Gritting his teeth against the cold, he let the half-formed apology die in his throat and flung the blankets off his body. He stood wide-legged in the center of the room, his fists balled up at his sides.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, My Lady, but you’ll not be taking those keys back. They belong to me now.” The shadow of dismay crossing Lady Annis’ features emboldened him, and he stepped closer to her, lowering his face so it was directly in front of hers. “Unless you think you can take them from me?”
Her eyes pinched into a hateful glare and he watched her lower and raise her eyes—up and down his body she looked—seeming to appraise her chances of overwhelming him. She had certainly never seen him clad only in his breeches and it was possible she still perceived him as the skinny twelve-year-old boy whom she had covered in blankets all those years ago. When she met his eyes once more, he saw her recognition of defeat, and it was a mighty effort to keep a grin off his face.
“I do not know what has happened to you that you would risk your immortal soul simply out of jealousy,” he whispered. “Whatever you were planning for Deorca is over.” He turned his back on her and moved to the fire, crouching down in front of it. “Or I suppose you could try your luck with Bertolf—see if he would unlock the Dane’s cell for you.” He smiled at her over his shoulder. “Do you think he would do it?”
He gave a snort of a laugh. “Now get out of my room and close the door.” He laughed again, amazed at how wonderful it felt to tell her off, to dismiss her for once. He made a mental promise to do it more often. Stabbing at the fire with the iron poker, trying to revive the warmth of the flames, Thorstein could still feel the frigid air blowing in, could still hear the door swaying back and forth on its hinges. She was still there.
Oh for heaven’s sake. Tossing the poker down, Thorstein stood up and whirled around to shout at Annis to leave.
Her face was mere inches from his as he turned around. He had drawn in a deep breath in preparation for his shouted order to leave, and his body expelled it in a powerful throaty gasp as a piercing agony dug into his torso, a scraping sensation vibrating against his bottom-most rib. Unable to draw in new breath, Thorstein tried to step back, get away from her horrible face, which was lit from within in wide-eyed, hateful insanity.
“No one will miss you when you’re gone,” she seethed in his face, ripping the dagger out of his stomach with a single tug.
He collapsed onto his side, his guts feeling as if they would ooze out onto the floor in front of him.
“Now,” Annis got down on all fours beside him, her hands embedded in the bright red puddle soaking into the dirt. “Where are those keys? I know they are in this room.”
Gasping for air, the pain in his side subverted his intent to tell her to go to Hell, that he would never tell her.
“If I have to find them on my own, wasting my precious time, I will direct that pagan to defile Deorca before he finishes her,” she hissed in his ear. “I will watch as he thrusts into her over and over, tearing her to shreds. I will bid him leave her dead body in the church yard with a sword in her womanhood for all to see if you make me search this room.”
Pain roiled in his body as she rolled him onto his back and straddled him, pinching his face with her hand.
“You are a dead man no matter what you do or say. And I will find those keys no matter what you do or say. The only thing left for you to decide is how quickly your black whore dies. Now tell me where the keys are!” She screeched directly into his ear.
His vision blurred into a messy haze, allowing the image of Deorca being violated to fill his mind. I am dying. The horrible thirst afflicting those who died from gut wounds had taken him and it was so hard to breathe. He would be dead soon, and no one, not Sigbert or Redwald or anyone else, would be there to save Deorca. I failed her.
Gasping with the effort, he lifted his arm and pointed to the solitary window at the far end of the room. Following his gesture, Annis climbed off him and ran to the window, the dagger stained with his blood tucked lazily into her belt. Her fingers traced all around the window frame, leaving red tracks in their wake, searching for any crevice that could serve as a hiding spot for the bulky keys.
“Ledge,” he gasped out, unable to raise his head. “Pull it.”
Doing as she was told, Annis pulled hard on the lower plank of wood revealing his hiding spot underneath. The last of his vision faded to darkness as he heard the plank clatter to the floor. I am going to die.
