Authors: Kristin McTiernan
Redwald stomped back to the hut, a maddened expression on his face, prompting Isabella to turn quickly back to her work. She hammered off the last hoof just as he walked in. Knowing his devotion to his work, Isabella tried to calm him with an on-point question.
“Horns?” She asked, mimicking a chopping motion over the deer’s antlers. “Same way?”
“No.” Without pausing at his own table, Redwald marched straight at her, his arm outstretched. Pinching her eyes shut in anticipation of the slap, Isabella leaned away from Redwald, only to feel the cleaver being snatched from her hand. She opened her eyes when she heard the clang of the heavy instrument being thrown against the wall.
“Go to the church. Come back here tomorrow.” He growled, mere inches from her face.
“Why?” As the word was leaving her mouth, Isabella tried to grab it back.
But Redwald heard it, and his face contorted into a venomous scowl.
“Tomorrow. Yes.” She let the fractured sentence machine-gun out of her mouth as she bolted past him and out the door.
Let it never be said I had to be told twice.
Why she was suddenly summoned to the church was a mystery, but Sigbert likely had something to say about Isabella missing Mass. She pumped her legs as quickly as she could underneath her heavy skirts, hoping that she could get something to eat as well.
Despite being pleased to be away from the smell, Isabella felt strangely guilty about not helping Redwald with the remainder of the pelts. Of course there would be a whole new set to work on tomorrow, but she had enjoyed the feeling of helping him get through the work in half a day. He had genuinely been teaching her, which was more than she could say for any of the women. Even with his displeasure at the interruption, he hadn’t punched her. Perhaps the old man wasn’t as mean as everyone thought.
***
“If you continue to shovel your food into your mouth like that, you’ll be sick when you return to Redwald. He won’t be pleased if you vomit on one of his pelts,” Sigbert said with a smile.
“I almost did this morning anyway,” Isabella mumbled, determined to get as much of the luke-warm gruel into her mouth as possible before it became completely cold. Father had given her the pleasant surprise of the meal immediately following her receiving of the Eucharist. She had bolted off the communion rail and run into the rectory so quickly she tripped and fell on those damnable skirts. But the skinned elbows did not deter her from diving into the waiting dish of food.
Two months ago, she would rather have ingested toilet water than the meal in front of her. The lumpy grey abomination had been a part of her daily menu since arriving in Britain, and she still had not grown accustomed to the gag-inducing texture.
I guess my days of being picky about my food are over.
She did, after all, have more pressing matters to deal with.
“I can’t believe she’s acting like this,” Isabella said in between mouthfuls. “I do everything I’m told and she behaves as if I murdered one of her children.” She took a breath and paused before taking the last bite of her breakfast. “Do I smell really bad?”
Sigbert smiled fondly at her. “Not as badly as you will in the coming days, I suspect.”
“Thank you for getting me some food. I was really hungry. Redwald doesn’t seem as bad as everyone made him out to be.” She scooped the last of her food into her mouth and sat back with a sigh, still hungry.
Sigbert was staring at her, eyes wide. “Redwald is not so bad, you say?” he queried.
“No. He just showed me how to do the job, and he only whacked me on the head once. He’s a yeller, obviously—but a better teacher than Hilde.”
“He likes you then,” Sigbert chuckled. “You of all people he takes a liking to. Our Lord has found some strange allies for you.”
“It’s nice
someone
likes me. He told me not to come back until tomorrow. What should I do for today? I don’t want to go back to the Great Hall.”
“It’s better you don’t.” Father leaned back in his chair, shooting a troubled expression at Isabella from across the table. “An emissary from King Alfred is here. The whole household will be preoccupied with attending to his needs while trying to discern if we march to war.”
Isabella jerked her head up. “War? What war? Who are we fighting?” There had been no overt indicators of war in Shaftesbury. None that Isabella had observed, anyway. The city functioned like a well-oiled machine; it was abuzz with life—including all the men who were of fighting age.
The priest grew heavy-lidded at her questioning. “The Danes, of course. Has Thorstein never told you how he came to serve Lord Cædda?”
“I thought that was all over with,” Isabella said feebly.
