Sunder (14 page)

Isabella stared at the man slack-jawed, fighting the sudden hot swell of anger that pushed on her chest.
Yeah, it’s just so funny that I’m clueless about
your
job.
But she caught herself, and took a long deep breath as she did whenever the rage took her. He was there to help her, and she would not give in to her irrational anger. Nevertheless, she made a mental note to get one of those special beacons when she got home.

“Well, then I don’t know what to do about the crucifix. That bitch Annis has it and there’s no way she would ever give it back to me. I don’t even think she’d give it to you, and you’re a bish—wait, how are you the esteemed Bishop of Wessex when you haven’t been here very long?”

Bernal rolled his eyes upward and gave a heavy sigh. “I was on my way here when I stumbled across six freshly-murdered bodies. If I had to guess, I would say they ran afoul of some roving Vikings. I could see one of them was a bishop, so I had the brilliant idea of taking his clothes. I figured people would be more willing to talk to me and provide me with food and shelter if I was a bishop instead of a random travelling ruffian. And even though he had King Alfred’s seal hidden under his breeches,” he rolled his eyes again and leaned against the hay bales. “It never occurred to me that the good bishop was actually
expected
here.”

“That was a gamble,” said Isabella, raising an eyebrow. “I seem to recall a good portion of Agency training warning against improvising.” She gave him a chiding smile.

“Yeah, and with good reason,” he chuckled. “The only reason it worked was because the bishop was newly appointed. No one knew what he looked like. Needless to say, that could have gone very badly. Now, you need to get that crucifix so we can get it rigged to get you out of here.”

“Could we use some other type of jewelry?” she inquired hopefully.

“Only if it’s a hollow cross-shaped hunk of pure silver. The assembly is programmed to react only to silver, and given the shape, it would be difficult to get it to work in anything other than a cross.”

“All right.” Isabella exhaled, defeated. “Considering Annis is pushing out a baby, I can’t imagine she’ll be wearing the necklace now. Tomorrow night meet me here; I’ll get it by then.”

Bernal reached out to help her up from the straw bales—his professional demeanor giving way to relieved affection.

“I’m so glad I found you.” His voice was softer now. “Everything just collapsed when you disappeared.”

“How is my father?” Isabella was not entirely sure she wanted to know, considering Bernal’s description of his mental state in the Great Hall.

“He is not well. The recovery device will deliver us to a week and a half after you left. The effect all this has had on him will be obvious to you.”

Isabella was touched by the sadness in his voice. So many public figures outside the Agency liked to criticize Alfredo—to score political points by crying about how much power he had. And she knew there were some within the Agency who shared the view of him as a despot. But Bernal was clearly not one of them. The men from Intelligence were a secretive and not oft-seen bunch, so Isabella had never even heard the name Emilio Bernal before. But she knew him now to be a loyal Agency member who loved her father as he was due.

He was her brother, her friend, and as they said their goodnights and Isabella watched him leave the barn, she vowed to herself that Emilio would be handsomely rewarded when they returned home.

***

The sound of her own breath chafed Annis’ ears. Everything was so quiet now—quiet like she longed for every night of her life. But there was no peace in this quiet, and all of her energy was devoted to listening for the slightest hint that someone was returning to her chamber.

They had all gone away from her. Her husband, her servant girls, even Hilde had left—left the mad lady of the house alone in her room. Why should it matter if she was well or unwell? She had done her duty. She had given Cædda another son.

The creature had no sooner slithered out of her body than the cry rang out from the Celtic whore: “My Lord, you have a son!” And they all had whooped and cried out in joy while Annis continued to ooze and freeze in her own sweat. It was dark and her vision had been blurred since her contractions started; but as she lay in her own filth, Annis could clearly see Saoirse pull out her breast and place it at the baby’s mouth.

All of the happy talking and singing stopped and they all stared at her—stared as she screamed. “Give it to me! I will smash its head before I let you have that too!”

Then came the whispers, the shooing of everyone out of the room.

“Remember, My Lord, Lady Annis had spells after Esmund was born as well.” Hilde, so anxious to apologize for her, so dutiful in cleaning up the stain of Annis’ rupture. But Hilde was gone now, just like everyone else.

Her numb and defeated sorrow leaped out of her immediately at the sudden sound of Cædda’s hushed voice coming from the Great Hall, but she did not call out for her husband.

There was panic in his voice. Who was it he was talking to?

“My Lord!  This is a dire matter. I know of Annis’ troubles, but you must listen!”

