Authors: Kristin McTiernan
“Young master,” she tried to keep her voice from quavering as she maintained her distance from him, “I wish to help you. I did not harm your mother, and I will not harm you.” She paused for his expected retort, but it did not come.
She cursed her simple Saxon vocabulary. How cold she must sound to him.
Wyrtgeorn simply continued staring fiercely at her, a noticeable tremor rippling through his whole body. He could be going into shock.
Isabella knew what she had to do next, but was oddly hesitant to put her hands on the boy. She had never even spoken to him. Were it not for his resemblance to Cædda, she might never have noticed him at all. She had always been far too focused on the women of the house to pay any mind to Cædda’s sons. But he most assuredly knew her and (rightly) hated her. For Isabella to reach out and touch him seemed an unforgiveable violation. But there was no choice.
Shoving her discomfort away, she took the final two steps to his side and squatted down, leaning over him so she could reach the mangled reins that snaked around his leg. The dagger she had taken from Garrick was still in her waistband; ignoring a hiss from Wyrtgeorn as she pulled it out, Isabella gently severed the stirrup straps that wrapped around his leg.
Now the only thing holding the horse to the ground was the boy’s very tenuous grip on the reins. Gliding quickly and smoothly behind him, Isabella hooked her arms underneath his armpits, ignoring her flush of embarrassment at having him pressed against her.
“When I say go,” she whispered, “I want you to let go of the reins. This is going to hurt very badly, but it must be done. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” was his shaky reply.
She waited two beats, then quietly said the magic word.
Wyrtgeorn flung the reins out of his hand, freeing the horse from its mouth-chafing binding. Holding tightly onto Wyrtgeorn’s chest, Isabella watched the animal raise its head and roll over to get its legs underneath him and, just when she could see all of Wyrtgeorn’s left leg, she heaved with all her might, sliding the injured boy away from the horse and its newly regained footing.
Delighted to be standing again, the animal took several steps and did a half turn, trodding over the ground where Wyrtgeorn’s torso had only recently been laying. Luckily for Isabella, the wiry youth was not heavy, and he had slid easily to safety on the damp grass. But as easy as it had been for Isabella, the move had not been so kind to Wyrtgeorn.
Lying still at her feet, Isabella saw how white his face was, how his eyes had become unfocused and even his look of venomous hatred had faded. He had not cried out, but his breathing was shallow, and the shaking had worsened. One look at that god-awful leg told her why.
He had a compound tib-fib fracture, with the white of the bone protruding boldly against the sticky blood on his trousers. She couldn’t see if blood was still flowing, nor could she tell if there were multiple fractures.
The poor kid.
“I am going to die.” The whisper gasped out of his mouth through his clenched jaw. Looking past the horrible agony he was in, Isabella saw for the first time that he was afraid. Of dying.
Of her.
Wyrtgeorn had been out to hunt Isabella, and now he found himself completely at her mercy.
Perhaps it was her lack of previous contact with Wyrtgeorn that made her feel so sorry for him. Maybe it was his resemblance to Cædda. Whatever it was, Isabella saw nothing of Annis in him; all she saw was a little boy who needed help, and she was painfully aware that even though she could offer some assistance, his fear of dying could very well come true if an infection set in. The invention of antibiotics was a long way off.
“You are not going to die, Young Master,” she said in her most comforting voice. She kneeled down in front of him, trying to look at him with the same tenderness she saw so many times on her own mother’s face. “I am going to dress your wound as well as I can, and then I will take you to Shaftesbury where you can heal.” She paused to make sure he was listening to her. “I am going to take your sword now. I need it to brace your leg. I promise I will not harm you.”
“My father is going to kill you.”
He may have meant the words to come out angrily, but given the level of pain he was suffering, it only came out as a flat statement of fact, and Isabella had to swallow a sudden impulse to swear at him.
“That may be,” she said evenly. “But your father is my lord and master. I will not leave his son to die, no matter what happens to me.” She gingerly reached out and undid the buckle around Wyrtgeorn’s waist, freeing the sword and scabbard.
