Sunder

by Kristin McTiernan

  Thorstein’s sputtering response, his childish refusal to accept Wyrtgeorn’s words, once more made the panic rise in her chest and she pressed herself more firmly against the split rail fence as the boys departed the area. Neither the hope of being sent home nor the security of her old faithful hiding spot quieted the fear of what tomorrow held for her. Now that Thorstein suspected he was short on time, did that place her in even more danger?

  But why would he make plans to propose again if he knew I was going to be killed?

  Every time new certainty of Thorstein’s complicity reared in her mind, another doubt came to accompany it and Isabella had to steady herself with a deep breath. It doesn’t matter. Just live through tomorrow and everything will be all right.

  “I thought I might find you here.” A rumbling voice sounded from behind her, jolting Isabella violently away from the fence. She skidded through the straw on her backside and her arm shot behind her back, reaching for the dagger Selwyn had given her. The dog, every bit as startled as Isabella, jumped to its feet and growled at the intruder.

  Sigbert blanched and lurched back, his eyes immediately widening at the snarling dog.

  “Oh,” Isabella breathed out in relief. “It’s you.” Her hand shaking, she leaned forward to gently stroke the dog’s head. “It’s okay, Simon.”

  Sigbert remained frozen a few paces from the fence, his eyes locked on the dog and his hands balled in massive fists as he watched the long-snouted hound relax, the growl turning into a brief passive whine.

  “You... you have a new friend,” Sigbert said, looking distressed.

  “He just followed me in here. I saw him earlier at the well too. I’m sorry I spooked him. I was, uh...” she wiped the fine sheen of sweat from her forehead. “I was lost in thought. I didn’t hear you come.”

  “All is well,” he gave a nervous smile, one she had never seen before. “I will be sure to announce myself properly next time.”

  She nodded at him, smiling a bit as she resumed her sitting position next to the fence. Given how many dogs ran through the city, it never occurred to Isabella that Sigbert, or anyone else for that matter, would be afraid of them.

  “Simon?” he gestured at the dog, who circled twice before plopping down once more next to Isabella.

  “He looks like a Simon,” she shrugged.

  The tenuous smile finally reached his eyes as he gave a short appreciative laugh. His shoulders relaxed and he walked up the fence, setting his jaw in an expression that signaled to Isabella she should make no more mention of the dog or Sigbert’s reaction to it.

  “How long have you been there?” she asked, trying to quiet her blush.

  “A fair few minutes,” he said, grabbing hold of the fence with both hands and heaving his legs over the side, propelling him into the paddock with an easy athleticism.

  Kicking an overturned bucket to the side, Sigbert made a space for himself next to Isabella, taking a moment to stamp the straw down before lowering himself to the ground. His hand fell on her shoulder, as if needing support as he sat down. She relished the sensation of his body heat, even as she glanced beyond the fence to see if anyone was around to see them. She so badly wanted to drop her head onto his shoulder, to feel as safe as she had when he carried her up the hill. The darkening skies and the deserted paddock gave them some protection, but the consequences for Sigbert would be dire if someone came by and saw them touching.

  “You have no chores to hide from, Deorca.” Sigbert’s voice softened, as it always did when he spoke to her. “Why are you making your bed with the goats?”

  “I just wanted to be alone. But then Thorstein came and I— did you hear Thorstein and Wyrtgeorn talking?”

  “You mean did I hear young master Wyrtgeorn belting out that you may be returning to Asturias?” Instead of looking at her, he reached over her lap to give Simon the dog a hesitant pat on the head, his shoulder brushing against her chest.

  “Yes, that’s what I meant,” she whispered, directly into his ear. “Why would he suddenly agree to send me back? After making such a fuss about me not being worthy of freedom?”

  “Is it not obvious?” Sigbert leaned back again, a stormy look gathering on his face. “Allowing you to live in Shaftesbury as a freewoman would make him look weak, as if he were rewarding disobedience. That is why he could not free you to be Redwald’s apprentice.” Sigbert’s voice was clipped and, despite the deepening darkness, Isabella could see the intense frown on his face as he kept his eyes trained on the dog in her lap.

  “To alleviate his burden, this morning I told him to send you home instead. You will have your freedom, as you rightly deserve, and he will remain the strong, just lord he has always been.”

  “You told him to send me home?” The tightening knot in Isabella’s throat squeezed her words as they came out. “You want me to go?” Heedless of the happiness and relief Isabella told herself she should be feeling, tears sprung up in her eyes.

  “Oh, Deorca.” Finally raising his eyes to hers, Sigbert wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. Though Isabella had the threat of being seen by others still in the back of her mind, it was clear Sigbert did not. Resting his face against the top of her head and breathing gently into her hair, Isabella could almost feel him sinking into her and any barrier between them fading away.

  “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. “Ӕlfyrth. 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,Ӕlfyrth, 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 brok
e 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.