“Well then, that settles it. Remove your dress, remain in your shift.” He waved dismissively at her and started walking out the door, but Thorstein, and likely everyone else, heard him mutter to Annis: “Hopefully that will allow a sufficient amount of bloodspill for your tastes.”
At her husband’s rebuke, Annis turned a revolting shade of purple and turned her glare directly at Thorstein. “Get out. All of you.” Then she jerked her head over to Deorca. “We will meet you outside.”
Garrick shrugged and left immediately, a ghost of a smile touching his face as he departed. But Sigbert did not move. His feet remained planted in the earth in front of Deorca, as if he could somehow shield her from what was coming.
To his great irritation, Thorstein was seized by the impulse to stand beside the priest, to help form a wall around her. She isn’t yours anymore, he admonished himself with a disgusted shake of his head. She isn’t yours to protect.
“Father,” Thorstein called, more sharply than he intended. “Let us leave Deorca to prepare.”
The hard look that Father had given him last night in the empty Great Hall returned to his face, but he did not offer a retort. He reached down and gently squeezed Deorca’s arm and she smiled nervously back at him. It was a warm smile, one filled with affection—a smile she had never given to Thorstein.
As Father walked out the door, Thorstein took one last look at the deflated figure of Deorca, who looked sadly back at him, all traces of the smile gone.
She was never yours. She was always his. The thought was cruel and it caused a sting in his eyes, but he blinked it away, acknowledging the truth of it. The last of his anger drained away and, as he turned his back and walked out the door, he felt sadness sink into his chest to replace it. He still did not want to see her flogged, but he walked out to the post anyway. He would go to lend his support, for he was her friend. Only her friend.
***
Isabella watched Thorstein stalk out the door, his face a mask of sadness. Even as he moved out of her sight, Isabella was still overcome with an illogical sensation of shame. It’s not your fault. You did nothing to lead him on.
“Lover’s quarrel?” Annis hissed from her bed.
The two women sat in opposite corners of the room, both looking tired and worn down with unkempt hair and bloodshot eyes. Isabella, though exhausted from everything that happened, had not been able to sleep. She kept waking up in fits from dreams of her mother, just like the one in the woods. Isabella could swear she could still smell her shampoo when she awoke. Annis’ lack of sleep was most likely due to the pain of her injuries. Isabella swallowed hard as she realized that she would be having exactly the same problem tonight.
“No, My Lady,” Isabella tried to sound sweet as her voice shook. “As you may have heard, Thorstein proposed marriage last night in an honorable display of friendship. Of course I am wholly unsuitable for him, so we agreed it would be best for him to find someone else. Perhaps our lord has a candidate in mind.”
A shadow of confused suspicion crossed Annis’ face, leaving Isabella to smile slightly as she stood up. Yes, I am being polite to you. If for no other reason than my promise to Wyrtgeorn, I will be kind.
Isabella busied herself pulling her heavy dress over her head, turning away from Annis as she did so. The old Isabella would have faced Annis, staring her down as she took off the dress in a display of defiance. But there would be no more of that—no more cutting off her nose to spite her face. As she stared into the wall, folding her dress neatly into a bundle, she had a pang of concern there would be a crowd gathered when she emerged from the Great Hall. Had Annis invited the town to observe? Would they even come, given their vocal support of her last night? Shuddering in the cold morning air, Isabella prayed her whipping would be a private affair. It was bad enough she would have Garrick leering at her the whole time.
She heard Annis breathing loudly behind her. Is she trying to stand up by herself? Of course in Annis’ condition, that was unwise, so Isabella turned around, determined to help her stand.
“My Lady, let me—Jesus Christ!”
Annis was already standing, completely naked, her hair falling over her shoulders in frizzy copper waves.
“I thought you might like to see what he did to me,” Annis gasped out, her chest heaving, either from the exertion it took to rise from her bed or from the crimson fury that shook her whole body.
