“I was under the impression you were coming with the rest of the men.” Sigbert gave him a disapproving glare.
“I’ll send one of the slaves along to ensure the horses are tended to during the hunt,” Thorstein said with a smile. “I have business to attend here.”
“What business is that?” Sigbert pressed.
“Mine.” Thorstein said it firmly as he met the priest’s eyes, but still he smiled. Why should he not smile? Deorca had been led astray into thinking Sigbert was the better man, the one who could protect her. Thorstein himself had almost blundered his way into proving her right. But now as he watched Sigbert ignore what was directly in front of him, he knew this was his chance to show Deorca that it was he, not Sigbert, who was destined to be her husband. God had sent Thorstein to the stockade to witness Annis’ machinations, just as He had sent Thorstein here today to understand what he must do to show Deorca the man he was.
Annis was going to use Einar to attempt harm on Deorca, and Deorca, somehow, knew it.
Sigbert knew none of these things. He did not register the fear and anxiety in the woman he claimed to love, the woman he presumed to own. But Thorstein did. He saw it all and he knew exactly what to do about it. Yes, Sigbert. Go on your little hunt. When you come back, I will have brought a halt to Annis’ plans and Deorca will feel safe because of me. Perhaps then you will understand why I stand here smiling at you.
Deorca, seeming to sense the tension between the men, bolted out of her chair, sending Sigbert’s hand flying off her shoulder. “I’m going to go to the kitche…see about getting some bread,” she mumbled out.
“I have some here.” Sigbert called at her retreating form. It was astonishing how fast she could move given her injuries.
“No, thank you; I need to see Saoirse. I’ll see you both tomorrow after you return from the hunt. Please be safe while you ride.” She furtively flicked her eyes to each of them as she wished for their safety before darting out the door, not bothering to close it behind her.
The freezing wind howled through the rectory, shoving at the fire until it almost blew out completely. After only a second of silence, Thorstein stepped over to the door, stopping its frantic swaying with his hand.
“Good day, Father. I’ll see you when you return.” He gave Sigbert his brightest smile without really looking at him. Without waiting for a reply (if one was even offered), Thorstein left the rectory and slammed the door behind him, happy for the first time since Deorca had fled the city with the pretender. Tomorrow would be his day. He would show everyone that he was a man of substance, of bravery, and in a few months’ time, he intended to have Sigbert officiate his wedding to Deorca.
***
Even as her back screamed at her in pain, Isabella marched up the hill as fast as she could without breaking into a run. It was true—all of it. She would never have believed it if she had not seen it with her own eyes. Thorstein’s face…that sick, self-satisfied sneer he gave her as he crudely complimented her hair. I think in years to come I will always remember you just like this.
Gasping with the effort of walking up the hill, Isabella fought back sobs in her throat. Her heart had been so light as she had reached to knock on the rectory door, knowing Sigbert was on the other side. He would know exactly what to do and she would be safe. But Sigbert had not opened the door—it had been Thorstein, wearing that petulant wounded look on his face, the one that made him look like Etienne.
He was just like Etienne. She stopped to catch her breath by the armory, leaning heavily against the wall and trying futilely to stop her tears. Even Sigbert knew something was wrong. She shuddered against the memory of how he had moved to be near her, protectively placing is hand on her shoulder, even though it was improper. What did he know that he wasn’t saying? Why is this happening to me? Again.
Hadn’t she done everything right since she came back? Hadn’t she been kind, even in the face of that horrible woman who wanted her dead? Had not every single nasty thought that came into her head been carefully shuttered away? She had submitted—to everyone and everything—and it made no difference. Being selfish and cruel in her old life had earned her the murderous hate of her own husband.
And yet, she let out a bitter, hysterical laugh, being nice has earned me two different people who want me dead. And why? Because of jealousy, on both accounts.
The Rage, her old friend and lifelong companion, roared to life inside her, propelling her off the wall of the armory. She strode around the corner to the front door, the pain in her ankle and back gone for the moment.