Sigbert shook his head at her and crossed his arms over his broad expanse of chest. He turned his head away from her and, in a weary and almost bored tone, told Isabella of the Vikings—how all of Britain had nearly fallen to the Danes. It was King Alfred who turned the tide, organizing the Britons from the different provinces and beating the Danes into peace. The agreement lasted several years, but had ultimately broken down, plunging Wessex back into war.
“So, who is fighting the Danes now if all of Shaftesbury is still here?”
“Half the men Cædda commands are at the front now, including Garrick, if you were wondering where he’s been. The other half remains here to tend their land and families. The war has stretched on for years; men can’t be expected to leave their lives behind them for such a stretch of time.”
“So they rotate,” Isabella said, nodding her understanding. “But the emissary—he’s here to take everyone to battle?” Anxiety gripped her voice. What would become of her if the city was besieged?
“Most likely,” Sigbert nodded gravely. “It’s just a matter of time until the king commands it.”
On her past travels, Isabella was always prepared for the historical events that unfolded around her. She knew exactly what would happen, and never had reason to fear, so long as she planned correctly. But this situation was entirely different. Even if the year was not still a mystery to her, the impending conflict with the Danes was completely unknown to her. Who would win? And at what cost?
Of course, she knew Shaftesbury itself would survive. But the city walls stood strong, while Isabella herself was vulnerable and weaker than even one male warrior. She knew enough of the Vikings to know they would not be kind masters of the prisoners they acquired.
The cool rectory was still as its two occupants allowed the solemn quiet to wash over the entire space. Isabella stared at Father, who was looking into his lap. If the Danes took Shaftesbury, the women and children would be made slaves, so her overall status would remain unchanged. But the men…
Her eyes slowly filled as she continued to look at Sigbert. The grizzled priest did not look frightened, though his brow was heavier than usual with the weight of the future.
“Can you fight?” she whispered to him.
“Not so well as to stave off a hoard of Danes.” He looked up at her, morphing his face into an expression resembling hope. “Our Lord knows my fate. Whether I serve him unto old age, die on a sword, or become enslaved to the pagans, I know I am serving his purpose.”
“I don’t want you to die.” Isabella’s whispered admission surprised her. So many of her thoughts were about going home, leaving Shaftesbury and everyone in it far behind her. But mulling the idea of Sigbert being hacked to death prompted a knot to form in her throat. Even if she managed to escape, what fate would she be leaving him to?
“A Christian lives his life in accordance with what God wants. All other considerations are secondary,” Sigbert said kindly as he reached across the table, wrapping his enormous hand around Isabella’s smaller one. Unable to contain her sadness any longer, Isabella surrendered completely to her misery and laid her head down to cry into his hand.
“God never gives us more suffering than we can endure. I had a wife as a young man, and when God called her home so suddenly, I felt sure I could not go on living without her. But I had strength in me I did not know existed, and so do you, Deorca of Shaftesbury, perhaps too much strength to even see God’s hand upon your life. He brought you to this city. He brought you here to me.” His last sentence came out as a whisper, and Isabella brought her head up to look at him.
His face was full of love; there was no lust there, no veiled agenda, nor any contradiction to the words he had spoken to her. She wanted so badly to say something back to him—something meaningful and touching. But her voice refused to cooperate, and all she could do was pray:
Thank you God for sending me a friend.
The door to the rectory burst loudly open, and both Isabella and Sigbert jerked their hands from the table. Thorstein, panting from exhaustion, stammered on the words that were coming out of his mouth.
“Lord Cædda requests you come to the Hall,” he said breathily, his young face wrinkled in confusion at what he had just seen.
Sigbert said nothing, merely nodded and stood to leave.
“Not you.” Thorstein remained in the doorway and shifted his eyes accusingly to Isabella. “He has asked Deorca to come.”
“Why?” Sigbert’s voice seemed unnaturally loud.
“The King’s emissary asked about her. Lord Cædda bid me fetch her.” Thorstein did not look away from Isabella as he bit off his answer to Sigbert.
The expression pinching Thorstein’s face sent a swell of fury through Isabella’s chest, overwhelming her own curiosity at being summoned. Even as she twitched with the impulse to slap Thorstein for his accusatory look, she could see the hurt behind it, his mistaken perception of what he had walked in on. But the anger remained, heedless of her understanding.
Sigbert broke into the silence. “Perhaps you should change before going into the Great Hall. Thorstein can go with you.” He held out his arm in the direction of the door, almost shooing them out.
