“Gefæmne!” the angry man yelled.
At this outburst, Isabella stopped walking and turned to face the riders. One of them dismounted and approached her, seething in anger. He was blond and very short. His dress indicated the Dark Ages; it also indicated he was not a man of peace, as he was armed with both a sword and a dagger. Tears pricked her eyes and she watched him come closer.
Every instinct she had screamed for her to run. She was very fast, and could certainly outrun the dwarfish angry savage. But the horses would mow her down in seconds; so there she stood, rooted in fear. She clutched her arms to her chest and continued to look down, hoping they would think her mentally challenged and leave her alone.
The angry man was in front of her now, and screamed another sentence. It sounded like an order, but she did not understand even one of the words he spoke. Though she knew basic modern German, nothing he said sounded familiar. He was close to her and she felt him breathing on her, prompting a strangely detached memory of her fight with Etienne in the car. Her body shuddered against her will, making the blond savage even angrier.
He snatched her arm and dragged her back to the cluster of men, his fingers biting painfully into her flesh. Isabella felt her ears grow hot, as her fear now mixed with anger. He smelled terrible, like pigs on a hot day.
The man sounded as if he were enjoying himself, treating her like a dog on a leash. As his grip tightened, she looked at the other men on their horses. It was the man at the rear the short warrior was shouting to. He was younger than the rest, still in his teens, and he did not seem to find any amusement at her situation. Was Isabella being mocked, or was this boy the target of derision?
They came to a halt in front of the two men who had led the unholy procession. Both were bearded with dark hair, but only one of them looked on her with kindness. Unlike the others, he was wearing a rough cloth garment. Was he a priest? She knew he was the one to first call out to her, and hoped he had the decency to regret that now.
The second dark haired man stared with an uncomfortable intensity. One look at his sword told Isabella he was the master of this group. The hilt was adorned with several jewels, and his cloak bore an intricate pattern that would have taken the seamstress months to perfect. There was a fifth man off to the side who gave her a confused look, one oddly tinged with fear. Why was he looking at her like that?
The boy at the back, who was not armed, spoke quietly; the kind man spoke directly after him. They were both looking at their leader for guidance. The angry savage’s horse was standing not far off. Maybe she could reach it, assuming she could wriggle out of his grasp. She knew now she had been wrong. Etienne had put her in Europe, somewhere in the Dark Ages. It wasn’t much knowledge, but it was enough to realize she was in trouble.
The leader spoke to the blond holding her. It was a short sentence, and when he finished speaking, he looked back into Isabella’s eyes. She glanced away in order to avoid seeming aggressive. Suddenly the grip on her arm fell away, and the kind man gestured at her that she should leave. The smile broke across her face unbidden, and she exhaled with relief. But before she could turn to leave, the man next to her gave a nasty laugh and crudely grabbed her breast.
She screamed in panic, slapping his face with her right hand then yanking his dagger out of his belt with her left. She backed up toward the grazing horse, holding the knife out to keep him away from her.
The blond man turned beet red with anger and advanced toward her, paying no attention to the knife she held out at him. Rather, he exhaled with an angry growl and grabbed her wrist, squeezing it with all his might. Isabella let out a shriek of pain and dropped the knife. His anger not assuaged, the man punched her with a ferocious left hook, splaying her across the wet grass.
With blood in her mouth and her right eye swiftly closing, she saw the man pick up the knife and march toward her. He was going to kill her. Tears welled up again, but her face hurt so much, she tried to will them away.
“I’ve done nothing to you,” she sobbed out. “Please leave me alone.” The only response was an order from the leader, who remained on his horse. The blonde man grabbed her by her hair and jerked her painfully into a kneeling position.
The cold steel of the knife touched her throat when she heard the kind man yell out something. Her eyes darted to the side to see him jump off his horse and run toward them, his master shouting at him as he did so. Her captor was not listening and had cut a line in her skin when the kind man slammed the fair-haired assailant across the torso, hurling him away from Isabella. Tears of relief fell down her face and she collapsed at her rescuer’s feet, still shaking. The leader got off his horse and strode toward the two combatants.
