Thief (19 page)

Chapter Seventeen

“Is this true, milady?” Hussa towered over Sorcha, looking every bit the imposing figure the title
bretwalda
entailed. While the king’s voice was gentle, his gaze had turned to stone.

Sorcha held Cynric’s head tenderly against her, trying to register all that had been said. What was wrong with these people? Couldn’t they see Cynric needed immediate attention?

Because Sorcha plans to run away with you, Caden of Lothian!

Shock at Tunwulf’s accusation knocked Sorcha’s thoughts one way, anger another.

“Nay, milord.” Surely Hussa did not believe Tunwulf’s lies. Tunwulf, whose support was always conspicuously absent. “’Tis nothing like that villain says. Caden of Lothian came on my birth mother’s behalf to reunite us. I plan to return to Lothian with him and
with,
” she said more loudly, “Cynric’s blessing. But this is no time for such talk. We need to tend your friend. He’ll tell you himself when he’s come around.”

“Milady Sorcha,” the king replied grimly, “Cynric is gone.”

It couldn’t be. “He’s only lost consciousness!” Determined to prove the king wrong, Sorcha bent over, placing her ear to Elford’s nose and mouth. No trace of breath.

“A mirror,” she shouted in desperation. “We need a mirror.” Oft times, when breath could not be felt, it might be seen.

Hussa reached down and took her by the shoulders. “Let the witans see to his body.”

Body.
The finality of the word slammed Sorcha again. Tears spilling, she eased Cynric’s head to the ground before allowing the king to help her rise. “This can’t be. It just can’t be.” Her words tumbled out in a rush, aimed at no one. “We only just spoke of dissolving our betrothal. Cynric gave me his blessing to go to my mother. He said he wanted me to be happy … that he promised my father to take care of me and …”

“Did you serve Cynric his drink, Sorcha?” the king interrupted.

“Yes. I was late because he and I had been talking and—”

Rhianon!

Sorcha glanced around the gathered crowd but saw no sign of Tunwulf’s companion. Sorcha pointed an accusing finger at Tunwulf. “’Twas
his
strumpet who handed me a pitcher filled with beer. The very pitcher I took to Cynric.”

“But Rhianon had already served me from that same flagon, and I am not sick,” Tunwulf pointed out. “Though I would have been, had I allowed you to fill my cup after you’d filled my father’s.” He looked to where the Elford party stood looking on in a mix of disbelief and grief. “So would you all, had I not bumped into her, accidentally breaking the pitcher with the poison.”

“Where is this broken vessel now?” one of the white-robed witans asked above the whispers riffling through the crowd.

“I kicked the pieces beneath the board,” Tunwulf answered. “It should still be there. Perhaps you can find the nature of her poison from it.”

“If there’s poisoning afoot here, I will swear on my life that your Rhianon is the culprit,” a voice boomed from behind Hussa.

Attention shifted to where Caden stepped out of the crowd. “Milord,” he said to Hussa, “Rhianon was …
is
my wife. And it was with poison that she sought to murder my father.”

“The testimony of her scorned lover.” Tunwulf sneered. “Why should we listen to you? Were you not behind that scheme?”

Caden cast his gaze down, and Sorcha’s heart sank. She knew how to read a crowd, and what she saw on the sea of faces surrounding them was rampant suspicion, even accusation.

“Milord,” Father Martin spoke up. “I can personally testify that what Sorcha said about her mother sending Caden in search of her long-lost daughter to be true. And I can also swear that Rhianon, Caden’s wife, conspired to murder both his father and brother.”

Tunwulf laughed. “At his demand. She told me how he bullied her to help him become chief of Glenarden. The very land from which you are exiled, I believe.”

Caden shook his head. “Nay, not at my demand. But I am ashamed to say that I went along with her idea and deserve my exile.”

Sorcha swayed unsteadily. His words, humble as they were, only made things worse.

“Enough!” Hussa held up his hand to silence Caden and to Tunwulf. “Enough accusations and speculation. I will have my sheriff look into this matter.”

“Milord, Caden speaks the truth,” Father Martin declared. “His wife is a witch. I have seen her work her magic—”

“What magic, Priest?” the doctor among the witans asked in contempt. “You Christians accuse most of what we do as magic.”

Father Martin shook his head. “Sir, you are mistaken. I respect your knowledge of nature and the elements—”

“Did you see this woman poison your man’s father?” the witan inquired.

“Nay,” Martin acknowledged, “but her teacher practiced dark magic with demons, and I did myself help free this man of one—”

“Her
teacher
,” Tunwulf pointed out, “not Rhianon.”

“I said enough!”

Hussa gave a sign to one of his heralds, who promptly silenced the growing murmur of the crowd with a horn’s blast so loud that Sorcha started.

“Milords and ladies,” the Bernician king announced, “today is my son’s wedding. We will celebrate. And on the morrow, we will ferret out the murderer of my brother-in-arms. That I promise as—”

“Milords! Help us, milords!”

Hussa breathed an oath of exasperation as yet another commotion erupted, this time bursting from the hall with Mildrith at its head. The big woman’s face was flushed, and her buxom chest heaved from haste.

“We need a doctor,” she cried in a voice loud as the herald’s horn. “The woman Rhianon—” Mildrith wrung her apron, affording a darting glance at her husband, Hussa’s seneschal. “I fear she’s dying … poisoned by the look of it.”

Sorcha grabbed at her sinking heart as Hussa whirled to face her, bitter accusation hurling at her from his countenance. And who could blame him? She had no answer for Cynric’s death, much less Rhianon’s misfortune.