Without further cajoling, Thorstein strode out of the rectory without a backward glance, leaving Isabella to trail after him.
Once Father closed the door behind her, she called out to the back of Thorstein’s head. “Sigbert was telling me about the coming war, Thorstein. He is as a father to me.” In truth she did not feel he was justified in his reaction, but he was her friend, and for that reason alone, she indulged him with an explanation.
Perhaps it was the remnant of tears in her voice, but he halted his quick march away from the rectory and turned to give her a probing look.
“To me as well,” Thorstein said quietly. After a moment longer of analyzing her face, the indictment faded from his eyes. “Lucky it was I who came in, and not one of the women. The rumors would be quite overwhelming.” He smiled at her, still uncomfortable.
It was obvious to her that Thorstein had more than a simple crush on her, despite being more than ten years her junior. He was a wonderful friend, and truthfully, very handsome (in a high-school sort of way). But she could not –
would not
– entertain the idea of forming an attachment that would keep her in Shaftesbury. She must get home. However long it took, she must get home.
The distraction of Thorstein’s hurt feelings had dulled her worry about why the emissary had requested to see her. But as she started her trek up the hill, she felt her heart sink into her stomach and her mind raced with the same dreadful question over and over again:
What will they do to me now?
11
“Do I smell any better?” Deorca asked desperately over her shoulder, prompting a sigh from Thorstein. He had never met anyone, man or woman, who was so preoccupied with how things smelled.
“Of course you do. I think the sage really helped,” he said, leaning against the doorpost in an easy way.
“Yes, now I smell like a Christmas goose.” Her tone always sharpened when she was nervous, and the frequency of it was beginning to wear on Thorstein’s nerves.
All these two months he had spent with her, befriending her, protecting her, and she still treated him no differently than anyone else she encountered. She was even friendlier with Redwald. From her conversation with Father, Deorca had to know that in all likelihood the fyrd would march to war early in the new year. He was going to battle—to fight against his own people—and she hadn’t even inquired about any of it; rather she was, as always, preoccupied with the trivialities of her own life. Or, based on what he had seen in the rectory, perhaps she was preoccupied with something else entirely.
“Were you there when Cædda asked to see me? What prompted him to think of me?”
“
Lord
Cædda did not request your presence. His Grace the Bishop of Wessex asked for you. He’s done a great deal of traveling to the continent, including Castile. When Lord
Cædda told him how you came to be among us, he seemed very interested.”
“The king’s emissary is a bishop?” Deorca stopped fussing with her hair and turned to face him, her face pale and full of fear.
“Yes.” The word crawled sluggishly from Thorstein’s mouth as he took in her reaction. She had never been completely honest about her past and what had happened to her. The story she gave simply didn’t make sense; but given her reaction the last time he pressed her on it, he had never broached the subject again. Now here she was, confronted with a bishop who seemed most familiar with her countrymen, and rather than be excited at the prospect of conversing in her own language or hearing His Grace’s stories, she seemed filled with panic.
“Why should that matter?” he asked quietly, his eyes shifting to the ground. “He’s the only one among us who has any knowledge of Castile. If that truly is your homeland, you should be happy.” He let his half-mumbled words hang in the air between himself and the frozen form of Deorca.
She seemed to sense the suspicion in his voice, and did that grating sniff she always did when she felt abused.
“I
am
happy.” The quake in her voice belied her statement. “I’m just ashamed to meet a bishop looking as I do.” She twisted her face into something resembling a smile. “Shall we go?”
Without waiting for a response, Deorca briskly flounced past him and out the door of her small room, leaving him to follow after her.
It was not a far distance between Deorca’s room and the back entrance to the Great Hall and the air was less damp this evening. It would have been a nice night for a leisurely walk, discussing with Deorca the news of the day and chuckling at Redwald’s latest tirades. But she was far ahead of him now, her long legs beating the ground at an unnaturally fast pace.
As they rounded the corner into the entryway, Thorstein had a fleeting thought of retiring for the night and leaving Deorca to whatever questions awaited her. But he grudgingly admitted his own curiosity about what was going to happen with the bishop.