As angry as Annis had plainly been through the whole debate over the number of lashes she would receive, Isabella saw now that she had actually been holding the majority of it back. The deep furious blush that so often tinted Etienne’s face when he became angry completely covered Annis from her forehead down to the tops of her breasts. Her belly was still distended from her only recently ended pregnancy and her thighs bore smears of dark blood stains.
Isabella’s sharp inhale at seeing the bloated, stretch-marked naked body morphed into a full throated gasp as Annis turned around, showing her back. Both shoulder blades had deep angry red gouges running down them, several of them still oozing. How many lashes were there? Isabella could not even begin to count them. What in God’s name would have made Emilio do this?
Words failed her. What could she say? Her revulsion for Annis buckled under the weight of her pity, her guilt, and her vision blurred with hot tears.
Having watched the exasperated exchange between Cædda and Annis, Isabella had a moment of clarity regarding Annis’ position here. She remembered Redwald yelling at Annis that day she came back to the tanning shack to bring Isabella to church, and wondering if it was because tanners were exceedingly valuable, or because Annis was profoundly disliked. She saw now that it was the latter. Even though she was injured and had just produced his fourth son, even as Cædda met her outlandish demands, he still hated his wife, and everyone in town knew it.
Now, in addition to everything else, she—the wife of a Thane—had been horribly beaten. For no reason. Emilio could have taken that crucifix without touching her, without even talking to her. But he hadn’t.
To do something like this, he would have had to hate Annis more than Isabella had ever hated anyone. Maybe I do deserve twenty lashes.
“Save your tears,” a harsh laugh accompanied Annis’ rebuke, and she turned back around to face Isabella. “Whether you ordered him to do this or not, this is your fault. All of it!”
No, it’s your fault! You did something to provoke him! The hateful thoughts clanged against her teeth and hammered her tongue, begging to be let loose, but she shook her head and bit down on her bottom lip, breathing deep as she pushed them away. She is Wyrtgeorn’s mother, and he loves her.
“You are right, My Lady.” Isabella swallowed the bile in her throat as best she could. “I deserve this punishment, and I do not wish to cause you any more pain.” She stepped gingerly toward her, one step at a time in case Annis screeched an order to retreat. “What would you have me do?” she asked imploringly. “If you wish me to take vows at Shaftesbury Abbey, I will do it. Tell me what you want me to do.”
Barely an arm’s length was left between them when Isabella stopped. An impulse moved her to grasp Annis’ shoulder, but her bulging sweaty nudity stifled the gesture.
For a moment, Annis seemed to think about Isabella’s offer. Her brow furrowed for just a moment before the hate flared in her eyes once more. She looked at Isabella and leaned forward so her pendulous breasts grazed Isabella’s arm and their noses were practically touching.
“I wish you to die.”
The vicious whisper and the flying spittle that accompanied it froze Isabella in a horrified realization. It was not simply a matter of Annis needing someone to be kind to her or of proving herself trustworthy. No, there would be no peace, no satisfying her. No matter what Isabella did or how perfectly she obeyed, it was now set in Annis’s mind that everything that had ever gone wrong was all Isabella’s fault. The clear-eyed insanity flashing in Annis’ dilated pupils flooded Isabella with the impulse to run as fast as s
he could to Thetford, to find Nils Karlsson and the get the hell out of Shaftesbury. Because now she saw it. She understood. Annis meant to kill her. She really did.
Without moving away or changing her facial expression, Annis said just as softly, “Put my shift on and get me my cloak.”
Too stunned even to nod, Isabella stooped to the floor and pulled up the loose cotton shift puddled around Annis’ feet. After putting her arms through the sleeves and straightening the collar, Isabella darted as fast as her swollen ankle would allow her to the opposite side of the room, where Annis’ cloak was resting. But being out of her immediate body space did not lessen the feeling of dread that choked Isabella.
Carefully sweeping the cloak around Annis’ mangled shoulders, Isabella dreaded what she knew was coming next. She would have to help this insane woman who wanted her dead walk out to the whipping post. It wasn’t far, but as she wrapped her arm around Annis’ waist and felt her body press against her, it was all she could do not to vomit.