There was a clink of heavy keys and a few seconds of loud, triumphant footsteps. Then there was nothing but the wind, the cold, and one last pop in the fire.
***
Annis grabbed hold of her dress, clenching the wool in her fists in a desperate attempt to stop them from shaking. Einar was just a few steps away and she must appear calm, dignified like the lady she was. There was nothing to be done for the blood all over her dress. She had not expected so much of it.
He should not have been there! Why was he not on the hunt? She had given him the keys when he stumbled upon her late-night meeting with Einar, knowing full well she would be able to retrieve them while he was on the hunt. But he had not gone.
The freezing morning air burned her lungs as she drew in a steadying breath, wiping the bloody dagger on her skirt as best she could. Einar would no doubt inquire after the blood, but it was not his business and she would tell him so. Only Deorca was his business.
As she inhaled the sweet smell of hay and the silence of the empty jailer’s pens, she wondered for a moment if she ought not just kill Deorca herself. She had already spilled blood after all, and it was easier not to involve Einar. But no, she reasoned. Her husband had specifically forbade her from harming Deorca and she could not be discovered to have disobeyed him. She had been given no such edict regarding the northman. So even if they found out Annis had killed him (which of course they would not), she would not be punished. He did not even have a family who would demand a wergild. He was nothing.
Though, she admitted, he probably did not deserve to die. With a dark smile, she wondered what penance Father Sigbert would give her when she confessed her sin to him.
Her wits fully gathered, she looked directly at the heavy door to the stockade just a few feet away and strode toward it. Her sole companion in the jailer’s pens was Einar’s horse, a perfect dappled grey mare. Originally, Annis planned to give the animal back to Einar to make his escape, but Cædda had mentioned last night he intended to make a gift of it to Wyrtgeorn. Her sweet boy had been inconsolable after his horse was kicked to death, and she agreed with her husband that this would help to ease the pain of that loss. She would simply provide Einar with a different horse.
The stockade door creaked mightily as she pushed it open. Bertolf kept the hinges in disrepair on purpose so that he might hear the door open no matter where he was. But luckily for her, Bertolf was in an ale-induced slumber in a corner of the Great Hall, so the noise of the door did not matter. If anything, it would serve to alert Einar that his time had come.
Her heart still pounding from her encounter with the northman, she pumped her legs down the short hallway to Einar’s cell. With one rapid motion, she twisted the key in the lock and yanked the heavy door open.
She had not even fully entered the cell when Einar bolted to his feet, his eyes widening in shock as he let them settle on the dagger in her hand.
“What in God’s gaping maw happened to you?”
“Calm yourself, boy. I had another matter to take care of before I could come.” She tucked the dagger under her arm and selected the heavy key to unlock his chains.
“So you haven’t killed the woman yourself?” he asked suspiciously.
Annis smiled at his exuberance, twisting the key in the iron collar around his neck. “No, she still awaits your capable hands. Our deal stands and you shall have your freedom once I see her dead.”
Einar returned her smile with a wary look his face as the last chain fell from his wrists. “
After your manservant discovered us, I was afraid you would not come back.” He rubbed the chafed skin on his wrists and hobbled slowly toward the door. He stopped at the door frame, clearly listening for the sounds of other people.
“Have no fear, all the men are gone from the city.” She moved past him and motioned for him to follow her back into the jailer’s pens. “As for your countryman, you needn’t worry about him anymore either. It is his blood you see on me.”
Einar’s shuffling footsteps stopped immediately. Annis turned around to look at him and found his face a stark contrast to the accolades she had expected him to give for her act of daring.
“You killed him?”
“To keep him silent, yes,” she responded, not liking the look on his face one bit. He was a savage who had killed a bishop. What did he care if she had done murder?
“What would your nailed god think of that?” His voice echoed around the stockade walls, and Annis wondered if she had made a mistake in telling him about Thorstein.
