Deirdre by Linda Windsor

she might draw strength and courage from their fellowship as well as from her Maker.
    “Father of all heaven and earth, we beg that You surround Princess Deirdre with angels, that her mission be accomplished by Thy will andin Thy name and to Thy glory; that she and Orna escape the bonds of the heathen’s slavery; that there be no blood shed, innocent or nay …”
    Deirdre had never taken a life. Would she be able to spill blood rather than the stuffing of a practice dummy or hack flesh rather than the bark of the sparring poles?
    At the end of the prayer, Deirdre’s “Amen” came from the depths of her being.
    Then, drawing to her feet, she scanned her surroundings one last time. Wimmer was asleep by the gangway. The
Wulfshead’
s guards helped themselves to a wineskin.
    Across the moonlit span of water, the
Mell
rocked in the cradle of the moving tide. Its watchmen were talking to someone who’d happened down the dock. They gestured wildly, as if to reenact a battle—most likely the very one that had led to this moment.
    “Godspeed, child,” Scanlan whispered as she climbed on the rail and viewed the distance between her and where the lap of the tide inched upon the sand. If she dangled first from the rail and then dropped beyond the water’s edge, she stood a chance of going undetected and relatively unharmed by the steep jump.
    “Do be careful,” Orna whispered.
    Deirdre managed a smiling nod over her shoulder and then twisted to ease her legs over the outer side. She arched her lower body away from the gentle curve of the side of the ship, swinging farther away each time as she counted to three. She let go, dropping hard to a crouched position, the sand muffling her fall. Holding her breath, she stayed low and waited, listening for any sign that she’d been found out.
    There was no change in the cay’s lullaby of nightbird song accompanied by the gentle slap of the tide and the hushed whistle of the breeze in the lines strung from the masts. She licked her dry lips. They tasted of the salt of life. Never had she felt so alive.
    With a bracing breath, Deirdre crawled into the water until she could make her way just below the surface, stopping only to refill her lungs. Faith, it was cold. Her skin surely shriveled around her quivering bones, but the chill spurred her on.
    Reaching the
Mell
, she treaded water on its harbor side, her discomfortno longer a concern. Climbing up its slick, tarred-leather side was. Fortunately, someone had dropped a trap of some sort into the water, for eel or some other sea delicacy. Perhaps one of God’s angels had arranged it for her in answer to her prayer, for it certainly reduced the risk of her being seen by the ship’s watch. All she needed to do was climb up the rope and pull herself over the side.
    “Thank You, Father,” she whispered, testing the rope one more time before starting up.
    Deirdre had always thought of herself as slender, but her arms felt as if she carried the owner of her dripping clothing on her back as well as herself. With each successive handhold, she considered letting go, for not only were her hands tender and raw, but her muscles felt as if glowing coals were burning her alive from the inside out.
    At last at the top, she rested, securing a foothold in the length of line below her. Even the night air scorched her aching lungs. Staring at the rail, her last hurdle, she fought against the despair hammering her resolve. She never dreamed it would be this hard. Her brother shot up a rope light as a jongleur’s monkey.
    Father, help me now. I don’t think I can make it.
She heard the beating of wings and pictured two strapping angels descending to take her up and over the sides, but none materialized. Instead, it was a heron making away with an ill-fated fish.
    She rolled her forehead from side to side against the side of the ship. This close to Cairell’s freedom and she was giving up? It wasn’t her way to give up. Her father, and all of