Sunder (33 page)

“I wish you to stay,” he whispered, his lips fluttering against her ear as he spoke. “I love you. From almost the very beginning, I have loved you. But I
see
you. I see your heart. I know you could never be happy in a life you did not choose for yourself, even if you knew it was God’s wish for you. And though when my mind drifts, I envision you as my wife, I could never bring you to my marriage bed knowing you would rather be elsewhere.”

Isabella’s cheeks warmed and she pushed her face more firmly into his chest, intent on hiding from the truth of what he had just said. Even from the moment they had met, Sigbert had seemingly possessed the ability to peer into her soul, seeing exactly who she was—even the parts she would rather keep hidden. He knew when she was lying, what she wanted, and how she felt, though she could see none of these things when she looked at Sigbert. He loved her; oh yes, she could certainly see that. She could see his want—his need—to help her. But beyond that there was only a void, a list of all she did not know of him and his one-sided insight made her squirm.

Pulling back from him to look at the lines of his handsome face, she could not fathom why he would make such sacrifices for her happiness.

“I love you too, Sigbert,” she managed to croak out. “I love you like I have never loved anyone.”

“My wife loved me as well.”

The word hung between them for a moment—
wife
. A heavy cloak of sadness permeated his voice, his face, and Isabella had to remind herself Sigbert had once been married. She had died, he said. But she had never bothered to ask him how. In fact, she had never asked him anything about his life before she had so literally fallen into it.
Selfish
.

“What was her name?”

Closing his eyes, Sigbert let out a sigh.
“Ӕ
lfyrth. She was wild, like you, and I loved her for it. So often she seemed to revel in her reputation—in being so unbecoming of a priest’s wife; she angered me so often.” He chuckled sadly. “But I loved her, and she me, even though it was her father who chose me for her husband.”

He kept his eyes closed as he spoke, but Isabella could still see the pain lying beneath his lids as he recalled this woman
,Ӕ
lfyrth, the woman he had loved. She knew then it was a pain he shoved away from himself most days, just as Isabella did with the memories of her mother. How long had it been since he thought about his lost wife? Spoken about her?

“Love notwithstanding,” Sigbert continued, “when she knew she had quickened with our child, I saw it on her face—if only for a moment. If given any choice in her life, she would not have chosen to spend it with me. She would not have chosen to be a mother. When she died trying to bring our daughter into the world... as she slipped away,” he broke off, opening his eyes to look up at the ceiling, “I swear she looked relieved.”

“Sigbert—”

“I could never do that to you,” he cut off her weak protest, looking directly into her eyes. “I want you to be happy, Deorca, living the life you choose for yourself. Even if it means I never see you again.”

Drained of the energy needed for the sobs she felt lying within her, Isabella could only stare at Sigbert, her hands dropping away from his to rest on the sleeping dog next to her. An agonizing ambivalence tore at her mouth, the insistence she could never live without him competing with lamentations of how much she had missed home, her father, and yes, even Elizabeth. She was so grateful yet so angry at him for making her choose, realizing now it was the first time in her life anyone had ever allowed her such a luxury.

From her privileged perch as Alfredo Jaramillo’s daughter, it must have seemed to outsiders as if she had an abundance of choice, but in all the ways it truly mattered, she had none. There was never the option of becoming an artist or a writer, assuming she had ever shown aptitude for those things. She would not have been permitted to take up residence in another country, not even Mexico or Cuba. Her path had been laid out for her early on, the certainty of it impressed upon her so strongly that it was only now she even noticed the beautiful cage in which she had been trapped. Even her sole act of defiance—marrying Etienne—had not altered the life path her father had decided on. Facing Sigbert now, absorbing his refusal to claim lordship over her destiny, Isabella felt frozen with indecision.

“I don’t know what to do,” she offered up weakly.

“Pray,” he said, as if astounded she did not know this obvious remedy. “God will speak to you, just as he did when he led you to Master Wyrtgeorn.”

A chill raised bumps on her arms, feeling that once again Sigbert was seeing into her soul. She had not told him, or anyone, about waking up in the mushroom circle or the nightmare of sinking into the water. Finding Wyrtgeorn was simply happenstance, but those mushrooms... Isabella could not say what those were, or who had sent them. Given time to dwell on the possibilities, Isabella wasn’t sure she even wanted to know.