“My God is a forgiving God, which you would know if you renounced your pagan ways.” She batted the air impatiently to get him moving again, which he obliged and continued down the hallway, but he still had a forbidding look in his eyes. Annis did her best to suppress her disgusted sigh. So long as this boy did his duty she did not care what he thought of her. He did not matter, neither in this life nor the next.
Emerging into the light of the jailer’s pens, Einar came to a stop and took in a deep, jagged breath. “That boy you call my countryman—he swore fealty to your god. And yet now you walk with his blood on your hands.”
“He got in my way.” Annis rolled her eyes, impatient with his pontificating. Why should he sound so angry? Most likely, he was simply an angry person, which suited her perfectly well, so long as his anger was directed at the proper target.
“You have many hours until the men come back,” she said, steering the conversation back to the matter at hand. “But I can’t promise Bertolf won’t wander in here and raise the alarm, so I suggest you find her quickly. Kill her however you like,” she held out the dagger to him. “Entertain yourself with her however you please. When you are done, come back here and show me her remains.”
Einar reached out and accepted the dagger, carefully wrapping his fingers around the hilt and rotating his wrist, getting a feel for the weapon. “You said she will be at the tanning shack?”
“Or in her quarters, assuming Redwald gave her yet another day to recover from her paltry wounds. Do you remember how to get there?”
“I do.”
His lack of enthusiasm for their conversation irked her and Annis clenched her hands into fists to keep from snapping at him. Einar’s eyes were fixed on something behind her and his previously angry facial expression had morphed into something resembling a smile.
He sees his horse.
Without following his gaze over her shoulder, Annis stepped to the side in an attempt to block his sight of the beautiful animal; it was meant for her son, so there was no point in allowing Einar the fantasy he would regain possession of it. She tried to divert his attention away from what had once been his.
“Good. Once she is dead, I’ll get you a horse—a fine animal of equal value from our stables, some food, and some gold. I suggest you go north—”
“Mother? What in God’s eyes are you doing in here?”
The voice ringing out from behind her froze her to the core. Einar had not been looking at the horse.
Wyrtgeorn was here in the jailer’s pens, for what reason, Annis could not even begin to speculate, but she did not turn to face her son. She could not.
All she could do was stare straight ahead into the smug and frighteningly delighted face of Einar.
“Why Lady Annis, this must be your eldest.” He raised his eyebrow and gave a toothy smile. “The heir of Shaftesbury?”
A cold sweat broke out on Annis’ forehead. Wyrtgeorn could not run away, and if she ran herself to get help, how would she explain how Einar got out of his cell? Or why he was holding a weapon. Her breath caught in her throat as the light from the window flashed against the dagger in Einar’s hands, the sunlight glinting on the metal as he raised it ever so slightly.
“Einar,” she quavered. “Remember our arrangement. You have no quarrel with him.”
The satisfied flash in his eye turned hard as he looked directly into her face. “He is in my way.”
23
“Isa...”Mama’s sing-songy voice echoed through the grey fog beyond the pool, jolting Isabella from her crumpled fetal position. Her muscles ached from the uncontrollable shivers wracking her body. She had to get out of this car or she would freeze to death.
Her joints rebelling against her, Isabella clawed her way through the smashed rear windshield, heaving the top half of her body into the darkness, reaching with all her might for the ladder at the edge of the pool, noticing for the first time that the blood-red water had frozen solid. If she could reach the ladder, she could run—run far away and they would never find her.
Bam!
The ear-shattering sound jolted her entire body, knocking her off balance and driving her face first onto the ice, her jaw cracking with the impact. She lay still, barely daring to breathe.
Bam!
The sound vibrated beneath her chest, propelling her back against the car with a shriek. There was someone underneath the ice.
Scrambling to her knees, she swatted at the white layer of snow crystals covering the dark red ice—back and forth, back and forth—seemingly of its own accord, the cold biting into her fingers with every stroke. She could see it now, a human hand, stretched out and pressing hard on the ice, trying to lift it.