“Guards, put this lady
and
Caden of Lothian in irons,” he ordered, not taking his fierce gaze from her face.

“Careful, lord king,” King Modred advised lowly. “He is one of my finest captains, and she is favored by your new daughter-by-law.”

“Both he and the lady will be treated well,” the bretwalda assured the Lothian king in the same tone. “But to ensure that he and the lady do not flee before we find out what mischief is afoot, it will be my guardhouse.”

“But we are innocent, milord!” Sorcha protested as two guards seized her by the arms.

Ignoring her outburst, Hussa glanced after the contingent of witans who rushed into the hall and motioned his seneschal. “Wilfrid, have the witans see to the situation inside,” he ordered. “And you, sir, will fetch my gift stool and treasure chest. We need a distraction to restore the humor to this festivity. I have guests to entertain, and I
will
see my son to his nuptial bed this night.”

Caden didn’t know what to think. Rhianon was poisoned, hovering between life and death, according to the servant who’d brought him the evening meal. The witans were with her. Seated on the floor, his back to the rough timber wall, Caden contemplated the wood-hinged door, but his thoughts tumbled. Rhianon’s was a seemly fate, if she’d accidentally fallen victim to her own scheme.

His fists clenched. So help him, if Caden found out that she
was
at the bottom of this travesty, he’d send her to the Other Side himself. He conjured the feel of his hands closing about her slender neck, the satisfaction of giving her a taste of her own vileness. His anger and frustration fed the notion like fuel to a fire….

But it wasn’t enough. Something within him checked. Not reason, to be sure, for Caden had every reason to want Rhianon dead. It was something else. The same something that enabled him to hold his peace upon realizing Sorcha and Gemma had stolen his purse. The old Caden would have exposed them for what they were and taken delight in exacting the revenge.

Had he gone soft, or was this some sort of newfound goodness?

“Grace received demands grace to be given.”

Gone soft of heart
and
hearing voices in his head.

Caden ran his fingers through his hair. If this was God working on his spirit, why was he in chains?

“Why?” he whispered softly. “Abba, I don’t understand. I was doing Your will. Or trying—”

Voices sounded outside. The outer door opened, and a moment later the bolt to Caden’s cell slid loudly from its keeper. Father Martin entered, carrying a lamp. Behind him in the narrow hallway stood Princess Eavlyn with another.

“This is no way to celebrate your wedding, milady,” Caden said to her.

“Hering granted me a short leave to see to Sorcha,” she replied, “and to give her this.” She held up a leather bag containing a harp by its shape. “I think Hering believes you to be innocent, although I must say, the circumstances are against you.”

“Tunwulf has spun a convincing tale around them,” Father Martin chimed in dryly.

“I promise to do everything in my power to prove your innocence. Sorcha’s as well.” Eavlyn left the entrance to Caden’s cell and turned to Sorcha’s. Another bolt slid from its keeper, and the hinges creaked open.

Caden hadn’t heard a peep from his fellow prisoner since she’d been locked up. When they were escorted to the guardhouse, she’d walked as though her spirit had been driven from her body by shock. Her replies to his inquiries through the wall between their chambers were no more than a single syllable.

“Did you see Rhianon?” Caden asked Father Martin.

“Only from a distance. She wouldn’t have me near her. But she’ll live, according to the doctor.”

“Then Satan got a reprieve.” Caden gave a wry laugh. “He can rule in peace for a while longer.”

“The unsaved dead sleep, son,” Martin reminded him. Still, the priest smiled at Caden’s suggestion. “Only the saved live on with our Lord before His return.”

Sleep. That was what Caden had once hoped for. Eternal sleep. No more trials, no more guilt. The guilt was the worst part of his punishment. He’d never been able to escape its weight, not even in Lothian among mercenaries with pasts just as dark as his own. Although admitting his part in the scheme to murder his father and brother and seize Glenarden for his own hadn’t been as heavy to admit as before.

Jesus carried it now. The answer came before Caden could form the question. Christ had taken his burden the moment Caden called out His name on the beach just days ago. The memory of that childlike lightheartedness eased some of the tightness in his chest.

“I sent a messenger to Gemma to let her know what happened,” Martin informed him, “and to assure her that the princess and I will do everything we can to prove your innocence.” The priest lowered his voice. “Including having Tunwulf watched.”

“He’s a sharp one, that,” Caden admitted. “I wouldn’t be surprised if Rhianon wasn’t outmatched by him. What if he poisoned her with her own brew to make Sorcha look guilty?”

Martin shook his head. “If Tunwulf had poisoned her, be certain, Rhianon would expose him. Were I a wagering man, I’d say Rhianon’s misfortune was an accident.”

“The stars do not favor him.” Eavlyn was back. “I have mapped out the stars, seeking signs for both him and for Aethelfrith as my husband’s enemies,” she explained.

“How is Sorcha?” Caden asked.

“In shock. Hopefully, the harp will pleasantly distract her. And I’m going to send my maid Lunid with her things that she might make herself more comfortable.” Eavlyn grimaced, noting the chains on Caden’s hands and feet. “At least she was spared those.”

“The stars,” Caden prompted. “They spell ill for Tunwulf and Aethelfrith?”

“Ill for Tunwulf. But that doesn’t mean his plans will go awry with certainty. Only that nature is not with him. As it plagues the farmer who plows in a downpour.” A frown creased her smooth brow. “That uncertainty is why I pray that either I or the stars are wrong regarding possible good fortune for my husband’s enemy.”

Aethelfrith.
Just the thought of his name pricked the hair on the nape of Caden’s neck. The Dieran prince was a bad seed, if ever there was one.