“How do you know if God sent you dream?” she asked, flicking her gaze up at him. “How do you know it isn’t your own mind playing tricks?”

A curious gleam lit Sigbert’s eyes and he leaned back against the fencepost, sliding one of his hands onto Isabella’s arm with an easy intimacy. “Sometimes it is difficult to tell the difference. But presuming it was the Almighty speaking to you in a dream, what did He say?”

“I... I don’t know if God sent it, but I had a dream with my mother in it, a frightening one. It’s what made me decide to come back to Shaftesbury.” She gave a nervous laugh, feeling guilty for withholding the detail about the spontaneous creation of a full-fledged fairy circle. Sigbert was an educated man who loved her, but he was still a product of his time. Given the association of mushroom formations with paganism, for now at least, Isabella could not tell him what she had seen.

“Perhaps the dream was God beckoning you to return to your mother in Asturias.” Sigbert tried to sound casual in his analysis.

“My mother is dead.” Isabella’s voice caught on the last word, unable to progress into the quick explanation she had intended to give Sigbert.
My mother is dead. My mother committed suicide. My mother abandoned me.
Having lived in a place where every single person knew who she was and that her mother had died, Isabella realized she had never spoken any of those words. Not to anyone. Not ever.

“I wondered if she had left this world,” Sigbert said softly, squeezing her hand. “You never spoke of her, only your father. May I ask what took her?”

His inquiry bore none of the caution it would have in her own time. Where she came from, young people died for only one of two reasons—an accident or violence. But here, illness and childbirth could lay waste to whole families and Sigbert was likely expecting an outburst of plague as the reason for her motherlessness. Isabella felt a surge of shame as she forced her mouth around her reply.

“She did. She took herself.”

His mouth jarred loose for a moment and his eyes seemed locked in battling expressions of sympathy and horror. There was only one sin that could not be forgiven, and her mother had committed it.

“Did she… was her mind distracted?”

Remembering her mother’s mascara-streaked face on the last morning of her life, Isabella could only shake her head. “I don’t know. She was just so sad.”

“The Bible…” Sigbert said quietly, “has nothing to say on the fate of those who end their lives.”

“That isn’t what I was told.”

“The Church has its own teaching on that subject. But the Bible—Jesus specifically—is silent.”

The wool of her sleeve chafed her face as Isabella wiped an errant tear from her cheek, far rougher than she had planned. “Do you say that as a priest or as the man who loves me?”

“The words of God’s Son remain the same, whether I love the listener or not.” His fingers trailed lightly on her jaw, tilting her head up slightly as he leaned in to her. His lips parted only slightly, gently breathing in as he kissed her, sending a twisting sensation into Isabella’s stomach. Pulling his lips away, but not his face, Sigbert looked at her a moment, seeming to remember, just as she was, the passionate kiss they had shared after her flogging. It had been so dizzying and overwhelming. But here, feeling his lips on hers, it felt right—as if they should have always been there.
How could I ever leave him?

“You have time, Deorca,” he whispered, clearly seeing her indecision. “Listening to your mother brought you back here. Perhaps you should listen to her again. Lord Cædda will take no action before the Dane is executed and the king and the new bishop have been safely sent on their way. You have time to search your own heart and listen to what God says to you.”

She could only nod at him, choked by everything she could not tell him.
Please God, let all this be over tomorrow.

“I hope you do not intend to sleep here?” he said rising to his feet, pulling her by the wrists along with him. “It’s far too cold and your wounds must still be hurting you.”

“Of course not,” she lied, brushing the straw from her skirt. “I’m sure Saoirse is worried for me already.” They walked out the gate together, Sigbert purposefully slowing his pace to accommodate her limp. She had actually planned to stay in the paddock all night, but Sigbert was right. It was cold and her whip scars were killing her. But her room was far too dangerous, since it was entirely possible Annis had already released the Dane. With only one drunken jailer to watch him, who would know? She would sleep in the barn loft instead. More hay and straw meant more warmth, more cushion for her back, and most importantly, it was in the same general direction as her quarters.