The tepid winter sun did nothing to heat the morning. All it did was shine into Isabella’s eyes as she emerged from the last protection of the walls of the Great Hall with Annis leaning heavily on her. The area immediately outside the door on the backside of the hall was a patchwork of spotty grass, dirt pathways, and animal droppings. She had been here many times, but always on her way somewhere else, never as a destination. Looking around, Isabella was relieved to see there was no crowd, only the same four men who had come from Annis’ chamber.
Isabella tried to keep her face passive as she brought Annis to rest against the wall. Cædda was standing farther off, his head bent slightly as Garrick muttered something in his ear with a dissatisfied tone. Neither man came to be close to Annis.
“Did I not say for you to be ready at the pole when I came back?” Redwald’s roar preceded his appearance around the corner of the building. “Get over there! And why the blazes are you running around in your shift? I’m a married man, ya harlot!” Redwald roughly pulled the whip out of his waistband and nudged Isabella’s shoulder toward the solitary post planted in the middle of a dirt patch.
“Just get on with it, Redwald. I think we would all like this done with.” Cædda sounded exhausted.
“Verily, M’Lord.” Redwald turned Isabella’s shoulders, positioning her in front of the six-foot wooden post.
Isabella had walked past this post many times on her way to the goat paddock to hide from her chores and there were typically one or two horses loosely tied to it. But now as she wrapped her forearms around the roughhewn wood and saw the flecks of dried blood, she realized it was not a hitching post being used for a beating. It was a whipping post that sometimes people tied horses to.
She allowed herself a shudder as the icy morning wind kicked up a gust. Though she had awoken this morning frightened of being whipped, she had at least been relieved that it would all be over after this. But now she knew it would never be over. This whipping was just the beginning, and she had to squeeze her eyes to stop the frustrated tears.
Never cry when you’re afraid, Mija. Never. The voice seemed to rise out of the breeze, brushing her hair across her forehead like Mama used to do at bedtime.
The memory of her mother’s voice had been the first thing Isabella had banished from her mind. Only months after Monica’s death, Isabella could no longer remember the barest hint of it. But now it came back to her, as clearly as if she had heard it yesterday.
So what do I do, Mama?
Smile, Isabella. Smile while they stab you.
She had been eleven when Mama had surprised her with that unusually bleak advice. She remembered thinking it was a silly thing for her mother to say. After all, Isabella’s chosen defense had always been not to let them stab you in the first place.
Looking over her shoulder at Annis, she finally understood the helplessness that must have driven Mama to say that to her. Isabella was too young to understand it then. Perhaps she was even too young to have understood it last week. But she understood it now, and with one last breath to expel her fear, she smiled at Redwald.
Surprised, he cocked an eyebrow at her, but then he smiled broadly back, followed by a meaningful nod as if to ask, you ready?
Instead of nodding back, Isabella turned back toward the post and gripped it tightly as she lowered her head. The whip was short, so Redwald stood very close behind her, so close she could smell the odor of tanning wafting off him. She could also hear him draw the whip back. Perhaps the first one won’t be that painful.
Thwack!
The knotted cords of the whip tore into her back, sending shards of pain all the way down her legs, and the foolish dream of remaining stoic during her beating dissolved as a sharp cry flew out of her mouth.
Thwack!
At the second bolt of pain, the sound of her shift ripping accompanied the snap of the leather against her skin, and a droplet of warm liquid flicked onto her ankle as Redwald withdrew the whip. She was bleeding already.
Thwack!
Now it was no longer droplets, but a heavy cascade of warm blood running down her back, down her legs. The third strike felt different, like razor blades had been glued into the whip. Her legs buckled but she did not allow her knees to collapse, even as she screamed.
Thwack!
How many was that? Was she done? There were holes in her vision; she couldn’t see. Why couldn’t she feel her fingers?
Thwack!
There was a sharp ringing in her ears, but beyond that Isabella could not hear anything. Had she gone deaf, or were they all silent? She no longer felt the cold, and having no more lashes coming at her, she let her legs go limp. Her swoon was not graceful enough and a fragment of her shredded cotton shift stuck in the bloody wounds, causing a nasty sting to radiate down her back and another groan of pain to crawl out of her throat.