Crossing the threshold of Cædda’s Great Hall, he was immediately enveloped in the warmth of the fires and the mass of bodies filling the glorious room. Laughter and the murmur of conversation abounded as usual, but the tone of all the men was more subdued than ever before—consumed, no doubt, with their own thoughts and concerns of war.
As he and Deorca slowly made their way to the front of the Hall, Thorstein noticed Wyrtgeorn sitting at one of the tables on the left. The momentary shock at seeing Cædda’s eldest son sitting among the men faded when he looked up to the dais and saw the bishop sitting to Cædda’s right, where Wyrtgeorn would normally be, and Selwyn sitting at Cædda’s left, which was Garrick’s customary position.
“You must be Deorca,” the commanding baritone stilled Thorstein some twenty feet from the head table. Next to him, Deorca froze as well, and they both looked up to see His Grace the Bishop of Wessex boring his eyes into them. He was a striking man, as tall as Lord Cædda and perhaps the youngest-looking bishop Thorstein had ever seen. Perhaps his youth accounted for the breach of protocol in not allowing Lord Cædda to present Deorca properly.
“I am.”
Thorstein could see her trembling out of the corner of his eye.
Giving a warm smile, the bishop stood and approached Deorca, offering his ring to her without so much as a glance at Thorstein. Her breathing shallow, she bent and kissed it.
“Lord Cædda has been telling me so much about you, I felt I had to meet you. It is not often I get to see a great Castilian lady on the shores of my own land.” His tone was friendly and welcoming, but Thorstein couldn’t help but notice something was off about his Saxon. A very light accent, but still present nonetheless.
“I am honored to meet you, Your Grace. Please forgive my use of Latin, but my Saxon is limited.”
It was strange seeing her speak so shyly. What was it she so feared being asked?
“So Cædda was correct in his assessment of your education. May I ask what family you come from? I’ve met many of our noble Christian brothers in Castile, though I am troubled that any one of them would cast off such a beautiful wife.”
The look of horror that shrouded Deorca’s face—so dissonant with the praise she had just received—was enough to send a jolt down Thorstein’s spine. She stood still, rooted as a deer who had just sensed a predator.
It was not only Thorstein who noticed her reaction. Cædda had turned in his chair and was peering into her face with an expression that combined confusion and suspicion.
God have mercy upon you if you cannot answer this question, my friend.
“I…my family…” she exhaled shakily and looked as though she might faint.
“Per chance, is your father the great and noble Alfredo Jaramillo?” The bishop asked kindly.
Deorca stopped shaking and looked up at him, her eyes stretched to their widest point and slowly filling with tears.
“Que?” she whispered, the entire front table going still in an effort to hear the unknown word she had uttered.
The bishop smiled grandly, sweeping his gaze over Cædda and his captains before placing his hands on Deorca’s shoulders. He then, in a voice just as audible as it had been before, spoke in a language unknown to Thorstein. Given the confused looks of everyone at the table, it was unknown to all of them as well.
There were several sentences, each seeming to drain the strength from Deorca, until finally at his last word, she collapsed at his feet with a sob.
“Your Grace?” Cædda stood in alarm and leaned in toward the bishop.
“All is well, Lord Cædda. She is the daughter of a Castilian nobleman of my acquaintance. I knew it almost the moment I saw her, as her countenance clearly marks her as the close kindred of Alfredo Jaramillo. She is overwhelmed at hearing of her father’s deep melancholy since her presumed death.”
At this statement, all suspicion washed away, and the Lord of Shaftesbury took on a look of sadness.
“I am sorry for it.” He looked down at his slave, whom the bishop was helping to her feet. “Perhaps Your Grace could relay a message to this Alfredo Jaramillo regarding the possibility of rans—” At that moment, Saoirse burst into the room, exploding with happiness.
“My Lord the baby is coming! The baby comes tonight!” She did not wait for his reaction, but bolted from the room as quickly as she had come.
A roar of good will came from the crowd of men, who hollered wishes for a son and filled their cups anew at the happy pronouncement, while Cædda and Wyrtgeorn made a jubilant and hasty exit into the family’s adjoining chamber.
The coming of Cædda’s newest child had revived the men, and they celebrated as they had done in less somber times. The news left them so euphoric, in fact, that almost no one noticed Deorca and the bishop slipping out the side entrance to the hall.