She didn’t have everything she needed to make a tourniquet, not even close. But at least she could use the sword to keep his leg straight and steady, and the pressure from the belt would hopefully staunch the bleeding. Cursing her own laziness, she thought back on the many times she had stood back while her co-agent took care of first aid needs on her prior missions. Perfect opportunities to practice gone to waste! Now she had to rely on luck and her insufficient medical knowledge to help the boy. If Cædda’s son succumbed to his injuries, then that would be the final nail in her coffin—and it would not be long afterward that Isabella would be joining Wyrtgeorn in oblivion.
15
The ankle injury that seemed so insignificant a few hours ago throbbed with a wrathful intensity. Between scooting around Wyrtgeorn while dressing his leg fracture, lifting him onto the horse (none too gracefully), and the subsequent three-hour walk, Isabella was starting to grow desperate for the sight of Shaftesbury’s walls.
It did not help her situation that Wyrtgeorn had nodded off twice, each time prompting Isabella to dart to the horse’s side to catch the falling boy. The most recent time, she had rolled her ankle, sending a stab of agony up her leg. So to keep him awake, thus preventing further injury to the afflicted ankle, she had decided to keep him talking, whether he wanted conversation or not.
“Why were you out by yourself?” She had resumed her post next to the horse’s head. Initially she kept her hands on the reins with the intention of leading the colt back to Shaftesbury. But after only a short while, it was very clear that the animal knew exactly where it was going and needed absolutely no guidance from her. He was apparently as anxious to get back as she was, and had not attempted to stop and graze even once.
“Young master?” The boy had a habit of taking several minutes to respond, and Isabella couldn’t be sure if it was due to his reluctance to speak with her or if he was having trouble staying conscious.
“I wanted to deliver you to my father myself,” he mumbled.
“I am sure Selwyn would have been happy to let you capture me if he had come with you. You should not have come alone. It was stupid.”
“Do not dare speak to me like that!”
“If talking back is the only way to keep you awake, then I will do it,” she said sweetly, looking back at him so he could see her smile.
The sun had disappeared completely in the last half hour and the temperature had dropped noticeably. Between the cold, her injured ankle, and the probable beating (at best) that was waiting for her in the city, Isabella was in no mood to smile. But for the sake of keeping the boy at least partially engaged in the conversation, she did it.
Regardless of her efforts, he offered up no rebuke for her smiling at such a time, no sarcastic retort for her tone. Needing to change tactics, she waited for a moment before asking her next question.
“How is your mother?” Her voice came out softly and sympathetically, more so than she had even intended.
“She will recover soon,” he responded tightly.
“Good. I am glad.”
“Are you?” he gave a humorless laugh.
“Yes, Young master, I am.” Gritting her teeth, she prompted the horse to go faster. “Your mother is cruel to me, but I understand she is not well. I have never wished harm on her.”
It was a lie to be sure. But the truth that Isabella had spent the better part of the last two months wishing she could wallop the fat lady of Shaftesbury was immaterial at the moment.
“You know,” she continued, “my mother was also unwell. For a long time. The people of … our lands loved to gossip about her. Sometimes the other children would say cruel things to me that they heard their parents say.”
Even now, Isabella had to brace herself against those memories. She had studiously avoided thinking about her mother—or even any event that occurred while her mother was alive—for years. More than a decade spent shoving all traces of Monica Savala-Jaramillo away. But ever since the fairy circle…
“What did they say about her?” Wyrtgeorn’s hoarse question startled her out of her reverie.
“They said she was crazy.” Her voice was getting thicker. “They said she was … that she brought shame to my father.” Isabella did not know the Saxon translation for the word those bitchy housewives and their bratty children had branded her mother with. The word that rang out in whispered snatches of conversation whenever Monica excused herself from a room:
Embarrassment.
Sniffling a bit, Isabella leaned closer to the warmth of the horse’s neck.