He and the kind man shouted at each other briefly, and Isabella wondered if she was out of danger. Suddenly, the kind man grabbed her and forced her into a bowing position, pushing her hair out of his way. She felt his cold rough hands point to the tattoo between her shoulder blades.
The anger in his voiced cooled as he continued speaking to his master. His fingers moved from her tattoo up to the silver chain around her neck. She felt him tug on the long chain until the large crucifix came out of her dress and the pressure of his arm on her back relented. She sat up gingerly to see him holding her crucifix out for the other men to see.
Why hadn’t she guessed they were Christians? They were coming from the church. Her beacon was also silver, which indicated nobility. Had it been visible, they may not have bothered her. Tears sprung anew out of disgust at her own stupidity.
“Forgive me, Sir,” she said in Latin. “I was afraid.”
The men stilled with shock. Who had they thought she was?
The man in the rough garment knelt down in front of her. “What is your name, Woman?” His Latin was perfect, but accented.
“Isabella de la Vega.” Her Christian name was common enough, but in case her existence should ever be documented, she must obscure her true identity.
“Where do you come from?” he asked.
He was in his forties, she guessed, perhaps slightly older; his beard was accented with grey and the lines on his face spoke of a hard life. The arms he held out to steady her were thick and his sturdy frame would have been more appropriate on a blacksmith than a priest. He had a very heavy brow that cast a shadow over his shockingly blue eyes. All she wanted to do was collapse into those massive arms, but instead she wracked her brain to remember what Northern Spain had been called in the Dark Ages, hoping she had her time frame right.
“My land is called Castile. It is within the Kingdom of Asturias. I was thrown from a ship, and do not know where I am.” She didn’t know if there was an ocean anywhere near here, but the excuse would have to suffice. “Who are you?”
The leader was listening intently, his eyes never deviating from her face, while the angry man—still beet red with rage—stood farther off with the other man who had looked at her so fearfully. But the boy, the teenager who the angry man was taunting, was standing just behind the priest paying rapt attention. Did he understand Latin?
“I am called Sigbert,” her rescuer said. “I am a priest.”
Isabella smiled. It was a small victory to correctly identify him as a holy man. She was glad to have an ally here. However, her life depended on the wishes of their leader. Still kneeling, she lifted her eyes toward their master. “And you, My Lord?”
He did not smile as he looked down on her. “I am Cædda, Thane to King Alfred of Wessex.”
She looked at him in confusion. “Where is Wessex?”
Sigbert and Cædda looked at each other, but did not answer her question.
“Will your people come for you?” Cædda asked, his stare seeming to dare her to respond in the affirmative. Were they at war? Did they think her to be a member of their enemy’s people? She knew nothing—nothing to even hint at what could be the appropriate response. She had only her training to fall back on. If you are ever confronted by a native with questions, stay as close to the truth as possible.
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“No Sire,” she said, groping for an explanation. “I disobeyed my husband and was discarded. No one will be coming for me.”
The man who titled himself as “Thane” smiled at that, and Isabella wondered what kind of man now had control over her.
6
More than three hours of riding, and still the dark woman remained entirely motionless behind Father Sigbert on his horse. Thorstein had been watching her the entire time, sure she would feel him looking and return his gaze. But no, she had just lain her head against Father’s enormous back and, with the exception of her dangling (and embarrassingly bare) legs, had not stirred at all during the journey. Was she asleep?
They would be home soon and Thorstein was relieved that this silent journey from Wimbourne Minster would soon be over. Having the dark woman along was uncomfortable for him; he felt it was his fault she had been taken. Had Garrick not been so intent on taunting him, the noblewoman may have been allowed to go unmolested to the Abbey. Now she would likely become a slave like himself.