Shivering violently, Isabella fought for her breath—in through the nose, out through the mouth—refusing to risk losing consciousness. As the buzzing cleared from her head, her hearing returned to her, but still she did not move. She stayed where she was, crumpled at the base of the whipping post, clutching it for dear life.
Finally she heard someone approach, the soft footsteps barely ruffling the grass, and then she felt a warm palm resting on the side of her head, the skin rough and cracked.
“Father…” Completely against every shred of sense she had, Isabella felt her head dropping, her face turning into his hand so that it lay smooth against her cheek. Her eyes remained closed as she breathed out onto his wrist.
“Wyrtgeorn will recover; he sends his regards.” The voice—the hand—did not belong to Sigbert, but to Cædda. In too much pain to pull away from surprise, Isabella just exhaled and let the last tear fall.
“This matter his behind us now.” His tone indicated it was the last thing he wanted to say, but he did not remove his hand from her face.
“You will never have need to do this again, Lord.”
“We shall see.” With that, Cædda withdrew his hand, and Isabella opened her eyes to see him retreating to the Great Hall, pausing long enough to grab hold of Annis to help her walk. Her vision was still blurred, but the look on Annis’s face as she stared back at Isabella was so distinct, it almost seemed to speak to her: I will kill you.
She was alone. She was helpless. Was she wrong to come back here?
“It’s not so bad,” Redwald chirped from behind her. She did not turn to look at him, just watched his shadow on the ground in front of her. He tucked the whip into his belt, then rolled his shoulders back, letting out a groan as he did so. “God’s death, I’m old. There was a time I could give a man 40 lashes and then go straight back to scraping pelts.” He reached down and gave her a light tap on top of her head. “I’ll expect you back first thing on Thor’s day, you tripe-visaged shrew. I’ve worked with a whipped back before. You can as well.”
With that, the old man turned and started his trek down the hill. His voice had a certain jovial air to it, an
d Isabella took a moment to wonder just how many times he had been whipped in his life. Redwald was hard and mean, but as she sat in a heap, Isabella understood how much worse it would have been if he had stood back and allowed Garrick to beat her. Garrick…
“Is anyone still there?” she called out. She could probably try and turn her body around, but her whole torso was screaming in pain. Plus she was unsure of how badly her shift had been torn. The last thing she needed was to flash any onlookers.
“Just me, Deorca.” Sigbert’s voice, usually so powerful and sonorous, sounded empty.
“Thorstein?” she asked hesitantly.
“He left after the third lash.” His robe rustled against the grass as he moved toward her. “To be honest, I wished to go with him.”
She felt the heavy warmth of a cloak drape gently over her shoulders, his hands pressing lightly on the tops of her shoulders.
“I’m surprised he even came at all,” the spasm of sobs in her throat caught her off guard, and she tried to wrestle them back down, but they would not be controlled.
“There now,” Sigbert said gently, sinking to his knees beside her. “He’s a young man with a tender heart. You did nothing wrong in pointing out that you’re not suited to him. It was a kindness.” He let his fingers trail on her chin. “Thorstein is wise beyond his years, and once the hurt wears off, he’ll understand.”
Pathetically, she nodded her head, sniffing like a four-year-old.
“Can you help me to my room?” Isabella said, trying to regain at least some of her composure.
Sigbert shifted his eyes, but then nodded. “I can go find Saoirse to help…”
“Please don’t leave me.” She grabbed frantically for his hand, her eyes desperately pleading him to stay, just stay with her.
“Please don’t leave me,” she whispered again.
His eyebrows were raised in what was no doubt absolute shock, and Isabella was even surprised at herself.
“Never,” he whispered.
His other hand, the one resting on her shoulder, slid to the back of her neck and gently pulled her toward him. The feel of his mouth as he kissed her radiated down to her chest, down her whole body, causing it to press into him without any bidding from her. With her back still bleeding, he was careful not to touch her where the whip marks stood, choosing instead to take hold of her rear to press her even tighter into him.
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