s nurse and mentor turning on her, came to his mind. Aye, that was God’s handiwork. Evil turning on itself. Still …

Let us be in Your hand, not Sorcha’s. She’s decent enough, though mighty light-fingered.…

And a fine figure of a woman, even dressed in men’s clothing,
he finished, as Sorcha walked into the cell. She’d never pass for a man, but by his racing blood, she made a man’s clothes look good.

Abba!
Caden wasn’t certain what else to say, only that he’d need his Father’s help to make it right in Heaven’s eye.

“Good thing we have more than one set of chains.” Her wits more assembled than Caden’s, Sorcha motioned to Utta to help her drag one of the guards to a pair of shackles bolted to the wall. “Though we’ll need something to gag them.” She straightened. Her gaze fell on Tunwulf’s blanket and darted away, as if his hairy navel had winked at her.

Caden suppressed a grin. “We can tear strips off your shift,” he suggested, pulling the last guard to another set of chains hung on the wall.

Sorcha looked at Caden as if he’d just proposed they go back to their cells. “Or
your
shirt.”

“You’re not
wearing
the shift,” he pointed out.

“But I will, if we get out of this alive.” A smile quivered on her lips. “Truth is, I’ve never had one so fine.”

Women. Their necks weren’t out of the noose yet, and she was hoarding a wardrobe. Caden looked at the taut leather bag in which she’d stowed her things. “I’ll not be carrying that for you. The lighter we travel, the better.”

“I’ve done without a man’s muscle this long.” There went that stubborn jut of her chin. “I can go a bit longer.”

Utta stepped in. “I’ll cut strips from the witch’s shift before we’re all set to swing from a rope.”

She drew out her dining dagger and disappeared into the hall. In no time, she returned with the linen, and the men were properly gagged.

Moments later, Caden stepped out into the night air, wearing a guard’s tunic, cloak, and weapons. At this late hour, it was eerily quiet within Din Guardi’s stockade. A thick mist separated the heavens from the earth, the moon behind it giving their surroundings a ghostly appearance.

Now all they had to do was get through the gate. He hoped the women had thought of that.

They had, and Caden didn’t like the plan either, but what other option was there?

Sorcha played the part of a young man caught by his wife, the shorter Utta, with another woman. The tavern maid flailed the life out of Sorcha with a switch, all the while tugging her home toward the village below.

“I’ll not stand ye spendin’ another hour here with all yer fancy friends while I carry yer own wee babe in my belly,” Utta wailed. “Yer comin’ ’ome if I have to drag ye all the way.”

Such was their commotion that guards along the ramparts watched as well. Caden easily blended into the shadows and escaped into the night beyond without so much as a stray hound’s bark to call attention to him.

The thick fog hid him a distance away where, instead of going ahead of them as Sorcha suggested, he waited, hand on sword, in case there was trouble.

“Don’t be runnin’ away from me, you cheatin’ son of a slop bucket!” Utta shrieked close by. “The gods strike ye down if ye ever set foot inside them gates again. An’ if they don’t, I will.” She wailed again at a pitch a professional keener would envy. “’Ow could ye?”

“Run, man, while ye can!” one of the guards shouted.

Sorcha streaked by, her bag clutched to her chest. Utta followed, calling upon a considerable vocabulary of obscenities that left the soldiers behind her laughing and jeering.

It would have been amusing, were their lives not at stake. Tension flowed out with Caden’s held breath.

“Thank You, Abba,” he breathed softly. So far, so blessed.

Freedom. Sorcha savored it as she and Utta made their way in silence down the causeway of cobbled stone and sand. Salt-laden air filled her nostrils along with the faint scent of fishnets and crafts that rose from the beach below. Even the stench of rotting fish guts wafting from where catch after catch had been cleaned was welcome. Anything but the smell of death left behind in her cell.

She
was
a murderer. ’Twas self-defense, but Rhianon was dead. Life in Din Guardi was just as dead for Sorcha now. She tried to force the image of Rhianon, the knife protruding from her body, out of her mind.

“More’n me’s gonna miss ye, Sorcha,” Utta sniffed, unwittingly helping her. The maid used a short laugh to hide her emotion. “But I’ll wager that big Cymri’ll take yer mind off’n us, soon enough.”

“Caden?” The toe of Tunwulf’s boots caught on one of the uneven paving stones of the causeway, nearly tripping Sorcha. “I hardly think I’m in Caden’s good grace now, even if we saved his manly hide.”

“That ain’t what Gemma says,” Utta said in a singsong voice. “Said you two danced like swans bound to mate for life.”

“Gemma wasn’t closed up in a—”

A strained grunt followed by a loud splash cut Sorcha off. They were closer to the beach than she’d realized.

“What was that?” Utta stopped in her tracks.

“Someone’s over there.” Sorcha pointed to a tiny golden haze in the mist a short distance away. A lantern, perhaps.

They’d made better time than she’d thought. She could hear the soft wash of waves upon the beach to their left, but little else.

The vision of a body being dumped came to Sorcha’s mind. It was not unheard of to find some poor soul who’d been robbed and beaten, drowned upon the beach when day broke.

Sorcha reached for the guard’s dirk that she’d stowed in the laces of the oversized boots. “Keep moving,” she whispered, touching Utta’s arm with the other hand.

She steered Utta away from the light toward a small stone dock where shallow-drafted boats might unload their cargo directly onto land. Then they headed toward Water Street, the last row of buildings before the waterfront. With any luck, they’d heard whoever lurked in the dark before he’d heard them.

Taking painstaking steps to avoid noise or tripping over any debris or discarded pieces of crating, Sorcha listened for footfalls. Suddenly Utta shrieked against a muffling hand, driving a stake of alarm through Sorcha’s chest. Something large and furry brushed against Sorcha’s leg and scurried over her feet.

“Just a cat,” she told Utta, choosing to believe that was all. She shouldn’t have insisted on separating from Caden and his going to the warehouse ahead of them. They’d not met a soul on the causeway to question them, although Sorcha and Utta’s distraction had allowed Caden to slip out unnoticed and without curious inquiry. Forcing air into her lungs, as if gathering courage, Sorcha moved forward again, her gaze fixed on the far glow of a cresset kept burning at night by the dockyard.

Suddenly the sand crunched against rock beneath heavy feet, and a giant shadow materialized out of the mist, blocking Sorcha’s view of the firelight. The night went black as death itself.

“By the gods’ breath!” Utta clutched at her heart.

“Well now, what would you two be lookin’ at, out as ye are at this hour?” The question was more an accusation, that of a murderer wanting to know what they’d seen.

Dread climbed Sorcha’s spine. “We’d be looking to find our way home.” She tightened her grasp on the knife. If they needed defending, it would be up to her. Caden was likely warming his hands over the fire in the hearth at home by now.

“An’ a bloomin’ cat scared the life outta us,” Utta chimed in, her voice still shrill from it.

All Sorcha had to do was step forward and drive the blade in beneath his rib cage and upward toward his heart. That’s what Wulfram had taught her. The oaf would never see it coming.

“Utta?” The man leaned down, staring closer in disbelief.

Sorcha held back.

“I thought you was workin’ at the tavern,” he said.

Wait, she knew that voice. The name of its owner caused her heart to leap into her throat.

Wada!