Sunder (40 page)

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
.
 
 
 

“Lord Cædda are you there?” The armed man tried again, shuffling from foot to foot before finally departing the Great Hall in a huff, leaving them in silence once more. He was the second man to come looking for Cædda, indicating that the city had awoken. His people had been left to their own devices through the night, left to spread the terrible news and absorb it as best they could. The church bells rang at some point in the night, for what Isabella did not know. Perhaps there had been a special mass to provide comfort, but the bells had not drawn in either of them. They had stayed in the hall, seemingly alone in the world. But now with this second man coming to look for his master, they knew it was time to face what waited for them
.
 
 
 

“Shall I send for anyone?” she asked quietly. Being so removed from the main household, Isabella did not know how Cædda normally went about his day or who assisted him with it
.
 
 
 

“No,” he whispered back. “One of my slaves will be along.
”
 
 
 

“Other than me?” she said dryly
.
 
 
 

“You are my slave no longer.
”
 
 
 

At this, Isabella merely nodded
.
 
 
 

“I will send you home, if you wish it. Selwyn tells me one of your father’s servants is in Thetford.
”
 
 
 

Lifting her head from the wall, Isabella turned to look at him.
Yes
, her heart screamed.
I want to go home
. She had dreamed of it so many times, of that moment when she appeared at the Launch Depot. Papi would be there waiting for her, relieved and happy and so exhausted from worry. He would hold her and maybe even cry. And they would go home, to his house, the house she had grown up in, and they would talk about everything that happened to her and he would tell her of all that had occurred while she was gone. Elizabeth would rush into the sitting room and sob into her lap, offering to do all sorts of silly unnecessary chores to show how thrilled she was at Isabella’s return. After a day or so, Guillermo would be invited to join them and it would all be so wonderful
. 
 

But what would come after that? What life was she really going back to? A life of parties where she sat in a circle of ever-changing women, listening to them complain about their houses, their cars, their husbands. A job that she had never truly liked or cared about. An empty house with the mementos of her likely dead husband, the man who had tried to kill her in the longest, cruelest way possible. The house with not a single reminder of her mother, with no warm memories having ever occurred—no laughter, no friendships formed. Only sorrow and wretched, nasty meanness had dwelt in that house. Tears sprung into her eyes as the emptiness of her old life crashed over her like a tsunami—the soul-numbing sameness of it all, the complete lack of connection with any human heart. The kind of connection she had never known before coming here, before being given unconditional kindness and love, even when she did nothing to deserve it
. 
 

“Do you wish to go home?
” 
Cædda’s eyes were probing, seeing the conflict raging within her
.
 
 
 

 
“I wish to be Sigbert’s wife,”she heard herself say
.
 
 
 

“I confess I hoped you would say that.” Standing slowly, Cædda stretched himself to his full height, taking in deep breaths, every one of them infusing his body with the solid, lordly bearing she was so accustomed to. “The people have come to love you. They would be terribly disappointed if you returned to Asturias.
”
 
 
 

Looking up at him, the genuine affection shimmering just below his firm expression choked a sob from her mouth and she rose up on her knees, grasped his hands, and kissed them. “Thank you, Lord.
”
 
 
 

Cædda made no reply, only freed one of his hands to place it on top of her head, just as he had the morning after her flogging, and rested it there as she cried for her lost life, and for the promise of happiness her new one held
.
 
 
 

25

Simon was sitting quietly in front of the door when Isabella, slowly and painfully, shuffled within viewing distance of her quarters. The long-haired hound regarded her calmly, with an air of concern that told her he had been waiting there for some time.

“Hi, Simon,” She eked out a smile as she let her hand graze against the top of his head, shooing him to the side so she could open her door. She had never been so tired in her life, so bone weary that even the thought of getting undressed made her eyes droop. Her heart ached, knowing she should be with Thorstein right now, or at the very least have gone to the church to tell Sigbert what had happened. But she just couldn’t.

Cædda will tell him
, she thought wearily, pushing against the door with her shoulder. The hinges always stuck when it was cold. Simon spun in a circle, a happy look on his face, before he darted into the room ahead of her and positioned himself solidly in front of the fire.
Why is the fire already lit?

“Deorca?” Saoirse’s tear-stung voice rang out from the far corner of the room, still dark in the meager dawn, and Isabella felt her heart sink. If she was here instead of with Thorstein, then he had to have died sometime during her time with Cædda.

Her friend was dead. The Dane had been right.

“Yes, it’s me,” she choked out, closing the door behind her to muffle her suppressed sob. Thorstein had died. Her dream had been for nothing. And instead of being by her friend’s side, it had been left to Saoirse, just a little girl, to tend him as he took his last breath.

Her freezing fingers rebelled against her as she pulled her dress over her head in one swift motion, heedless of the sharp pains slashing her back. The loud ripping sound bounced across the room, as she had not bothered to unlace her dress before tearing it off. But it was no matter. The bloody dress would be burned as soon as she could muster the energy. A quick look down at herself revealed her shift to be every bit as stained as the dress, so in spite of the cold she pulled that off too, the fire shining on her nakedness.

