Sunder (20 page)

“You did not want to raise the alarm, and you told your suspicions only to me,” Sigbert cut in.

And who would disbelieve a priest?
Thorstein thought bitterly, his ears growing hot despite the cold.
Certainly not our pious King Alfred.

Silence rested in the hall for only a moment, allowing all of them to hear another soft moan drift out of the adjoining chamber.

“And what do I tell Annis?”

“The truth, My Lord,” the priest gently grasped Cædda’s forearm where it rested on the table. “You will tell her that you killed the man who dared touch her, that you drove his head onto a spike yourself. You will tell her that Thorstein saved her very life, and that Deorca saved
yours
, as the spy was here to kill you as well. You will tell all this to the town, and when Deorca returns—”

“What if she never comes back?” Thorstein called out, louder than he had intended. “What if Danes find her? Or even other Saxons? She has had a full night and day and yet another night to run.”

Sigbert’s eyes hardened as he turned his attention to Thorstein.
What was that look for?

“Deorca will return to us. God has revealed it to me.” His voice went hoarse at this proclamation, and the priest’s eyes misted slightly. “Deorca was sent to us by God Almighty, and she will return here.”

Thorstein had never seen him like this. Quite the contrary, Sigbert had always expressed a certain cynicism regarding men who claimed to have heard the voice of the Almighty. He said, more often than not, it was the sign of a distracted mind rather than piety. But he sounded so certain.

He loves her.

The realization slithered through Thorstein’s mind, prompting a heavy red curtain of rage to fall across his sight as he looked at his priest, his friend, bending over Lord Cædda with a look of stony determination on his face.

How had he not seen it? When he had come into the rectory that day, Thorstein had so scrutinized Deorca’s face, looking for hidden feelings for Sigbert, that he hadn’t even looked at the priest who, as Thorstein now recalled, scurried from the room as quickly as a rat fleeing a burning kitchen.

Thorstein saw it all now—how Sigbert had intervened with Lady Annis for her, had gone frantically looking for her when the pretender had been discovered, and was now telling Lord Cædda to
lie
to the king, all to protect the woman he loved.

But she doesn’t love him back. I would have seen it…

Thorstein’s poisonous thoughts were interrupted when the clang of the church bell echoed through the Great Hall. It did not clang to announce the hour or a call to service; it pealed over and over in the night, screaming to the whole burgh that someone was approaching the gates.

“You see,” Sigbert smiled and stood to his full height, puffing his chest out. “She has come home to…us.”

Cædda stood up alongside Sigbert and the two made their way out the Hall, leaving Thorstein alone—alone in the dark. He had heard the pause in Sigbert’s sentence. He knew what the priest had wanted to say.

***

For a brief shining moment, Isabella allowed herself the fantasy that she and Wyrtgeorn would be able to slip quietly into the city with only the gate guards being the wiser. She imagined one of them scurrying to the Great Hall to alert Cædda while the other clapped her in chains and led her to the jailer’s pens. Then she would be able to sleep, soundly and deeply, while Wyrtgeorn received treatment for his leg and interceded with his father on her behalf.

But that pretty fiction deserted her as the bells shrieked from behind the stone walls that stared menacingly down at her.

“They announce your return, Young Master.” Isabella tried to hide the quaver in her voice, but didn’t quite succeed. Despite her fear, she would just be happy to not have to walk on her ankle anymore.

“He’s going to be so angry with me,” he said grimly. Wyrtgeorn’s pale and weary face had not shown much expression throughout the journey back to the city, other than the occasional grit of pain. But through his blank expression his voice revealed that, unbelievable as it was to Isabella, he felt just as frightened as she did.

A massive creak filled the air, momentarily drowning out the sound of the bells, as the wooden gates pulled slowly apart. Even from half a kilometer away, Isabella could clearly see Cædda standing just beyond the gates. Each step brought her lord more clearly into view, and she fixed her eyes on his face, squinting with all her might in the hope of seeing anything resembling compassion.

The entrance to the city was alight from a line of torches along the sides of the road, and she could see a small crowd gathering behind Cædda, who was wearing an impenetrable blank expression. Unable to look at him any longer, Isabella raised her eyes up—up to city walls. Up to the ramparts…

Where the eyeless, mangled head of Emilio Bernal stared gape-mouthed into the darkness of the night.

Dear God, please don’t let me die.
Isabella’s heart pounded so viciously in her chest she felt sure Cædda would see it through her clothing. As she crossed the short bridge over the mini-moat, her throat was seized by a hysterical sob. There was no stopping the whimper that escaped her mouth, and Cædda and those men closest to the gate had certainly heard it.

She let go of the horse’s bridle and let the impatient animal stride ahead of her through the open gates. Isabella watched as Cædda’s eyes squinted in confused irritation, then widened in worry as he saw that Wyrtgeorn was injured.  He jerked his head back toward Isabella with a look that very clearly asked if she had been the one to maim his son.

“My horse fell upon me, Father,” Wyrtgeorn said weakly, as if in response to the unspoken accusation. “There was a borough in the ground. That woman came to help.”

Isabella stood frozen just inside the gates, watching the scene unfold in front of her. Cædda casually reached up and grasped his son’s hands where they laid on the saddle and told him to ride to the chiurgeon’s house, and that they would talk again soon. The boy did as he was told and the flanks of the horse disappeared down the road. Cædda turned his head slowly back until his eyes settled menacingly on Isabella.

It was silent. The bells had ceased their alarm, the gates had settled into a stop, and all the waking people in the town stood quiet as death beside the road, watching their lord stride toward her.

As rapidly as she could, Isabella sank to her knees, sending another bolt of pain up her leg. A litany of foolish things to say coursed through her mind as Cædda’s footfalls continued toward her.
I’m sorry. Please forgive me. It wasn’t my fault! Please let me live.