“Was she a good mother?” For the first time, the boy’s young voice held a note of kindness, and even eagerness—a need to hear the answer to his question.
Not bothering to hide her tears, Isabella looked back at him, meeting his eyes, which were just as wet as hers. “Yes. She was a wonderful mother. And I loved her very much.”
Isabella wondered briefly if she would have behaved any differently towards Annis if she had met
Wyrtgeorn
earlier. “You’re lucky you still have her,” she said with a tremor in her voice. “And I swear to you that as long as I live, no further harm will come to her.”
The soulful look in the boy’s eyes combined with the pain in his face made him look older, and it truly dawned on Isabella how short and cruel life was in this time. At fourteen he had probably already suffered so much loss, and given the upcoming battle with the Danes, he could end up losing so much more, perhaps even his own life—assuming he lived through his current injury. How awful that a simple broken leg could kill a person.
Turning back to the grass ahead of her, she concentrated on keeping her ankle straight as the ground beneath her became increasingly hilly. The horse’s seemingly excited quickening of pace confirmed what she suspected: they were almost home.
***
The unnatural silence of the Great Hall pricked Thorstein’s ears as he paced as close as he dared to the only burning fire in the cavernous room. It was all he could do to keep hysteria from overcoming him as he waited for Lord Cædda. The sun had long since sunk into the horizon and the smothering darkness obscured the doorway to Cædda’s chamber; he would not be able to see his lord approaching.
There had not been one second of sleep for Thorstein since Father awakened him last night. The bells had finally sounded in Shaftesbury in the early morning to rouse all the men to their task—the task of finding Deorca. The pretended bishop’s body had been dragged into town and Cædda himself had unceremoniously screwed his mangled head onto a spike on the city wall for all to see.
Everyone had been so caught up in the excitement in fact, that it had taken the majority of the day to realize that Wyrtgeorn, Cædda’s son and heir, had absconded from the city with his newly-acquired young stallion. Thorstein had spent his entire day in the stables tacking horses for the search parties, and had thought nothing of it when Wyrtgeorn came into the barn, tacked his horse, and left. He was the heir to Shaftesbury, after all. No slave in his right mind would question where he was going.
But now, after his day of unending toil and misery, Thorstein knew he had been wrong not to stop the boy, or at least report the event. Why else would he have been summoned if not to be punished? His stomach had been twisted in knots for an hour and, with the thought of the head on the city wall, Thorstein had spent most of his time waiting for Cædda in prayer.
“You look tired, Thorstein.”
Soft and weary though it was, Cædda’s voice jolted Thorstein violently, halting his pacing; he looked up to see his master walking slowly toward him, the flickering firelight casting ghoulish shadows across his face.
Cædda looked awful—bedraggled and unwashed. His sunken eyes drooped sadly, and the normally bright amber of his irises seemed to have dimmed to a leathery hue. He had looked relatively tired these two months of war preparations, but his current mask of despair was so much worse.
Willing his aching legs into motion, Thorstein moved away from the warm fire pit and quickly crossed the distance to his lord, kneeling down as he came to a halt in front of him.
“My Lord, I beg your forgiveness!”
As he knelt on the soft earthen floor staring at Cædda’s boots, Thorstein held back tears. The only other time he had been forced to beg forgiveness was five years ago when—as a frightened boy of 12—he had tried in vain to stab Garrick with a sword he could barely lift. When
Cædda
had spared his life, he vowed he would never fail his master.
“Forgive you?”
Cædda’s gentle whisper and the feeling of his palm on Thorstein’s head surprised him, but not nearly so much as when his master, thane to King Alfred, knelt down to his level.
“My wife is alive only because of you. If you had not discovered her when you did, she most certainly would have died. The mother of my children would have died,” he swallowed hard, “bleeding and freezing and alone on the floor. I owe you everything.”
For the first time in his life, Thorstein raised his eyes and looked directly into those of his lord, astonished at what he had just said.
“But Master Wyrtgeorn—”
“That boy will be dealt with when he comes home. You are not his nurse.”