“Is it true?” Saoirse pushed her fur aside and sat up. “Master Wyrtgeorn is slain? When he came in to tend Thorstein, Kenrich Lach said Lady Annis murdered him.”

“What?” Isabella murmured as she stared blankly at her trunk, knowing without opening it there were no more shifts in there for her to wear. One had been shredded in her flogging and the other lay at her feet…soiled beyond repair. Even looking at it made Isabella feel dirty.

“I still don’t know how to make clothes,” she muttered, the chill sinking into her bones.

“Deorca!” Saoirse clapped her hands, the sound jarring Isabella back to the ugly, cold room.

“What?” she snapped.

“Thorstein will want to know what happened to Master Wyrtgeorn. It’s all he’s been saying.”

Isabella moved closer to the fire, hoping to get a better look at Saoirse’s face.  “He is still alive?”

Saoirse’s smile outshone the fire. “Of course he is. I made him well. He will live.”

A hurricane of a sigh rushed out of Isabella and she dove at Saoirse with a laugh, wrapping her arms around her little shoulders and squeezing her in joy, heedless of her nudity. Simon, not sure what they were celebrating but still wanting to be a part of it, let out a bark and hopped around the two of them, stopping every few minutes to stick his rear in the air in a pouncing position. 

Saoirse held tight to Isabella for a moment, the two of them exhaling their relief into each other. One of Saoirse’s hands, cold and trembling, caressed the back of Isabella’s neck, one of her fingers tapping gently against the skin as if to get her attention.

“Master Wyrtgeorn is gone then?” she whispered into Isabella’s ear.

Sliding her hands down Saoirse’s arms, Isabella pried her body away from her own.

“The Dane killed him, not Annis.”

At the mention of the former lady of Shaftesbury, Saoirse’s face drew into an angry snarl. “She may as well have. She deserves to burn in hell for what she did!”

Too drained to match the fury in Saoirse’s eyes, Isabella could only nod her head and give Saoirse’s arms a supportive squeeze. “That’s not for us to say. She’ll freeze in Wimbourne Minster with the sisters for a long time. Perhaps for the rest of her life.”

“He’s sent her away? Lord Cædda?” The anger in her eyes gave way to hope.

“Yes. Lord Cædda said immediately, so I imagine… you likely don’t need to avoid the Great Hall anymore.” Isabella said gently, expecting another relieved smile from Saoirse at the thought of regaining her position as Cædda’s mistress. But Saoirse only gave a noncommittal shrug.

“The kitchen is not so bad. I enjoy Æmma’s company more so than I do Hilde’s, that’s for certain, and,” she gestured to the two basinets in the corner, “It’s a relief to look after my own child instead of someone else’s. Thorstein made mention of wanting to play with Ciaran when he regains his strength.”

The dreamy, far-off look in Saoirse’s eye confirmed to Isabella that she had no intention of returning to Cædda’s bed, but had other plans for her future. The thought gave Isabella a sudden jolt of delight for her young friend.

“You need to sleep, Deorca,” Saoirse exhaled, pulling Isabella down to lay next to her in the bed. “We’ll find you a shift tomorrow.”

Isabella parted her lips to argue, to demand something to wear to bed, but her eyes had already closed with a heavy insistence, her body sank into the rough straw bed, and her head nestled into the crook of Saoirse’s shoulder and neck.

Simon, clearly not ready to sleep, gave a snort as he sniffed Isabella’s hair, prompting Saoirse to shoo him softly. “You aren’t leaving us, are you Deorca?” she whispered.

“No, Saoirse,” Isabella murmured out. “I’m staying right here.”

She had not realized she had drifted to sleep. Isabella thought she only closed her eyes for a moment, trying to soften the knot in her chest, made worse by her shivering. But clearly she had been sleeping, because when she opened her eyes, Selwyn was bending over her with his finger over his lips and Saoirse had curled herself into a ball beside her, sleeping peacefully. 

“They’re having his funeral. You need to be there,” he whispered.

“I’m naked,” she whispered back, desperately wanting to stay beneath the covers. How long had she been sleeping? There was no more light in the room than there had been at dawn.

“I know,” Selwyn spoke louder, nodding at her heap of bloody clothes on the floor. “I know what a shrinking violet you are, but you’ll have to put that aside. Hurry and get dressed now.” A quick, almost imperceptible wink punctuated his deadpan expression.

“I should wake Saoirse,” she groaned out as she pushed the covers aside, feeling immensely at ease despite her nudity. How things change.

“No, let her sleep. She’s the very last one Cædda needs to see at the moment.” He straightened himself and took a step back, revealing a large wool bundle clutched in one of his hands.

Isabella gave it an inquiring look as she shuffled to her trunk, cursing her limbs as she knelt in front of it.

“This is one of my cloaks. I imagine yours is done for. It’s ahh… well, this one is warmer and will you fit you better anyway.”

Isabella looked over her shoulder in time to see Selwyn quickly divert his eyes, pretending he hadn’t just been staring at the gashes on her back as she bent to retrieve a clean dress.