Seemingly in response to his thoughts, Thorstein saw Garrick leave the front of their loose formation and steer his horse toward the back. The warrior looked menacingly at the captive woman and Father Sigbert as he passed them, only to have Sigbert return Garrick’s look with a smile—friendly, yet holding a warning against bothering the lady behind him. Garrick shifted his gaze to Thorstein and continued on his path. When he brought his horse parallel with Thorstein’s, Garrick interrupted the young slave’s thoughts.
“Eyeing the she-ogre, Northman? Do you like your women dark and enormous?”
Cædda selected his warriors based on their superior fighting abilities rather than their personalities, and Garrick was an excellent example of that policy. He was a brutal man in all things, never bothering to give a kind word, even when it was merited. To Thorstein’s misfortune, he also hated the Danes with a passion.
“I was merely wondering if Lord Cædda would sell her or keep her for his own house.” Thorstein always spoke quietly and without conviction. Sigbert had taught him thus in their many lessons.
Garrick did not speak as quietly. “She’s noble; he won’t put her on the open market. He should give her to me. My mule just died and my wife could use her to haul the firewood.” He giggled at his own joke, then became serious again. “You speak Latin, Northman. What did the woman say to the priest?” Garrick’s voice now became uncharacteristically quiet, likely meaning that he did not want Lord Cædda to know he was curious.
Though a slave, Thorstein could speak Latin fluently and could also read and write, skills Garrick did not possess. Knowledge, Sigbert said, served a slave better than a quick tongue.
“She is from Asturias and was thrown overboard for disobeying her husband. She doesn’t know where she is and has never heard of Wessex.”
The warrior bristled. “Then she must be dimwitted. Anyone who has traded with Danes these past years would know the name of Wessex. The King has beaten the pagan hoards back time and time again. Even those filthy Franks know the name of Alfred.”
They rode in silence for a moment as the hilly view of trees gave way to the distant sight of the party’s destination. The outer walls had come into view. Slightly ahead of him, the dark woman turned her head and looked back at Thorstein. He smiled at her reassuringly, but he saw her focus shift to his left. She was looking at Garrick out of her one good eye. Thorstein did not need to glance over to know Garrick was staring right back at her.
At the front of the formation, Selwyn turned in his saddle to look back at Garrick and jerked his head to indicate they were approaching their destination.
Garrick broke his gaze with the woman and waved in response. “Lord Cædda will likely keep her for himself. His wife will give him his fourth son soon. She will need help in the household. Keep your teeth together.” Garrick kicked his horse into a brisk trot and returned to Selwyn’s side, giving the lady another look as he passed her.
Thorstein allowed himself an ironic smile at Garrick’s temperament. The man normally forgave insults quickly. He had even forgiven Thorstein for trying to stab him so many years ago. The two still maintained a combative relationship, though tempered by the knowledge he was never in any real danger from Garrick as long as he obeyed his master. Only God could know if this woman would have that same secure knowledge from this day forth.
He prompted his horse to quicken pace until he came alongside Father Sigbert’s horse. The woman had her arms around the priest’s waist as she sat behind him. Her name was strange, Roman sounding. She was staring at the high walls of the recently built burgh. What must she be thinking?
He had never seen anyone like her before. From her brown skin to her strangely white teeth, she was truly remarkable. Her dress, or undergarment, he hoped, was torn and dirty but of very fine material. A lady, no doubt, yet she attempted to brawl with Garrick as if she were a man. Did the women of Castile fight along with the men? He also wondered about the mark on her back. Like Sigbert, Thorstein had recognized it immediately. It was the Chi Ro, the symbol of Christ and of Rome. Did all Asturians mark themselves in this way?
Despite the danger from Garrick, he hoped she would remain with Cædda’s house. He wanted to learn more about her. She looked so pitiful, slumped against Sigbert’s back, her eye clamped shut by the swelling bruise. She would need his friendship, as none of the other slaves spoke Latin.