“Don’t rise for the hunt tomorrow,” Sigbert said, giving her hand one last squeeze. “You need your rest.”

Having forgotten all about her spontaneous volunteering to see the hunters off, it was easy for Isabella to shrug. “All right. I’ll stay in bed tomorrow.” She smiled up at him. “I will… pray for what I should do. And for you of course.”

He smiled back at her. “You keep Him busy enough with your own travails; there is no sense in hounding him with mine. Sleep well.”

Isabella watched him go, angry suddenly she could not go with him, spend the night with him and next to him and feel him as she slept. All of Sigbert’s protestations of praying for guidance could be in vain if the Dane found her tomorrow, and with every agonizing step she took toward the barn, Isabella knew that if tonight was to be her last on earth, she wanted to spend it with Sigbert. But that could never be, not only because of the horrible social stigma, but also because even light frolicking would reopen the cuts on her back. Her disappointment compounded the fear and indecision already weighing on her, but—as the light sound of panting a few paces behind her assured her—at least she would not be sleeping alone.

“Come on, Simon,” she said with a smile.

22

The painful cold pricking at his ears dragged Thorstein away from his dream. The feeling of Deorca’s hair and the sweet smell of lavender on her skin lingered even as the burning cold ate at the top of his ear, scrubbing the dream from his consciousness and pushing his body into a tightly coiled fetal position.

The last remnants of Deorca’s pleasured smile now gone from his mind, Thorstein moaned and pulled his blanket over his head, hoping to quickly reclaim his sleep and the dreams that had accompanied it. But the cold was too great, even with his knees pulled to his chest and the blankets wrapped completely around him. Why was it so cold in the room?

Making an opening in his fur cocoon, Thorstein peered out of the blankets to see the fire still burning—low, but sufficient to heat the room. For a moment, he entertained the notion of retrieving his cloak for an additional layer of warmth. After all, what was the point of staying home from the hunt if he still rose at the same time? But the gust of wind tearing through the room shook him fully awake. As he watched the fire spin a maddening dance, Thorstein realized the door to his room was open.

He bolted upright, immediately rubbing his bare chest and arms as goose bumps popped up over every inch of his exposed flesh. Squinting against the dull morning light, he strained his eyes to focus on Lady Annis standing hunched in the doorway, an angry, incredulous stare clouding her face.

“My Lady Annis, what in God’s—”

“Why are you not on the hunt?” she silenced his sputtering, stabbing her finger into the air. “Are you so lovesick you must keep to your bed, you filthy, impotent wretch?”

A shameful blush burned at his face and the beginnings of a stammering apology rose in his throat, even as his instincts whispered into his ear:
She’s here for the keys.
She had dared to come into his room to steal back the jailer’s keys in order to let loose an enemy of all Saxons, and she presumed to chastise him for failing to go shoot arrows at wolves.

Gritting his teeth against the cold, he let the half-formed apology die in his throat and flung the blankets off his body. He stood wide-legged in the center of the room, his fists balled up at his sides.

“I’m sorry to disappoint you, My Lady, but you’ll not be taking those keys back. They belong to me now.” The shadow of dismay crossing Lady Annis’ features emboldened him, and he stepped closer to her, lowering his face so it was directly in front of hers. “Unless you think you can take them from me?”

Her eyes pinched into a hateful glare and he watched her lower and raise her eyes—up and down his body she looked—seeming to appraise her chances of overwhelming him. She had certainly never seen him clad only in his breeches and it was possible she still perceived him as the skinny twelve-year-old boy whom she had covered in blankets all those years ago. When she met his eyes once more, he saw her recognition of defeat, and it was a mighty effort to keep a grin off his face.

“I do not know what has happened to you that you would risk your immortal soul simply out of jealousy,” he whispered. “Whatever you were planning for Deorca is over.” He turned his back on her and moved to the fire, crouching down in front of it. “Or I suppose you could try your luck with Bertolf—see if he would unlock the Dane’s cell for you.” He smiled at her over his shoulder. “Do you think he would do it?”