But none of these things seemed to fit. Nothing sounded good enough. Truthfully her mouth was too dry to do much speaking anyway. So she just bowed her head, and kneeled in the dirt with her eyes closed as Cædda came to a stop in front of her.

“God bless ye, Deorca!”

The sole female voice that cried out from the crowd echoed eerily for a moment, pinging against the stone city walls. Then, a slow swell of other voices rose across the hillside, all with similar encouraging sentiments, until it was a veritable cacophony of cheers.

What the hell?
Isabella slowly raised her still-teary eyes to look around at the crowd of mostly unfamiliar faces, all of whom looked genuinely glad to see her, before tilting her head up to look at Cædda.

She had envisioned this moment over and over on her way back to the city, and in every one of her scenarios she had imagined a furious look on Cædda’s face. She had imagined him screaming at her, or even killing her as soon as she came through the gates. But now as she kneeled before him, he looked down on her with a look of unadulterated relief. The deep lines that had marked his mouth and forehead for the past month had relaxed away, and as the wind gently billowed his tunic against her cheek, Isabella allowed it to sink in—she was not going to die.

The relieved look in Cædda’s eyes filtered down to his mouth, which curved into a half smile. He caught Isabella’s eyes.

Stand up,
he mouthed.

As delicately as she could, Isabella planted her hands on the ground for balance as she rose to a standing position, all of her weight resting on her one good leg. As she did, the cheers from the crowd grew louder, and before she could refocus her eyes,
Cædda
gripped her by her shoulders and turned her to face the crowd.

The warmth of his hands on her shoulders startled her. Fixated as she was on her fate, Isabella had forgotten how cold it was tonight. She had ignored the damp air, how it stung the scratches on her face. But now, with Cædda gripping her tightly, the last 48 hours hit her like falling cement, and she let out a single sob.

“Not here.” Cædda whispered,  squeezing her shoulders tightly. “Not in front of them.”

The edge in his voice surprised Isabella. But then she realized it shouldn’t have. Cædda was the lord of Shaftesbury, and must always appear strong. As his slave, she was an extension of him, woman or not. So she swallowed her relieved tears, then deeply inhaled the night air. Cædda was close enough behind her that the smell of his tunic enveloped her, and she knew immediately he had been drinking—heavily.

But why are the people happy to see me?
The joy of the townspeople at her return and their sudden veneration was confusing, to say the least. She was a runaway slave seen in the company of a violent spy. Why—

Deep into the gathering crowd, she spied the grizzled face of Selwyn, looking enormously pleased with himself, and she recalled what he had said to her in the woods
. I planted a rumor that he was holding you against your will.

It must have been a very convincing rumor indeed. So now the town was on her side, but Cædda still knew the truth of what happened, as did Garrick and anyone else that might have been in the woods with her and Emilio.

She allowed herself to sag in Cædda’s grip and whispered softly, “I beg your forgiveness, My Lord, and I swear I will not run again. No matter my punishment.”

“We will speak later, you and I,” he whispered back, then released her.

“My people!” Cædda moved in front of her and called the attention of the crowd; all of Shaftesbury fell silent once more. “So many of you already know that this woman, Deorca of my household, discovered the treachery of the pretended bishop. And now as you see, she has brought my injured son safely home. The Danes have seen the power of Shaftesbury. They fear us; they have sent warriors to kill our clergy and a spy to destroy us. But we are Saxons, and every man among us is to be feared. Our farmers, our craftsmen, even our slaves are greater than any one of their warriors. And now all of Wessex will know it. And when the king commands us to battle, all of Britain will know our strength when we send those Godless pagans back to the rock they came from!”

The city exploded in cheers. Men, women, and even the children too young to understand complex sentences rejoiced, cheering and crying. The people Isabella had always found so contemptible were all alight with joy, with relief. Their hard-lined faces and tattered clothes shone with beauty in the weak torchlight, and as Isabella looked all around her, she saw the crowd had swelled and she suspected the entire city surrounded her now.  Including Sigbert.

Isabella’s rotating gaze stopped solidly on the priest, who stood still among the rejoicing crowd. She felt herself smile.

“Come, Deorca!” Cædda suddenly clapped her on the back, diverting her attention from Sigbert. “Come sit with me at my table.”

The crowd moved en masse up the hill, and Cædda was clearly waiting for her to join them. It was also clear that he was not making a request.

“Yes, My Lord, of course.” She smiled and leaned in closer to Cædda. “I’ve hurt my ankle and my gait is slow. Father will help me walk to the Hall.”

“I’ll have Saoirse see to you when you get there.” He said it lightly, but Isabella saw his eyes flick up the ramparts behind her. Up to where Emilio’s head was spiked. Isabella shuddered as he turned and walked away.

“Deorca.”

Sigbert’s rumbling voice was directly behind her now, and Isabella turned to face him.

“Do I have you to thank for all this?”

“You have God to thank for this.” He smiled gently at her. “The wagging tongues of peasants have saved you. I will explain as we walk.” Sigbert started to gesture in the direction of the Great Hall, but then he took note of the way she was standing and his brow furrowed in worry. “Are you injured?”

“My ankle,” she said, not bothering to hide her surprise. She had half expected the priest to disown her after this whole affair. As kind as he had been through her whole time in Shaftesbury, for some reason she never thought for a moment that he would be anything but angry with her. Now, as she looked at the worry and affection creasing his features, she realized this was yet one more thing she had been wrong about.

The last of the villagers had moved away from the clearing in front of the gate, leaving Isabella alone with Sigbert. Unable to help herself, she looked up to the top of the wall, this time tilting her whole head so she could take a good look at what was left of Emilio.

“Who was he?” Sigbert asked quietly, without needing to follow her gaze.