As the city on the hill came closer, Thorstein reached over and nudged the dark one, trying to put her at ease. “Welcome to Shaftesbury.” He pointed to the high walls and to the trees all around them. “This is your kingdom now.”
She looked back at him with her open brown eye. Her face did not change and it was difficult to tell if she heard him.
***
Isabella shifted her weight in the saddle. Having chosen archery over equestrian competition in her youth, the unfamiliar feel of the horse was starting to hurt her. She wanted to reposition herself, but being straddled behind the priest may lead to the unfortunate impression she was snuggling with him. In the Dark Ages, priests could marry. Given how she was dressed, she did not want Father Sigbert to interpret her physical discomfort as an attempt at seduction. Though she had to admit, wrapping her arms around him made her feel a little less terrified, even with that evil violent man giving her looks at every opportunity.
She looked up at the crude stone walls surrounding the hillside encampment that the young blonde boy—who thankfully also knew Latin—had called Shaftesbury. That was a name she knew. Etienne’s grandmother had been born and raised in Shaftesbury and he had often spoken of the two of them going to visit someday. I cannot envision any circumstance under which I would set foot in that backwater country. If you find England so fascinating, you go visit. Momentarily overcome with anger at Etienne’s cruel sense of humor, Isabella held in her breath. Even knowing she was in the south of England, her confusion remained. The men were certainly not speaking English, at least not any English she ever heard.
The hoof beats underneath her turned suddenly louder and hollow sounding as they crossed a short wooden bridge over what could reasonably be called a moat. Really, it was just stagnant water pooled at the base of the hill, but she supposed it had its uses. For a moment she was almost tempted to smile at the idea of actually debating the merits of a moat. Her travels through time had never taken her far back enough to think on such things, and her imagination could never have conjured the scene before her now.
The slate-grey stone wall to the city contrasted with the undiluted green of the surrounding landscape. It was the most civilization she had seen since leaving sight of the church. There had been occasional small villages, but cities seemed few and far between in this Wessex.
Shouts came from inside the walls and the thick wooden gate swung slowly open in front of them. Cædda rode through first, acknowledging the three men at the gate who bowed deeply to him. Isabella sat up straight in the saddle to watch him over Sigbert’s shou
lder.
“Father, does Lord
Cædda rule the city, or does he rule Wessex?”
Sigbert chuckled. “King Alfred rules Wessex. Lord Cædda was given reign over Shaftesbury as a reward for service to the king. He rules here as well as the surrounding farmlands. He answers only to the Ealdorman and the king.”
They were riding through town now, traveling up the main road. Merchants called out their wares, people milled about them. Some watched their lord while others remained immersed in their buying and selling. Most of the buildings were small and made of thatch, the massive stone and mortar church being the notable exception. Isabella earned some confused or angry looks from those who took a good look at her, but for the most part she went unnoticed in the bustle of the town. The women wore long dresses and some had head coverings. She hoped she would be given appropriate clothing soon. But even with the clothes, she realized, her face and hair would still mark her apart from the fair inhabitants of England.
She sighed loudly. “What is Cædda going to do with me? Will he let me go on my way?”
“ Lord Cædda is a good friend to the king, and a worthy master. I suggest you obey him without question, whatever he decides to do with you.”
He spoke so softly and kindly, it took her a moment to react to the last part of his statement.
“What reason would he have to detain me? I was only trying to save myself from attack. I thought I was in danger.”
The priest patted her hands, which were now clenched a little tighter around his waist. “You were in danger from Garrick, my child. If we were to release you, as you might wish, you would be a woman alone in a dangerous place. You’re a disobedient wife and a foreigner, making it unlikely he could find a husband for you. Putting you to work is the kindest course of action for you,” he raised his voice slightly to cut off her protest. “You are a Christian, so you need not fear Lord Cædda. He will not sell you to the pagans. Let you thank God for that.”
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