Thorstein watched them go, unmoved from his spot near the front table. Selwyn, on the other hand, swiveled his head to track their movements and, after two beats, followed quietly after them.
***
“How did you find me?” Isabella whispered excitedly as they walked towards the barn. Her head swam with the adrenaline beating through her veins. The terror that had so filled her since Thorstein told her about the bishop’s knowledge of Castile gave way almost violently to relief and happiness. She had been almost sick with panic, knowing she had no answers for questions about her family. But then this man had leaned forward and said, in her own native Spanish,
My name is Emilio Bernal and I work with Agency Intelligence. Your father has sent me to bring you home. You are safe now.
“To be honest, I didn’t expect to. The Council had every available agent from the field, intel, even agents on leave were called in to search for you. We had the main computer generate possible locations and timeframes that may have occurred to your husband. I was tasked with Great Britain.”
Just a few meters from the barn, Isabella jerked to a halt. “Etienne? You know it was him? That he did this to me?”
“Yes.” Bernal looked around to ensure they were alone, then guided her the few remaining steps into the barn. She sat down on the straw bales to the left of the barn door, leaning against the back wall.
“Has he been arrested?” The news that Etienne had been discovered oddly did not make Isabella happy or at peace. At the moment, all she felt was a limp sort of numbness.
“Yes. He’s being held offshore at a secure location. They were trying to get your whereabouts out of him, but at the time I left, he refused to give it.”
For a moment, it seemed Bernal was moving in slow motion as Isabella absorbed what she had just been told.
“Is he dead?” Her voice was a whisper, but the hatred spilling out between her clenched jaw came through loud as a scream.
Bernal paused. “He certainly will be when we return.” His nonchalant pronouncement floated between them for only a moment as Bernal returned to the business at hand.
“The computer’s prediction algorithm spit out 23 time/location combos in Great Britain, so I’ve been looking in English towns that had significance to Danforth’s family. It was a crap shoot to say the least; I’ve been back and forth to 16 different time frames now. I was actually planning to meet up with another set of travelers in East Anglia to see if they could offer any help.”
“What year is this?” Isabella bleated out.
Bernal laughed at that, prompting a poisonous look from Isabella.
“Sorry,” he said, instantly contrite. “I can see how it would be hard to guess if you’re not familiar with Britain. It’s 892 A.D. There’s a significant battle coming in April, which Shaftesbury plays a part in. The Saxons win, if you care.”
At Bernal’s pronouncement of the Saxons’ victory, Isabella felt a smile unfold; but it quickly vanished again.
What about Sigbert? Thorstein?
There was no way Bernal could tell her which individuals would survive the battle.
She shook her head, banishing Sigbert’s face from her mind.
“
No, I don’t care. I just want to go home.” Tears returned to her eyes. “Can you activate your emergency beacon now?” Her tone was hopeful, even though she knew the answer.
“You know better than that, Jaramillo. The beacon is only good for one person. However,” he held up his hand to pause her despair. “I have an extra retrieval assembly with me.” He fished in his cloak, then held out his hand. In the darkness, Isabella could barely see the small tangle of wires. “I’ll need your crucifix to make it work. Once I have this assembly connected to your crucifix, it will be able to send you back home.”
“But I don’t—”
“It’s all right that you don’t exist outside of time,” he smiled reassuringly to quell her once-more rising panic. “Both you and your crucifix have the temporal signature of 892. But, this retrieval assembly
does
exist outside of time, so it still has the temporal signature of 2114. It will bring you home. No question.”
His words crushed her with disappointment.
“I don’t have the crucifix anymore!” she wailed in despair. “Just give me
your
beacon!”
It was a selfish demand, she knew that. But he was in a much better position to stay here than she was. Given her outburst, Isabella was surprised to see him smile smugly at her.
“I see your father doesn’t tell you everything. Intel doesn’t use the same beacons that Agents and tourists do. Our beacons aren’t for emergencies at all. This is our primary means of travel. My beacon is keyed specifically to my DNA and I can travel back to the present at any time I choose. I don’t need any technicians.”
“But it’s more dangerous...”
“No, it isn’t. That’s just something we tell people. Science has progressed a lot since we first started travelling, and retrievals aren’t nearly as difficult as they once were. The information we disseminate is designed to keep control over the process. So, long story short, my beacon is useless to absolutely everyone but me.”