He was quiet for a moment, giving a gentle squeeze to Thorstein’s shoulders, which suddenly felt small and frail beneath Cædda’s hands.
“You are no longer my slave, Thorstein Stellansson—you are my friend. And I am forever in your debt.”
Thorstein’s mouth gaped like a cod fish, choking on the frantic battle between utterances of thanks and protestations. Before he could compose himself enough to speak, a soft moan came out of the darkness from the unseen adjoining chamber; both men turned towards the pitiful whimper.
“How is my Lady Annis?” Thorstein whispered, suddenly aware of Cædda’s tightening grip on his shoulder.
“She is in pain, but there is no fever, and no puss. Hilde and the chiurgeon both say she will recover. But she will need rest.”
Thorstein nodded and both of the men slowly rose to their feet.
This was the most time he had ever spent alone with Lord Cædda. The unfamiliar intimacy of it all made him uncomfortable and oddly afraid. If Cædda really meant to free him, did that mean he would have to leave Shaftesbury? Everyone and everything he knew was here. When Deorca came back, she would certainly need him. Shaftesbury was where he belonged.
“My Lord, there you are.”
Sigbert’s booming voice only barely preceded his brisk entry into the Great Hall, his sackcloth robe billowing around his ankles. He had a rolled piece of parchment, unsealed, that he carried in his hand like a club. His face was cemented in a mask of paternal exasperation, which—along with stern rebuke and warm encouragement—was one of his more common facial expressions. The anxious blanch that drenched Cædda’s face at the priest’s appearance, however, was something Thorstein had never seen.
“Father,” Cædda choked out, “Thorstein and I—”
Sigbert made a cutting motion across his neck with the hand that held the parchment. “No, Cædda, this cannot be put aside for later. The king needs to be apprised of what has occurred here so he can give instructions—to say nothing of your people. They have been chattering all day, with the rumors getting worse and more outrageous with every hour. There’s talk of Dane spies and incarnations of the devil himself. They need to hear from you—”
“And what should I tell them?” Cædda exploded like a lid from a boiling cauldron, prompting a yelp from one of the dogs who had been sleeping at the far end of Hall.
“Who do I say this man among us was? How do I explain that I, their
lord
, was so easily fooled by an imposter? And what do I tell the king?”
At his last sentence, Cædda’s shoulders crumbled, and he stumbled past Thorstein to the nearest bench at the table.
“My lord—”
“Do you know what they are saying?” Cædda snapped off Thorstein’s attempt at consolation.
“They are saying that
Deorca
was the one to see that he was an imposter. That it was
she
who raised the alarm and
she
who sent Thorstein to protect Annis. While I did nothing!” His enormous fist crashed into the table, splintering the wood into a jagged cleft.
“He will take Shaftesbury from me.” Cædda’s whisper was so soft, Thorstein was not certain he had heard correctly.
“He will not, Cædda.” Sigbert’s voice was soft, but firm. “Why would he, when you were so wise to deploy your woman slave as a spy to detect the imposter?”
The priest crossed the few remaining feet to where Cædda sat and bent slightly, smoothing open the parchment roll on the table, careful to avoid the jagged edges of the fist crater.
“You see, My Lord? You detected his treachery, and took great care to prove his guilt before condemning him, going to the extraordinary lengths of capturing a Dane warrior—the murderer of the bishop—to confirm your suspicions. You acted decisively, strongly—as all good lords should. The king will be most pleased when he receives your message.”
The lie rolled so smoothly out of Sigbert’s mouth that it took a moment for Thorstein to remember that it was not God’s own truth. What was he doing? Thorstein had never known Sigbert to lie. Not to anyone, not for any reason. But here he sat telling their lord to lie to the king—God’s chosen representative in this land—and had written the lies with his own hand in the script taught to him by the church. This was not right.
He stood frozen to the ground, gazing at the two older men who seemed to have forgotten he was even there. Sigbert’s face lay blank, as Cædda’s slowly lifted into in an expression resembling hope.
“But others will say…”