“You did it yourself?” Cædda’s voice was strained with disbelief, his fury kept at bay momentarily by the sheer shock of his realization.
Opening her mouth to deny his question, to scream protestations, Annis was silenced by Sigbert’s face, his barely perceptible shake of the head. He knew. Seeing her scars, comparing them to his own, or more likely, comparing them to Deorca’s, he knew. They all knew now.
She could feel Deorca’s gaze burrowing into her back, no doubt a smug smile on her face as she shook with tears before her husband. There would be no forgiveness now. No matter if she made him understand the danger Deorca posed or the goodness of her intentions. All he saw now was her deceit.
“You mutilated yourself… and then accused Deorca?” Cædda’svoice rose from the doorway as he pushed past Sigbert, who placed a calming hand on his lord’s arm. “So that I might kill her in retaliation?” He had not calmed in their time apart. He had not taken the time to understand how it had all gone so wrong. He was still horribly, dangerously angry.
“My Lord and husband,” she started, her voice shaking. Painfully aware of her nudity, Annis could not bear to meet her husband’s eyes, so she shifted them to Sigbert. “I wanted only to serve God by – by ridding this city of evil. The flogging was to show my devotion—”
“Devotion? You killed my son!”
“No, My Lord! Do not say so to me. I did not! I did not kill our son! I would sooner impale myself at the city wall than allow harm to come to Wyrtgeorn. He is everything to me!”
“Everything?” Cædda screamed back at her, shoving Sigbert away from him. “Your children were nothing to you! Your only concern has been your own hubris from the beginning—”
“You dare say so to me?” Annis roared at him, swinging her arms wildly at him, the heavy chains lashing out at her husband’s shocked face. “You dare accuse me of hubris? Of selfishness? Ask your priest how many times I crawled to that church in ashes begging God to make you love me, to make you see my qualities and my love.”
Ignoring the tears and the snot streaking down her face, she jerked her head at Sigbert who, out of all of them, had the decency to look sorry. “I gave you everything! My love, my unquestioning obedience, even while every want, every fear, every desire or complaint you swatted away like so many flies. ‘It’s woman’s business, Annis. I have no time for woman’s business.’ So yes, My Lord, I made my own decisions, my own plans when you brought this harlot into our home, as you bade me! Even while you forced your will on ‘woman’s business’ by making your Celt whore wet nurse to our son!”
Cædda opened his mouth, his hand clenched in a fist, but Annis—for the first time in her life—slashed her hand through the air to silence him. “Wyrtgeorn is dead because you brought this evil into our house, because you silenced my objections and even your son’s! He, our sweet boy, went out on his own to retrieve your runaway slave, even as you stayed in the safety of the walls to cry into your ale!”
She knew the slap was coming and did nothing to deflect it. The crash of force felt oddly relieving as she was driven to her knees with the impact.
“You cast me aside for everything and everyone,” she said, the blood in her mouth doing nothing to impede her words. “Do you think our sons took no heed of how you treated their mother? Do you think they did not mimic it? As all of Shaftesbury mimicked it? What is so repulsive about me that you wish such cruelty on me?” she implored him.
For a moment, the cloud of anger departed his face, and her husband drew back as if remembering something. Or was he realizing how wrong he had been? Despite Deorca’s interference, her husband had heard her. He was looking at her now, at least seeing her. His eyes bored into hers, not flicking to the side or rolling above her head. He was seeing her.
“I am your ever faithful servant and wife, My Lord. I beg you to forgive my failures.”
“I have forgiven too much already, Annis. Even if my son still lived,” he broke off, cleared his throat. “You have committed the most egregious treason against all Saxons by releasing that Dane.”
“No, My Lord.” Annis remained on her knees, but drew herself up. “I confess to stabbing Thorstein. I did so because I knew of Deorca’s plan to release the Dane and I needed the keys. The sweet boy was besotted and forgot where his loyalties lay. I sought to stop her, but I was too late. She did it! She released that demon who killed our boy!”
