Thief by Linda Windsor Page B

children had forgotten something, but when she opened it, there stood Wada, a round giant of a man with missing teeth and fetid breath, who worked for the moneylender Athelstan.
    At first, Sorcha’s heart lodged in her throat. Had she lost track of time? The money she owed Wada’s employer wasn’t due until Freya’s day. She had at least another day to try to make up what she’d spent on the children. She had enough to repay Athelstan for what she’d borrowed last spring but was short on the toll.
    Sorcha had no doubt that Athelstan would exact his tribute for the service in some despicable way. A broken arm or smashed knee was his usual punishment. Thankfully, Sorcha had gotten by with a grudging promise that Wada would return the next evening for the full amount. The gods only knew what might befall them if she didn’t have it.
    She and Gemma had to work this crowd tonight. The more the men drank, the more generous they became, especially to a comely wench with a pleasant voice. And men did consider Sorcha comely and talented with harp and song. She was her mother’s daughter. Though sometimes it won her unsolicited attention. That’s where her skill with the dining dagger at her waist proved helpful, for she was Wulfram’s daughter as well.
    Harp tucked under her arm, Sorcha made her way to the corner where a small raised gallery had been built for the entertainers. All around her, the royal wedding of Hussa’s son, Hering of Burlwick, to the Briton princess Eavlyn of Dunfeld, dominated conversations. The princess’s entourage had arrived that afternoon with trumpet blasts loud enough to wake the dead.
    Even now a cluster of the Lothians, clad in their multicolored cloaks, sat in a corner of the room, while the room buzzed with speculation.
    “I hear this Lothian princess is descended from a sacred Briton lineage through her father and Pictish royals by her mother.”
    “Prince Hering is no fool. Lothian Picts inherit rule from their mama’s side of the family. If Mama has no son—”
    “Some say she has knowledge only our witans are privy to. She reads the stars.”
    So did Sorcha. But only for signs of the weather. There were some who saw even more. The idea of watching the heavens night after night and charting what one saw sounded boring to her notion. Her element was the tavern joys of happy hearts, the latest news, and stirring song.
    “With Hussa’s many enemies, this princess may prove an asset worth having.”
    “A man must conquer territory with whatever sword is best suited, eh?”
    Men. Sorcha bit her tongue at the crude innuendo. In truth, she felt a kindred spirit with this princess, each of them having to marry without love. That the Wyrds played them as pieces on a board of political and social survival vexed Sorcha sorely. As for the influence of the ancient Saxon gods and goddesses, she gave up on them when their images burned along with her parents, who’d sacrificed far more to the idols than they’d received in return.
    “Hering has already given his betrothed a hundred twenty hides of land in Burlwick as the bride gift at the betrothal.”
    Cynric had offered Sorcha ten hides of land when the betrothal was negotiated, enough to support herself and that many families, should the marriage not work out to both their satisfaction. She was to receive that many more if she bore him a child. ’Twas more than enough to support her and Gemma and continue helping captured children.
    A sudden rush of cool air stirred the smoke from the central hearth and drew Sorcha’s attention to the entrance, where a giant of a man with wild flaxen hair strode in … alone. The moment he ordered beer from Utta, Sorcha knew he was another Briton, a warrior by his strapping build. And handsome enough, in a wild way. His face was rough-shaven and his clothes worn, yet of quality. But what caught Sorcha’s eye most was the fat purse from which he paid Utta for his beer.
    Instead of joining his countrymen,