“You want me dead?” She seethed through gritted teeth as she threw her shoulder into the armory door, surprised when it easily gave way. “Then you’re going to have to earn it.”
“Earn what?” The voice jolted her momentarily from her fog of anger. Selwyn sat straight-backed on a stool in the center of the room, reading by candlelight, his sword propped against the table next to him.
Panting from exertion and the distant shadow of pain that remained through her furious adrenaline rush, she spat out at him, “Give me a bow and a full quiver of arrows.”
He raised an eyebrow, seeming not all concerned with her demeanor. “Going on the hunt with us tomorrow? Or perhaps you’re planning another escape attempt?”
“What do you care?” she screamed at him, an angry tear spilling down her face. “None of you care about me so stop worrying about what I’m doing. Just give me the fucking bow or I’ll come back and get it later.”
“The armory is locked when there’s no guard,” he closed the heavy book in his lap. “Take a breath, Love, and for God’s sake close the door before someone hears you rattling off in English.”
Her hands shaking violently, Isabella slammed the door, darkening the room further. The lone candle cast ghoulish shadows on the walls and it appeared as if the weapons hanging all around her were dancing, beckoning her to take them.
“Isabella,” Selwyn sighed with exasperation. “If you get caught with a weapon, the consequences will be severe. You’re a slave—one who recently escaped, mind you—and there is no justifiable reason for you to carry anything more deadly than a sewing needle. So whatever happened this morning to drive you off the deep end, I am sure—”
“Annis is going to have me killed tomorrow, and Thorstein is helping her,” she shouted, infuriated by his patronizing calm. “You’ll all be conveniently gone and Garrick has already explained how imprudent it would be to tell Cædda what his bat-shit crazy wife is up to.”
Selwyn only seemed to hear half of Isabella’s sentence, and he cocked a disbelieving eyebrow. “Thorstein? That seems unlikely. Are you sure?”
“Yes, unfortunately I am sure,” she said, her voice shaking with the effort to maintain a rational volume. “I didn’t believe it either, but I saw Thorstein at the church this morning and I’m sure now. He knows I’m going to be dead soon and he’s glad.”
Selwyn looked at her hard for a moment, examining her face unblinkingly.
What the hell is he looking for?
“I don’t think you’re right,” he finally said. “Thorstein loves you, and if Annis really is trying to kill you, Thorstein would be the first in line to protect you. He wouldn’t—”
“Well, I’ve seen how quickly love can turn into hate.” She cut him off, slicing her hand through the air. “You’re all the same. Every time a woman doesn’t do what you want, doesn’t give you what you think you’re owed, you all feel perfectly justified in just killing her!”
A flash of insult crossed Selwyn’s face before morphing into disgust. “You ridiculous little twat. Is that the basis of your decision-making process—knee-jerk hysterical generalizations? You really think Thorstein has murder in his heart because you politely and kindly mentioned you weren’t a good match? That’s who you think he is? If he’s plotting anything, it’s ways to impress you so you’ll reconsider.”
“Garrick said he had jailer’s keys…”
“Garrick?
You’re basing this certainty on Garrick?” Selwyn shot to his feet, waving his arms in front of him in disbelief. “He expects the worst of everyone. He got sick from eating rancid meat once and I had to stop him from beating his eldest daughter to death because she was the one who had served it to him! He was entirely certain she had poisoned him. That’s who you believe?”
There was a beat of silence as she envisioned the hellish scene Selwyn had just described.
“But…things Thorstein said…”
Exasperated, Selwyn growled out a sigh. “What do you know for sure? Tell me everything you know for certain.”
Outrage at his cross-examination clamped her jaw shut. People are trying to kill me and that makes me the bad person?
“I know Annis bragged to Garrick that she would send the Dane prisoner after me,” she said through bared teeth. “I know Annis told me personally that she intends to see me dead. I know the town will be basically empty of men tomorrow. I know Thorstein has a set of jailer’s keys he has no business with, and I know he is staying home from the hunt tomorrow for no good reason.”