Shaking with glorious fury, Annis watched her husband’s face as it morphed into a stony mask. She longed to shift her eyes ever so slightly to Deorca’s face, to see the horrified realization that the tide was about to turn, but she knew she must not.
“She is the one who released the Dane, Einar?” Cædda’s chin jutted out, an angry gesture at the slave across the room. “She did?”
Sigbert placed a hand on Cædda’s shoulder and muttered. “My Lord, I implore you to recall your promise…”
“Do you swear on God, Annis?” he silenced the priest. “Do you swear before Almighty God that even though you bore falsehood about your flogging, though you attempted murder on Thorstein, my good and faithful servant, though you have put aside every Godly virtue for petty jealousy, you swear that Deorca is the one who let loose the Dane? You swear she is the source of evil in Shaftesbury?”
Her heart soared as she looked at the expectation on her husband’s face, and the dread on Sigbert’s. The priest had made such a mistake in casting his lot with her, that foreigner. How fitting he should realize that now.
Disregarding the temptation to throw a smile at Deorca, Annis answered her husband.
“I swear, My Lord.”
His face froze. For one brief moment, Annis anticipated his calling for Deorca’s arrest and then throwing his arms around her, telling her all was forgiven. But it was only one moment.
“Then I swear by all that is holy I will cut your head off this day,” Cædda hissed into her face as he gave one more jerk of his head, this one summoning Garrick.
Annis gasped in pain as Garrick’s foot connected with her lower back, driving her face into the dirt, her hands to slow to break her fall.
“My Lord, the Magistrate is still not here to render judgment.” Sigbert’s voice, loud as ever, had a reedy quality to it, a slight tremor in his words. He is afraid. The priest was afraid for her. The look of dread on his face had not been for his concubine, but for Annis herself. How could Cædda be so quick to disbelieve me? Please God, do not let him kill me.
“I need the magistrate only to record my judgment, not to make it, Father.”
Squeezing her eyes shut did nothing to hold her tears or to block out the disgusted faces that surrounded her. Laughter roared in her ears—they were laughing at her—before the high-pitched cackles broke off in tandem with a quiet thump in front of her. Annis opened her eyes.
The long, blood-soaked dagger lay before her. The ugly weapon that had stolen her son’s life. Did Cædda mean to kill her with it? Would it not be just if he did so?
“This is Garrick’s dagger that Deorca stole when she left the city. This is the dagger I took back from her when she returned. This is the dagger I left in our bed chamber. This is the dagger that killed my son.”
She looked up into his eyes as he bent over her, desperate to plead her case, but all she saw was the burning hatred that, until that moment, he had reserved for talk of Danes.
“You will be burned and your carcass left for the birds. You will not be buried with our son. You are not my wife; you are not lady of Shaftesbury. You will die.”
“No, no My Lord!” The shout sailed across the great hall, flooding Annis’ ears as Garrick pushed her head further down. From the remaining corner of her vision, a cloud of dust arose as Deorca, that beast, skidded on her knees beside them.
“Please don’t kill her. I beg you.”
What treachery is this? Deorca had been plotting Annis’ death from the moment she entered the city; any fool could see that.
“I have had eno
ugh of women’s whims steering this city,” Cædda shouted. “Get off your knees.”
“My Lord,” Deorca’s voice shook and Annis saw her place her hands on ground, lowering herself further. “On the night I brought your son back to this city, I swore to him no harm would befall his mother.”
“A child’s blind love of his mother could never have foreseen…”
“My mother ended her own life!”
Deorca’s sharp retort stilled the room. What a horrible confession to make. And for what purpose?
“I blamed myself, My Lord. Her death was my failure, my sin. You are right, My Lord, children will never understand the world as it is, so they tell themselves stories. And I promise you, with all my heart, the story your sons will tell themselves is that their brother and mother are dead, and somehow, some way, it is their fault. Your grief, your anger will spill onto them, especially…the oldest. Your new heir. On behalf of your son, of your three sons who still live, I beg you to spare the life of the mother of your children. Please spare them the anger, the hurt, and the self-loathing of being without a mother.”