He gave a snort of a laugh. “Now get out of my room and close the door.” He laughed again, amazed at how wonderful it felt to tell her off, to dismiss
her
for once. He made a mental promise to do it more often. Stabbing at the fire with the iron poker, trying to revive the warmth of the flames, Thorstein could still feel the frigid air blowing in, could still hear the door swaying back and forth on its hinges. She was still there.

Oh for heaven’s sake.
Tossing the poker down, Thorstein stood up and whirled around to shout at Annis to leave.

Her face was mere inches from his as he turned around. He had drawn in a deep breath in preparation for his shouted order to leave, and his body expelled it in a powerful throaty gasp as a piercing agony dug into his torso, a scraping sensation vibrating against his bottom-most rib. Unable to draw in new breath, Thorstein tried to step back, get away from her horrible face, which was lit from within in wide-eyed, hateful insanity.

“No one will miss you when you’re gone,” she seethed in his face, ripping the dagger out of his stomach with a single tug.

He collapsed onto his side, his guts feeling as if they would ooze out onto the floor in front of him.

“Now,” Annis got down on all fours beside him, her hands embedded in the bright red puddle soaking into the dirt. “Where are those keys? I know they are in this room.”

Gasping for air, the pain in his side subverted his intent to tell her to go to Hell, that he would never tell her.

“If I have to find them on my own, wasting my precious time, I will direct that pagan to defile Deorca before he finishes her,” she hissed in his ear. “I will watch as he thrusts into her over and over, tearing her to shreds. I will bid him leave her dead body in the church yard with a sword in her womanhood for all to see if you make me search this room.”

Pain roiled in his body as she rolled him onto his back and straddled him, pinching his face with her hand.

“You are a dead man no matter what you do or say. And I will find those keys no matter what you do or say. The only thing left for you to decide is how quickly your black whore dies. Now tell me where the keys are!” She screeched directly into his ear.

His vision blurred into a messy haze, allowing the image of Deorca being violated to fill his mind.
I am dying.
The horrible thirst afflicting those who died from gut wounds had taken him and it was so hard to breathe. He would be dead soon, and no one, not Sigbert or Redwald or anyone else, would be there to save Deorca.
I failed her.

Gasping with the effort, he lifted his arm and pointed to the solitary window at the far end of the room. Following his gesture, Annis climbed off him and ran to the window, the dagger stained with his blood tucked lazily into her belt. Her fingers traced all around the window frame, leaving red tracks in their wake, searching for any crevice that could serve as a hiding spot for the bulky keys.

“Ledge,” he gasped out, unable to raise his head. “Pull it.”

Doing as she was told, Annis pulled hard on the lower plank of wood revealing his hiding spot underneath. The last of his vision faded to darkness as he heard the plank clatter to the floor.
I am going to die.

There was a clink of heavy keys and a few seconds of loud, triumphant footsteps. Then there was nothing but the wind, the cold, and one last pop in the fire.

***

Annis grabbed hold of her dress, clenching the wool in her fists in a desperate attempt to stop them from shaking. Einar was just a few steps away and she must appear calm, dignified like the lady she was. There was nothing to be done for the blood all over her dress. She had not expected so much of it.

He should not have been there! Why was he not on the hunt?
She had given him the keys when he stumbled upon her late-night meeting with Einar, knowing full well she would be able to retrieve them while he was on the hunt. But he had not gone.

The freezing morning air burned her lungs as she drew in a steadying breath, wiping the bloody dagger on her skirt as best she could. Einar would no doubt inquire after the blood, but it was not his business and she would tell him so. Only Deorca was his business.

As she inhaled the sweet smell of hay and the silence of the empty jailer’s pens, she wondered for a moment if she ought not just kill Deorca herself. She had already spilled blood after all, and it was easier not to involve Einar. But no, she reasoned. Her husband had specifically forbade her from harming Deorca and she could not be discovered to have disobeyed him. She had been given no such edict regarding the northman. So even if they found out Annis had killed him (which of course they would not), she would not be punished. He did not even have a family who would demand a wergild. He was nothing.

Though
, she admitted,
he probably did not deserve to die
. With a dark smile, she wondered what penance Father Sigbert would give her when she confessed her sin to him.