Sick dread crushed her stomach as the hand resumed its pounding, louder now, the open palm now a fist crashing against the ice, just as she cleared the last of the snow. She could see him.
“Thorstein!” she screamed, beating her hands on the ice in tandem with his, trying to free him from his frozen coffin. She had to save him!
“Hold on!” she begged him, trying not to look at his mouth stretched open in an airless scream, the blood red water enveloping him. He was dying... dying right before her eyes.
“Thorstein!”
Isabella’s scream bounced off the wooden rafters of the barn as she jolted awake. Her heartbeat in her throat, she gasped for air while pulling her cloak closer to her sweat-soaked body in a futile attempt to stop her shaking.
“Thorstein,” she whispered to herself, reaching out with her left hand in search of Simon’s comforting presence, but finding only straw. The dog had abandoned her sometime during the night. The barest hint of daylight peeked through the wooden slats, confirming it was not only Simon who had left her. The hunters—nearly every man in town—had surely departed. She was alone—alone once again to interpret the dream God had sent to answer her prayer. Had the dream been a warning that Thorstein was in danger? Or was it telling her Thorstein was a danger to her?
“Maybe it’s just your subconscious giving you a smack for dumping him in front of the whole town.” The nervous tilt of her voice betrayed her shallow attempt at calming herself. Something was horribly wrong.
Still shivering violently, Isabella climbed down from the hay loft, cursing her aching body with every rung of the ladder and throwing in an extra curse for Thorstein. As if she didn’t have enough worries, now she had to be concerned for him as well?
The previous night, Isabella had dragged the sled to rest against the bottom rungs of the ladder to alert her if anyone else tried to climb up. The wooden slats creaked with even the slightest touch, and Isabella’s firm kick to its side sent an echo of clattering wood and metal pinging off the walls, causing the three resident horses—the nags too old or fat to hunt—to flinch. Her path now clear, she eased off the ladder and limped as quickly as she dared out the front door of the barn, assuring herself with every step that Thorstein would be fine when she reached his room. Just fine.
E
xpecting to be greeted with the silence of an empty city, Isabella was startled to hear the sound of female giggles almost as soon as she took her first step up the hill. Despite the glare of sunshine against the snow, she could make out Saoirse andӔmma walking toward her with their arms looped together, both smiling the carefree smile of children. They spotted Isabella in tandem and, instantly, both smiles dropped.
“Deorca!” Saoirse’s voice rang out in a panicked clang. “Selwyn said you were to stay hidden today. Where are you going?”
“I need to talk to Thorstein,” Isabella shrugged, turning away from them. “It’s important.”
“We shall go with you then.”Ӕmma’s voice was low and almost sultry as she took three large steps to bring herself even with Isabella. Even with only one eye,Ӕmma caught Isabella’s gaze and silently communicated that there would be no refusal to this offer.
She had spoken so rarely toӔmma, but legend had it she had returned to her kitchen duties the very next day after Annis had stabbed her through the eye without provocation. She cooked and served every meal, her empty socket still weeping, and she had done it with her head held high. Looking at the younger woman now, Isabella believed every word of that story and wondered briefly if she could be so brave if she lost a body part.
“All right,” Isabella gave a tight smile toӔmma. “Let’s go then.”
The eerie quiet of the town enveloped Isabella as she and the girls walked three abreast, each swiveling their heads to survey their surroundings. The inherent danger of their situation silenced any nosy questions they may have had, and for that at least, Isabella was thankful. For all she knew, the Dane was watching them right now, and all their stealth could be for naught.
As they walked around the back end of the Great Hall towards Thorstein’s quarters, Isabella noticed the scattered patches of dead leaves poking through the snow became thicker, giving the incline the appearance of confetti frosting. The majority of the leaves were dead and brown, as expected, but miraculously some of them were red and gold, as if it were still autumn. What a beautiful view Thorstein gets to wake up to. The patches of color were so frequent, Isabella had stepped completely over a patch of crimson snow before realizing it wasn’t a leaf.
Sunder Page 31