All was quiet as Deorca finished speaking, seemingly, in a genuine plea for mercy on her behalf. The weight of Garrick on her back fell away, the chill of the air moving in to replace the warmth of his body heat. Annis sat up, drawing in her breath in short gasps as she looked from Deorca’s face to Cædda’s. He was staring down at her, this slave, with a look of astonishment on his face, one of spiritual stirring. He was remembering, finally, how he had once loved Annis. He was remembering how she had mothered their sons and served him. Finally, mercy had descended on his heavy heart.
This is God’s work.
“Father?” Cædda’s voice was barely a whisper.
“Yes, My Lord?”
“Make ready a convoy for my Lady Annis to be taken immediately to Wimbourne Minster so the sisters may give her quarters appropriate to her rank.” Cædda shifted his eyes so they settled on Annis, the sadness in them thinly veiled by the firm set in his jaw.
Maybe one day Cædda will lock you away so he can marry that pretty blonde girl.
The prediction of the false bishop rattled through her head as she looked up at her husband, but it did not fill her with despair. His mercy, the grief emanating from him… it was not his intent to marry Saoirse. Or anyone else. He still loved her. He did. And it took the words of that foreign adulteress to make him see it.
“You will leave immediately.” Cædda said to her. “You will leave now.” On the last sentence, he shifted his eyes to Garrick, who once again wrapped his hands around her arms, but this time more softly.
“Let’s be off, Madam,” he said in his normal gruff manner.
Deorca remained on her knees as Annis was directed toward the door, still shaking and dizzy. Let her have the priest. Cædda loves only me. Annis thought as she turned her back on the dark woman for the last time. My husband will bring me back to his side after my penance is done.
***
Isabella felt the thickness in the air of the Great Hall fade as soon as Annis stepped past the threshold. Sigbert must have felt it as well, for he let out a long, relieved sigh at her exit. But Cædda had not relaxed, not let go of the tension that bound his whole body.
“Father,” he barked, not deviating his eyes from the door his wife had just been led out of. “Leave us. And see we are not disturbed. You as well, Selwyn.”
Isabella snapped her head up, looking to Sigbert for an explanation. Why does he want to talk to me? Doesn’t he want to be alone now?
Equally troubled, Sigbert opened his mouth, then closed it again, looking back and forth between her face and Cædda’s before consenting. “Yes, My Lord.”
Now was not a moment for either of them to disobey or challenge Cædda, but she was afraid to be alone with him. Afraid of what it was he wanted of her in private. Please don’t go, she thought, even as Sigbert took slow, measured steps toward the door.
“Come find me when you are through here, Deorca,” Sigbert declared, loudly and full of confidence. His way of telling her it would be all right. The short winter day was nearly over, and Isabella watched Sigbert’s back retreat into the fading light, each footfall louder than it should have been in the still silent city.
Cædda waited until Sigbert was completely gone, then walked around the head table, pulling off his cloak as he rounded the far corner. He dropped the heavy garment on top of the table, then sat down in his customary spot at the center, resting his forearms on the wood. All without so much as a glance to Isabella as she sat still on the ground.
“Sit with me, Deorca,” Cædda waved an exhausted hand, beckoning her to the empty spot on the bench beside him.
Obediently, Isabella grunted as she slowly rose from her knees, every single joint and muscle rebelling against the movement. Her stifled expressions of pain were the only sound in the Great Hall as she trudged up to the dais, around the long table, and over to the bench beside Cædda—the space normally reserved for Wyrtgeorn.
He did not straighten his posture or turn to look up at her as she stood next to him. His elbows still firmly planted on the table and his head titled down, it took Isabella longer than it should have to recognize the trembling in Cædda’s shoulders and his increasingly audible breathing as his last desperate attempt to hold back tears.