Her wits fully gathered, she looked directly at the heavy door to the stockade just a few feet away and strode toward it. Her sole companion in the jailer’s pens was Einar’s horse, a perfect dappled grey mare. Originally, Annis planned to give the animal back to Einar to make his escape, but Cædda had mentioned last night he intended to make a gift of it to Wyrtgeorn. Her sweet boy had been inconsolable after his horse was kicked to death, and she agreed with her husband that this would help to ease the pain of that loss. She would simply provide Einar with a different horse. 

The stockade door creaked mightily as she pushed it open. Bertolf kept the hinges in disrepair on purpose so that he might hear the door open no matter where he was. But luckily for her, Bertolf was in an ale-induced slumber in a corner of the Great Hall, so the noise of the door did not matter. If anything, it would serve to alert Einar that his time had come.

Her heart still pounding from her encounter with the northman, she pumped her legs down the short hallway to Einar’s cell. With one rapid motion, she twisted the key in the lock and yanked the heavy door open.

She had not even fully entered the cell when Einar bolted to his feet, his eyes widening in shock as he let them settle on the dagger in her hand.

“What in God’s gaping maw happened to you?”

“Calm yourself, boy. I had another matter to take care of before I could come.” She tucked the dagger under her arm and selected the heavy key to unlock his chains.

“So you haven’t killed the woman yourself?” he asked suspiciously.

Annis smiled at his exuberance, twisting the key in the iron collar around his neck. “No, she still awaits your capable hands. Our deal stands and you shall have your freedom once I see her dead.”

Einar returned her smile with a wary look his face as the last chain fell from his wrists. “After your manservant discovered us, I was afraid you would not come back.” He rubbed the chafed skin on his wrists and hobbled slowly toward the door. He stopped at the door frame, clearly listening for the sounds of other people.

“Have no fear, all the men are gone from the city.” She moved past him and motioned for him to follow her back into the jailer’s pens. “As for your countryman, you needn’t worry about him anymore either. It is his blood you see on me.”

Einar’s shuffling footsteps stopped immediately. Annis turned around to look at him and found his face a stark contrast to the accolades she had expected him to give for her act of daring.

“You killed him?”

“To keep him silent, yes,” she responded, not liking the look on his face one bit. He was a savage who had killed a bishop. What did he care if she had done murder?

“What would your nailed god think of that?” His voice echoed around the stockade walls, and Annis wondered if she had made a mistake in telling him about Thorstein.

“My God is a forgiving God, which you would know if you renounced your pagan ways.” She batted the air impatiently to get him moving again, which he obliged and continued down the hallway, but he still had a forbidding look in his eyes. Annis did her best to suppress her disgusted sigh. So long as this boy did his duty she did not care what he thought of her. He did not matter, neither in this life nor the next.

Emerging into the light of the jailer’s pens, Einar came to a stop and took in a deep, jagged breath. “That boy you call my countryman—he swore fealty to your god. And yet now you walk with his blood on your hands.”

“He got in my way.” Annis rolled her eyes, impatient with his pontificating. Why should he sound so angry? Most likely, he was simply an angry person, which suited her perfectly well, so long as his anger was directed at the proper target.

“You have many hours until the men come back,” she said, steering the conversation back to the matter at hand. “But I can’t promise Bertolf won’t wander in here and raise the alarm, so I suggest you find her quickly. Kill her however you like,” she held out the dagger to him. “Entertain yourself with her however you please. When you are done, come back here and show me her remains.”

Einar reached out and accepted the dagger, carefully wrapping his fingers around the hilt and rotating his wrist, getting a feel for the weapon. “You said she will be at the tanning shack?”

“Or in her quarters, assuming Redwald gave her yet another day to recover from her paltry wounds. Do you remember how to get there?”

“I do.”

His lack of enthusiasm for their conversation irked her and Annis clenched her hands into fists to keep from snapping at him. Einar’s eyes were fixed on something behind her and his previously angry facial expression had morphed into something resembling a smile.

He sees his horse.

Without following his gaze over her shoulder, Annis stepped to the side in an attempt to block his sight of the beautiful animal; it was meant for her son, so there was no point in allowing Einar the fantasy he would regain possession of it. She tried to divert his attention away from what had once been his.