At her last sentence, Selwyn’s annoyed expression froze. “He’s not going?”
“No.” She shook her head slowly. “He said he wasn’t, and when Sigbert asked him why not, he caught an attitude.”
Selwyn leaned against the table next to him, the one Cædda had only two nights ago laid her out on. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, the bristle of his beard making a scratching sound.
“He’s a sweet boy. It’s true he was embarrassed at the rejection, but he is not a murderer. He still loves you; that’s obvious. I don’t know why he’s staying home from the hunt, but I know you’re wrong.”
“What if I’m not?” Her chin quivered uncontrollably and she could barely get her words out. “I didn’t see it coming when I– when I came here. I can’t– I can’t deal with this again.” She sank to her knees, her hands moving in tandem up to her crumpling face as the sobs spilled forth. Her throat would not work well enough to explain all that she wanted to, how afraid she was, how the thought of dying—even of natural causes—terrified her to the point of hyperventilating. Bent over as she sobbed on her knees, she could see nothing of Selwyn but his feet, and they did not move one inch.
She looked up at him pleadingly, her vision blurred by tears. “Please help me, Daniel. Please.”
Though he did not bend to comfort her, his face was softened by pity, those icy blue eyes taking on a warmer hue in the flickering candlelight. He clenched his teeth briefly before stepping away from the table, reaching behind him as he did so. He produced a short, thick blade—its edge so sharp Isabella could see its lethality even in the flickering candle light.
“Here. I can’t have you walking around town with a bow and quiver, Isabella. If it comes to it,” he held out the hilt to her, “just give the bastard a good poke in the carotid artery. Don’t fiddle about trying to get his heart. Bleed him like a pig and let his own heartbeat do the work.”
Isabella’s hand shook as she reached out and took the knife. She clutched it to her chest, knowing full well she was going to have to use it.
“Don’t show him you have it until absolutely necessary,” Selwyn warned. “And if it comes about, don’t you dare say you got it from me.”
“I should have just gone to Thetford,” she whispered to herself, lowering herself to the ground to take the pressure off her throbbing knees.
“You’d be dead already if you had,” Selwyn said quietly. “Coming from where we do, it’s a rough adjustment—living here.” He put a hesitant hand on her shoulder, his calluses scratching against the fabric of her dress. “It’s true what they say about life in the dark ages, you know: nasty, brutish, and short. You and I once took it for granted we would die as old people in our beds, but we have no such assurance now. I’ll help you how I can, Isabella; but I can’t guarantee that either of us will live even to see tomorrow. Life is worth fighting for, young lady. But don’t feel it is something you’re owed.” He turned away from her and reseated himself on his stool, the joints in the wood as well as his bones creaking in the effort of it.
She wiped her face, feeling both ashamed for her suspicions about Thorstein and a violent conviction that they were true. She didn’t know what to expect for tomorrow when she was left alone in a walled city with people who meant to kill her—if Annis would even wait that long to strike.
“Can you think of a safe place for Saoirse and her baby to sleep tonight?” she mumbled out, rising awkwardly to her feet. “I’m afraid the Dane will come while we’re sleeping.”
“Send her to my house,” Selwyn reached for his heavy book again, blowing some dust off the cover. “Her reputation is already tainted, so it won’t do any harm. But if you intend to keep your newly minted good name, you had best find somewhere else to sleep.”
She nodded and opened the door to the armory, sighing when she saw the snow had started up again. “Thank you, Selwyn,” she said sincerely.
His only response was that same wrist flick he had given her that day in the fairy circle, and it filled her with a somber fear. She had been so sure she was doing the right thing when she came back to Shaftesbury, and now as she headed toward the kitchen with an agonizing limp, she wondered now if she had not misinterpreted what God wanted for her. Had she listened to her own mind instead of His?
