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.
Knowing she would need a damn good lie when she returned, Isabella had concocted a story during the hours it had taken her to walk back to the city. Now that she knew the year, pulling together reasonable-sounding lies was much easier. She hoped God would forgive her, as telling the truth would never be possible.
“He was a Castilian mercenary once in the employ of my father. He meant to ransom me to my husband.”
“But your husband discarded you.”
“I told him thus. He said if my husband would not pay, then surely someone would. I was pretty enough, he said.” She smiled darkly. “Brown skin is not so ugly to Asturian eyes.”
Sigbert reached out and placed his fingertips just to the side of her chin, gently tilting her head away from the spike on the wall so that she was looking into his face.
“You are ugly in no man’s eyes.”
Feeling a blush creep into her cheeks, she looked away quickly. “We should get to the hall before Cædda’s good mood goes away. Can you help me walk?” Isabella was not as successful at smothering her shy smile as she would have hoped.
At that, Sigbert rolled his eyes and shook his head. “No. I don’t think walking up a steep incline is
in your interest.”
Slender though she was, Isabella had never been a petite woman. But Sigbert lifted her with the ease and grace a mother might have with an infant. As he carried her up the hill toward the Great Hall, his arms firmly under her legs and back, Isabella let her head drop onto his shoulder and breathed an exhausted sigh of relief. She was home. She was safe. And everything was going to be just fine.
16
“I hope you don’t think you’re safe now.” Saoirse frowned at Isabella as she wrapped another strip of wet cotton around her ankle. “The first thing Lady Annis said upon waking was to inquire if you were dead yet.”
The two were sitting on the floor in their room. Isabella had one foot balanced in Saoirse’s lap and the other splayed to the side so as not to impede Saoirse’s movement. Just having the cool bandage around the swollen ankle did wonders to ease the pain.
“She can’t have me killed now. Cædda would never allow it.”
“You oughtn’t be so certain. Annis has a habit of getting what she wants, and Cædda is so guilty for what happened he’s especially eager to please her.” Saoirse paused to pull the last strip tightly around Isabella’s ankle. “He won’t even let me in to see him,” she mumbled.
The silence hung in the air as Saoirse tied off the heavy make-shift bandage on Isabella’s ankle. When she and Sigbert arrived at the Great Hall, Saoirse had been standing outside looking sad and lonely. At first, Isabella assumed she was disappointed at being kept from the festivities to attend her injured roommate, but now she realized that Saoirse had been forbidden from entering.
“Will you tell me everything that happened when you come to bed?” Saoirse asked anxiously. “I don’t want to be the only one who doesn’t know the story.”
“Of course.” Isabella smiled warmly, but then realized Saoirse was gently sliding her hand along Isabella’s shin, a look of confusion forming on her young face. Uh oh.
“Why do you not have hair on your legs?” she asked.
Like every other girl she knew, Isabella had all of her body hair lasered off. It had been a gift from Stefania for her Quinceañera. Given that everyone covered every part of their body here, Isabella had never given any thought to how her lack of hair might be perceived.
“Castilians just don’t have very much hair,” she lied. “The men have only a little, and women have none at all.”
“Not even on your flower?” Saoirse’s eyes brightened with excitement and curiosity. “Let me see!”
Before she could utter even a mortified profanity, Isabella’s skirt was thrown back onto her torso as Saoirse leaned forward on all fours to take a closer look.
The door to the room flew open, freezing both of them in startled horror. A shadowy outline of a man stood in the doorway, and Isabella heard a cough of surprise.
“Selwyn!” Saoirse leapt to her feet, furious at the breach of privacy. “How dare you enter without knocking!”
“Sorry to intrude,” Selwyn chuckled, not missing a beat. “But our dear Deorca is expected in the hall. Garrick was about to come collect her, but I came instead.” His eyes danced with laughter as they shifted to Isabella. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
Paralyzed with embarrassment, Isabella’s face burned as she stared up at Selwyn, her skirt still bunched up around her hips. Of all the wretched timing! But Selwyn was clearly amused and remained the only occupant in the room not frozen in humiliation, so he stepped fully into the room and held his hand out to Isabella, shaking his head with a smile.
“Come along, you silly girl,” he said with a wink.
Quite sure her face was purple now, Isabella had no choice but to take Selwyn’s hand and let him help her up. The bandage stabilized her enough to stand on her own, but she had to maintain a grip on Selwyn’s arm as she limped out of the room and out into the night, with Saoirse guiltily watching them go.
Once out of Saoirse’s earshot, Selwyn laughed out loud and switched to English. “Does poor Thorstein know you don’t drive stick? You should have said...”