She draped her hand softly over the curve of his shoulder, both for support in case her legs gave out and also so he could feel her there, perhaps lessening the devastating aloneness of grief she remembered all too well. It was not appropriate for her to touch him; she knew that. And any other day she imagined he would slap her hand away with a vicious fury. But as she eased herself onto the bench, leaving her legs turned toward the back of the room so she could face him, Cædda leaned forward in tandem with her, his head reaching her shoulder as she sat down.
Defying her expectations, he did not let out a flood of weeping as he pressed his face into her. Her own tears flowed much more freely as she let her head drop, allowing it to rest atop his, letting her right hand cradle the back of his neck. Even in his shattering grief, Cædda clenched back his sobs, subduing them into pained groans that shook his whole body.
“I should not have left him,” he wheezed out. “Why in God’s name did I leave him here?”
The guilt-wracked despair in his voice was a perfect mirror of her father’s on the night he had pulled Mama’s exsanguinated body from the pool. Why in God’s name didn’t you come home?
“Hate me for this,” she whispered to him, the sobs in her throat strangling her.
“I do.” Cædda’s voice was hard, but as he raised his head to look at her, she saw his eyes, still wet and bloodshot, were not angry. “I hate you as I hate Garrick for attacking you that first day. I hate the blacksmith who forged that dagger and I hate myself for leaving it where that witch could secrete it to that murderer!”
Flinging her hands off him, Cædda rose up and pounded on the table—once, twice, the third time cracking the wood—the sudden shattering of the silence jolting Isabella’s body as if a gunshot had sounded.
“Why did God send you to save him if he was to die?” he screamed down at her. “Is the sin of adultery so abominable it cost me my son?” His strength finally giving out, the lord of Shaftesbury sank to his knees, his shaking and bloodied hands rising to cover his face.
Isabella threw her arms around him, trying to slow his fall, but he was too heavy. The weight on her legs and back overcame her, and they landed in a heap, finally releasing the great wracking sobs from Cædda. Isabella held on tight, holding him to her and rocking slightly, knowing there were no more words to be said—not tonight.
***
Thorstein dreamed of pain. The dull buzz in his head from the endless wine Redwald had forced down his throat only intensified the stabs he felt with every inhale. There was darkness all around him and the low snore of an old man not far away. He thought perhaps Sigbert had been there before, but he could not
be sure. And Deorca—
“Agh!” he cried out at the surge of agony that ripped through his abdomen as he jolted fully awake.
“Hush now.”
A soft voice and the tickle of long hair dragging across his chest came forth to comfort him. Saoirse.
“Where is Master Wyrtgoern?” He reached out to find her hand. “Did Deorca—”
“Shhh, Thorstein. These are not your worries.”
“But—”
“All is well.”
He heard the relief in her voice and knew it must be true. Or did she have reason to lie to him?
“Am I going to die?”
“No, you are not,” came the gentle whisper and the barest brush of sweet lips against his forehead. “You are not permitted to die.”
She laid her cool hand against his face and despite himself, Thorstein felt his eyes droop once more.
“Whether by my gods or by yours, you will have no worries beyond this day. Rest now.”
Her hand still on his, Saoirse began to sing to him, a quiet, sweet lullaby in her language. How lovely it was to hear her sing. As he nodded off once more, the pain in his side seemingly lessened, he hoped to hear more of her singing in the coming days.
***
“My Lord Cædda!”
The call came from the main entrance to the hall, but neither Cædda nor Isabella responded. Seated on the floor behind the head table as they were, the only way anyone could see them would be if they were standing directly in front of the dais. Their backs pressed against the wall beside each other, his pinkie finger resting lightly on hers, Cædda and Isabella waited for the unknown man to go away, secure in the knowledge that even in the coming dawn, he could not see them where they sat.
Their tears had dried hours ago, leaving an empty calm within both of them. He had not ordered her to stay there with him, but neither had she requested to go. Throughout the night, Isabella had sat with him, holding him for a long time before they finally separated, each resting their exhausted bodies against the wall, breathing in deeply to relax the grip of sorrow on their chests.
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