“So you’re staying? You told Cædda you don’t want to go back?” His voice was muffled in her ears as she pulled the new dress over her head, but she still heard a spark of confusion in it. He had probably put himself out on a limb with Cædda to arrange her ransom and she hoped her decision hadn’t created a problem for him.

“Yes, I’m staying. With Sigbert and…” Isabella trailed off as she let her eyes drift over Saoirse’s still sleeping face. “I belong here. I think I always did.”

Together, they walked out of her room, closing her door behind them. Selwyn maintained his normal disinterested expression, but something about his posture gave the impression of being uncomfortable. Was he thinking about the world he left behind? Perhaps wishing he had been given the opportunity to go back?

“Do you have nothing to return for?” he asked softly. “I know your husband was a twat, but you mentioned a father. If nothing else… you’ll have a hot shower again.”

Isabella reached out and grasped the back of Selwyn’s arm, as if he was escorting her to a party. As if they were friends. “I miss my father. Every day. And I know—from what Emilio said—that my being gone has just…wrecked him.” Her voice caught, but she swallowed it. “But he is all that I miss. When I thought about what I was going back to—of who I would go back to being—I would rather stay here. I didn’t… I didn’t like who I was, Daniel. I feel like maybe I could if I stay here.”

The lanky man moved closer to her as they walked past the armory, the sounds of the market drifting into her ears. The city had come alive again, despite the death that had filled it.
Just another day in Old Saxony.

“It’s amazing how much better a person you become when you have a good man’s love.” He no longer hid the wistfulness in his voice, perhaps a longing for things to have been different. A wish to have his husband back.  “It’s good you’re staying. I’m glad.”

Not knowing what to say at his seeming relief, Isabella gave his arm a light squeeze and tried to lighten the mood. “I suppose now that I’ve killed a guy, I can rest easy knowing I can handle myself here.”

“I’m rather astounded at how you took down that prisoner. Even for all your tempers, I would never have expected it of you,” he said with a grave nod. 

“Yeah, well, like they say, come heavy or not at all.” 

Selwyn stopped in his tracks. “What did you say?”  His face creased into a strange concoction of disbelief and suspicion as he faced her. “Where did you hear that?”

Isabella bit down on her lip, lapsing into a moment of silence as she pondered the reason for his sudden upset. Did he find the phrase offensive?

“It was a line from a show. An old one. My parents used to play a game where they would throw movie quotes out and see if the other could identify what it was from. I remember that quote especially because Papi was disqualified for using it. Mama said it was from television and not a film, so it didn’t count.” She cocked her eyebrow at him. “Why do you ask?”  

“It’s a rather distinctive phrase, isn’t it?” His eyebrows raised in a perfect mirror of hers, his mouth tight in expectation that she would understand what he was hinting at.

“I suppose; that’s why I remembered it.”

“Do you happen to remember the name of the television show?” 

“Yes.
The Sopranos.
I remember Mama saying that very clearly. But when I asked my father about it… he changed the subject. And I never could find it in any of the television databases. I wanted to watch it.” 

“What was your mum’s name? I remember your dad’s was Alfredo, but what was your mum’s?” 

“Monica Savala Jaramillo. Why?”

She watched his eyes go wide; she watched his lips soundlessly form the words
Jesus Christ
, before it finally struck her. Selwyn—Daniel—recognized that name. This man from a dismantled timeline knew her parents.

“
The Sopranos
was a television show—a great one—but it was a show produced in my timeline. I taught a summer class about the ‘Mob Madness’ of late twentieth-century film, television, and literature. It’s where I met Shannan, who will be here in a few years.”

“And…”

“Shannan’s best friend and roommate was Monica Savala. She was in my class too.”

She recalled that day Selwyn had found her in the forest, when they came to realize her timeline had supplanted his. She had apologized, saying she hadn’t known. And he had replied…
only the person who changed the timeline would know
. But it hadn’t been one person. It had been two. Her parents. Monica and Alfredo, the pillars of Miami society who both said they were orphans raised by the church. Who
both
said their birth parents had deposited them in the far-away parish deep in the Choctaw-Cherokee Alliance. Who
both
said they had no remaining friends or acquaintances from their childhood, save for Padre Lopez-Castenada. She remembered reading a particularly hateful article about her father when he had ascended to his place as CEO of the Agency. The reporter had noted that Alfredo and his wife had seemingly appeared out of thin air in their early 20s. And now Isabella knew—that was exactly what they had done.

“What do I—” she trailed off. Was it her duty to throw away what she wanted, to return and set the timeline right? “What do I do?” she finished.

“You wait for Shannan,” he said definitively. “You wait for her and you tell her what you know, about what will be waiting for her when she returns to find a very different world. Neither you nor I can set that right, but perhaps she can.”

“When does she get here?”

“It’s not going to be soon, Isabella, and I might not live long enough to see her again, given the way things are going. My sword isn’t as swift as it used to be.” He let his eyes go unfocused, but then seemed to remember something. “In case that happens, I need to show you something so you can recognize her.”