Thief Read Online Free PDF
Author: Linda Windsor
rush of waves upon the Bernician shore were blotted out by the cluster of humanity and goods of Din Guardi’s marketplace. Exotic fabrics and spices from the East, tableware from the Mediterranean, the finest wines and oils the continent had to offer—all were on display to tease and tempt the buyer.
Yet where Sorcha, adopted daughter of the late merchant Wulfram, stood, the pungent stench of the slave warehouse surrounded her. A line of British captives, shackled in irons and despair, left the raised dais one by one, sold to work in some thane’s hall, barn, or fields. They were able men, not of warrior stature—for those would have died fighting their Saxon captor—but still fit for common labor.
Then came the women, the more comely ones examined with looks and touches that made Sorcha shudder. Her betrothed, despite being twice her age, sometimes looked at her with the same raw hunger.
As her adopted father’s best friend, Cynric of Elford had watched Sorcha grow up. She’d seen him as a fatherly figure, but now she was a woman, and he was, for all his kindness and generosity, a man. For a year she’d kept him at bay, asking time to mourn her parents, who perished in a fire that had consumed their home and tavern near their business at a port warehouse.
The image of Wulfram and Aelwyn’s smiling faces squeezed at Sorcha’s heart. But for a twist in the Wyrds’ way, Sorcha might have perished as well. Instead, she and her mother’s friend and servant, Gemma, managed to leap from their loft bedchamber to the roof of an adjacent building. Her parents were not so fortunate.
With their home in ashes, Sorcha and Gemma moved to Wulfram’s warehouse near the waterfront and, with what assets had not perished in the fire, finished part of it as their new home. Living among the swarms of strangers and seamen who came into the port below Din Guardi’s great rock wasn’t the safest place for two women to live alone, but then, Sorcha and Gemma were well acquainted with the use of a sword or knife. Not that they’d had to use either. Those who lived and worked in that section looked out for their own….
“Each lot is more sorrowful than the last,” Gemma said, pulling Sorcha from the horror of that night. Though she stood on an empty wine cask, the dwarf strained on tiptoe to see over the heads of the crowd.
“Aye,” Sorcha agreed. Some would marry and be lifted above their lot as a slave, but ’twas still an indignity to a free soul.
“Better them than me,” Gemma observed. She was not without heart but was pragmatic to a fault.
Gemma had been born on the same day as Sorcha’s adopted mother, both to a troupe of gleemen or entertainers. Copper-haired Aelwyn grew into a tall, lithe beauty, while her brown-haired counterpart’s growth was stunted by the whim of the Wyrds. Aelwyn’s voice and sharp wit earned her a living as a singer to the common folk, while Gemma’s unique size, sleight of hand, and light fingers filled the needs song did not.
A wail, followed by a harsh command for silence, drew Sorcha’s attention to where a barrel-chested oaf tugged a string of dirty and disheveled children, some in rags, toward the platform.
“Here come the little ones.”
Even as Sorcha mouthed the words, she was seized with empathy for the frightened children led like livestock across the slaver’s dais. For just a second, she was one of them again, snatched from a loving home by barbarian invaders, monsters with swords who trussed her up and marched her over hill and dale into a foreign land with a language that sounded harsh to ears accustomed to the lilt and flow of her native tongue.
Though only seven when she was taken from Trebold Law, she’d heard stories about the Sassenach barbarians. Would the brigands kill her and eat her? she’d wondered, trembling. Would they sacrifice her to their heathen gods? Where were her parents? Why hadn’t they come after her? Or would they never come? Was the blood
Yet where Sorcha, adopted daughter of the late merchant Wulfram, stood, the pungent stench of the slave warehouse surrounded her. A line of British captives, shackled in irons and despair, left the raised dais one by one, sold to work in some thane’s hall, barn, or fields. They were able men, not of warrior stature—for those would have died fighting their Saxon captor—but still fit for common labor.
Then came the women, the more comely ones examined with looks and touches that made Sorcha shudder. Her betrothed, despite being twice her age, sometimes looked at her with the same raw hunger.
As her adopted father’s best friend, Cynric of Elford had watched Sorcha grow up. She’d seen him as a fatherly figure, but now she was a woman, and he was, for all his kindness and generosity, a man. For a year she’d kept him at bay, asking time to mourn her parents, who perished in a fire that had consumed their home and tavern near their business at a port warehouse.
The image of Wulfram and Aelwyn’s smiling faces squeezed at Sorcha’s heart. But for a twist in the Wyrds’ way, Sorcha might have perished as well. Instead, she and her mother’s friend and servant, Gemma, managed to leap from their loft bedchamber to the roof of an adjacent building. Her parents were not so fortunate.
With their home in ashes, Sorcha and Gemma moved to Wulfram’s warehouse near the waterfront and, with what assets had not perished in the fire, finished part of it as their new home. Living among the swarms of strangers and seamen who came into the port below Din Guardi’s great rock wasn’t the safest place for two women to live alone, but then, Sorcha and Gemma were well acquainted with the use of a sword or knife. Not that they’d had to use either. Those who lived and worked in that section looked out for their own….
“Each lot is more sorrowful than the last,” Gemma said, pulling Sorcha from the horror of that night. Though she stood on an empty wine cask, the dwarf strained on tiptoe to see over the heads of the crowd.
“Aye,” Sorcha agreed. Some would marry and be lifted above their lot as a slave, but ’twas still an indignity to a free soul.
“Better them than me,” Gemma observed. She was not without heart but was pragmatic to a fault.
Gemma had been born on the same day as Sorcha’s adopted mother, both to a troupe of gleemen or entertainers. Copper-haired Aelwyn grew into a tall, lithe beauty, while her brown-haired counterpart’s growth was stunted by the whim of the Wyrds. Aelwyn’s voice and sharp wit earned her a living as a singer to the common folk, while Gemma’s unique size, sleight of hand, and light fingers filled the needs song did not.
A wail, followed by a harsh command for silence, drew Sorcha’s attention to where a barrel-chested oaf tugged a string of dirty and disheveled children, some in rags, toward the platform.
“Here come the little ones.”
Even as Sorcha mouthed the words, she was seized with empathy for the frightened children led like livestock across the slaver’s dais. For just a second, she was one of them again, snatched from a loving home by barbarian invaders, monsters with swords who trussed her up and marched her over hill and dale into a foreign land with a language that sounded harsh to ears accustomed to the lilt and flow of her native tongue.
Though only seven when she was taken from Trebold Law, she’d heard stories about the Sassenach barbarians. Would the brigands kill her and eat her? she’d wondered, trembling. Would they sacrifice her to their heathen gods? Where were her parents? Why hadn’t they come after her? Or would they never come? Was the blood