Despite being thoroughly put out at being so publicly displayed in front of two different people, Isabella felt her mouth curve up into a smile. “You shut your nasty mouth, Daniel. She saw I didn’t have leg hair and before I knew it her face was under my skirt. I knew the Celts had different standards of modesty, but that was outrageous.” Her embarrassment was tempered by both the knowledge that Selwyn would never be aroused by anything she had to offer, as well as the relief it had not been Garrick to burst through the door. What a nightmare that would have been.
Her face finally cooling, she allowed herself a broad smile as she walked beside him along the outer wall of the Great Hall. The noise inside was deafening, even though the entrance was still at least 100 feet away. The entire town had been revived by the rumor of the slave who defeated the Dane spy, and they would all want to talk to her—to tell her what they were doing when they heard the news, how they knew she would be back, and who knows what else. It was certainly going to be a long night.
“Well, speak of the devil,” Selwyn said quietly under his breath, jerking his head to the left.
Following his gesture, Isabella saw Thorstein walking slowly up the hill a few feet away. Even in the dark, she could see that he moved with an air of sadness.
“Did something happen to him while I was away?” she whispered.
“Not that I know of,” Selwyn whispered back. “Of everyone in town, I figured he would be most happy to see you come back alive. Don’t take too long talking to him.”
After taking a moment to ensure Isabella was supporting her own weight, Selwyn quickened his pace, leaving her alone as she moved on her intercept course to Thorstein. She could see him watching her out of the corner of his eye, but he did not look directly at her or call out. Finally they came to a stop on a more level part of the hill, in view of the Great Hall entrance, the din carrying through the doorway.
“I’m back,” she said pathetically.
Now Thorstein raised his eyes to look at her. There was so much sadness in his face. Or was it worry?
“What’s wrong?” she reached out to gently grasp his shoulder. “Please don’t be angry with me.”
Before Isabella could wonder if her friend would forgive her for fleeing, he threw his arms around her, hugging her with all his might.
“I’m so glad you’re safe,” he whispered in her ear.
The kind sentiment was lost in the sudden invasion of her body space and the disquiet of feeling his breath on her ear. His body was pressed too tightly against hers, his arms wrapped too tightly.
“Thorstein, stop,” she said as gently as she could, quelling her confused panic. She squirmed out of his embrace. “What are you—”
“I love you. I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you.”
Her breath caught painfully in her chest as Isabella absorbed the sudden revelation. It was not as though she had forgotten he was only seventeen—there was no masking the youth of his face. But he so frequently acted older that his sudden reversion to childish impulsivity left Isabella shocked into silence. Unable to speak, she studied his sweet face, which was guileless and full of emotion, his eyes so blue against the tears in his eyes. Like Etienne’s eyes.
Like a kick to the stomach, the memory of that day in the car hit her, the image of Etienne’s face superimposing itself over Thorstein’s. The expression on their faces was the same—her husband, as he told her to end her relationship with Guillermo, and her friend, as he confessed his love to her. Shameful tears squeezed her throat and she had to look away from him, had to shake the memory of Etienne’s face from her mind.
She saw it now. She understood. Isabella saw what she had mistaken for frustration on Etienne’s face was actually heart-rending fear of rejection. Etienne had wanted her all to himself and he’d been afraid of losing her. And now so was Thorstein.
“I know that you don’t love me, not yet,” he said desperately. “But I know that once we marr
y and build a life together, you will grow to love me.”
Marry? Blinking away her tears, not wanting him to think that he was the source of her sadness, Isabella looked for her voice.
“But Thorstein, you and I…” she tried.
“I’m not a slave anymore. I’m a free man now, and I know Cædda will free you too. I’ll be given a parcel of land to work. I can build a house for us. I’ll be a good husband.”
There was hope in eyes. She saw it clear as day, and it broke her heart.
“I know that you will be a good husband, Thorstein, and your wife will be very lucky to have you. But I’m old. I’m ten years older than you.” Desperate not to inflict any pain on him, Isabella spoke in the soft tones one might use with a child, to the point it was a strain on her throat.
Instead of soothing him, her words—and the motherly tone she used—sparked a flash of indignation in his eyes. She was patronizing him and he knew it.
“I don’t care! I love you and I know you will be a good wife.”
If only that were true my friend. “I can’t have children,” she said more forcefully.
He had so quickly brushed away her other protestations, but this one stilled him. His face contorted in a look that was familiar to her—he thought she was lying.
“How can you be so sure?” He took a slightest of steps backwards.
“Because I paid a wise woman to make sure that I couldn’t.”
Isabella had lied to Etienne that day—when she said she had been sterilized because she didn’t want his children. It was a cruel lie. A doctor had performed the surgery to sterilize her long before she had gotten married, before she had even met Etienne. She never wanted children. Not ever.
Thorstein was staring at her in horrified shock. “Deorca, that is a terrible sin. Why would you do that?”
The accusation in his eyes caused a flare of anger to shoot through her heart. Maybe your mother wished she could have gotten some birth control as she lay dying in labor with you.
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