Father, please help me hear you, she silently implored. Please let me be wrong about Thorstein. I have been wrong about so many things. I beg you for me to be wrong about him.
20
There was no more pleading, no more crying. Shannan’s heavy exhale and drooping shoulders told Alfredo that the drug had reached her brain. The exact name of the chemical concoction he had injected her with eluded him, but it was universally known as “Tell-All.” Of course the substance was meant to be restricted only to military and intelligence agencies, but Alfredo was owed favors by a great many powerful men; he kept a small contingent of the fool-proof drug just in case he should need it.
“You’re a bad person,” Shannan raised her eyes lazily, settling them on Alfredo’s face with a detached finality. “I always knew you had the potential to go either way. But I thought if I was nice to you, if someone bothered to help you, then the good in you would win.” She paused, blinked, seemingly trying to choose her words before hissing out, “I hate you.”
Possibly the first truly honest thing she’s ever said in her life. When injected with Tell-All, there was no possibility of choosing your words. The parts of your brain that allowed for tact were the same ones that controlled lies. If she had said those words to him when he was nineteen, they would have wounded him beyond reason. But now as he looked at this sad little girl cuffed to a chair, completely at his mercy, he felt nothing.
Because the drug was so powerful, it was important to ask simple, direct questions. To ask something broad or imprecise meant you would have to listen to absolutely every thought in your subject’s head, and he was pressed for time.
“Where did you find Isabella?”
Shannan’s mouth twitched back and forth, her lips pressed in a thin white line, and Alfredo was torn between admiration and irritation as he watched her try to fight the truth. She knew she had been drugged, but she couldn’t possible know how futile it was to fight the effects.
“Shaftesbury, England.”
Alfredo smiled. No one, not spies or con artists or even people with psychological identity disorders could overcome a dose of Tell-All.
“On what date did you encounter her?”
It was the last question he would ever have to ask. Just one little answer, and all this would be over.
She opened her mouth, and as her lips began to move, a loud buzz echoed through the cell, overwhelming Shannan’s voice. Her brief response—those words Alfredo so desperately needed to hear—was completely drowned out by a loud, all-consuming buzz, the one announcing the cell door had opened.
His face contorting, Alfre
do stepped back from Shannan and swung around, growling in rage. “I told you not to come back in here until I called you. Get out!”
He was not prepared for what he saw in the glaring light of the cell. He had been so focused on Shannan, so sure he had total privacy. But while he had been bent over her, a cadre of masked security guards— ten at least—had entered the cell.
“Councilman Jaramillo, I’m going to ask you to step away from the woman, Sir,” said the man nearest to Alfredo. He, as well as the rest of the guards, stood still as death, clad in black from head to toe, with their weapons pointed directly at Alfredo’s head.
“What the hell is going on here?” he croaked out, the shock of a rifle in his face having winded him.
“Get away from her, Alfredo.”
Another voice, this one not muffled by a mask, rang out from behind the cluster of guards. It was a voice he recognized, and Alfredo shuddered—his head feeling light.
“Gabriel…whatever you think is going on, I assure you—” But his sentence faded away as the solid mass of guards parted to reveal Gabriel striding slowly toward him. The younger man’s face was drawn in anger, in indignation, and—most worrying—triumph.
“At 0213 you entered Launch Station 3 and entered your override code with the intent of illegal time travel,” Gabriel recited. “The cameras you thought you turned off recorded your every move, and those sensors you thought you disabled logged your DNA.”
The victorious look on Gabriel’s face lingered a moment longer, long enough for Alfredo to feel his mouth drop open, releasing a gasp of shock. You can’t do this!
“Alfredo Jaramillo, you are hereby relieved of your position as director and CEO of Jaramillo-Diaz for gross abuse of authority pending a full-council review of your actions—”
“Wait a minute!” he screamed at Gabriel.
“You are also under arrest,” he raised his voice and came to a halt directly in front of Alfredo’s face. “…for assault, for false imprisonment, and for attempting to pervert the timeline.”
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