Father Sigbert. You always thought me disposable, did you not?

“Garrick has just returned from the front with a captured Dane warrior. He says—”

“Then confine the prisoner for later interrogation Sigbert, I am not concerned with the war now.” His agitated voice was growing louder, and it seemed he was striding quickly to be with her.

“Garrick has already interrogated the man, My Lord. He says—”

“Father—” Cædda warned.

“He says the Bishop of Wessex is dead these two weeks!”

Even through the distance, Annis could hear her husband stiffen and his breath catch in his throat. This was indeed news worth hearing, and Annis lay still as death so as not to miss anything that was said.

“What say you?” came Cædda’s horrified whisper.

“Weeks ago, the Dane prisoner, Einar, led a sacking party to the north of here. They encountered a Bishop calling himself Wessex and his party of servants and heralds.”

“How could he know that?” Cædda roared. Annis could almost swear his voice made the pitcher next to her bed vibrate.  “How could a Dane know a Saxon’s name? How could this pagan identify a bishop?”

Sigbert was quiet for a beat. “The Dane prisoner is but 16 years old. He was born here, speaks Saxon, and recognizes the garb of clergy. He says he and his comrades tracked the bishop to a farmstead where they stopped for rest and shelter.” Sigbert drew in a raspy breath. “He said it was an
honor
to slaughter a servant of the Christian God.”

“But His Grace has been here; he had the king’s seal. He knows too much of the king’s wishes—”

“How do we know they are the wishes of the king, My Lord?”

The men were still, and the swell of panic pulsed all the way back to where Annis lay listening.

“Then who… who is the man who has been among us?”

“I do not know, My Lord. But it is vital we find out tonight.”

There was no more talking, and Annis could not be sure whether they were still in the hall or had slipped out. It appeared she would lie here alone for the rest of the night. With such a strange development, who could be bothered to think of sad silly Annis?

Whoever this man was, he was not the Bishop of Wessex. This did not bode well for Cædda or his plans for the war. But Annis’ loins hurt, her whole body was sticky and cold, and she simply couldn’t muster up the strength to care about what was going to happen next.

12

“Thorstein! Thorstein, wake up!”

“Father?” With Sigbert’s enormous hands shaking him, there was no possible way for Thorstein to hold onto his peaceful sleep.

“The bishop is not the bishop. We have been deceived. Get dressed immediately. We have to find Deorca before they do!”

Sigbert was rapidly throwing clothes at him, a frantic look on his face. Thorstein had never seen him look like that.

“Father, what’s happened? Why is Deorca—”

“The real Bishop of Wessex was murdered two weeks ago. The man who arrived here is not he. Our lord went to clap him in irons, but he was nowhere to be found. So too are Deorca and Selwyn missing. Garrick fears that Deorca and the pretender have absconded and harmed Selwyn in the process. We must find her and pray that this is not so.”

Thorstein flashed back to earlier in the evening, how Deorca and the bishop had so quietly left the Great Hall, and how Selwyn had just as quietly followed them. He pulled on the last of his clothing and straightened up, fully understanding the priest’s panic.

“She did not know the bishop’s face when she saw him, Father. I can swear to that.”

“Can you swear to what they said to one another in Castilian?”

“No.”

“Then we must find her so we can be sure she had no part in this deception. I have never seen Garrick so angry and Lord Cædda is beside himself at having taken a deceiver into his confidence. This man has been advising him on the war!”

“Why have they not raised the alarm?” Thorstein certainly would have awoken if the bells had sounded.

“Lord Cædda demands that the pretender be kept secret. For now, at least. Our lord is out searching with Garrick and seven others—quietly. So we must find her first before they quietly murder her.”

“I’ll find her. She is innocent of any treachery. I know it.” Thorstein did not wait for the priest to accompany him out the door. They would have more luck if they went in different directions. While he could not be certain of where she was, Thorstein knew exactly where he would begin his search; Deorca would absolutely not leave here without the one thing in this world she cherished.

***

A rustling sound eased Annis out of her sleep. It was still so dark and she was so tired.

“Cædda?” she mumbled out.

“No.”

It was a man’s voice that had so calmly pronounced his presence. No man was permitted in this chamber unless he was in Cædda’s company. Annis struggled to get her eyes open; her whole body seemed to be fighting against her efforts at movement. Even in the darkness, she could see the long thin outline of the man stretched tall and straight for a moment—then bent over and out of her sight. Her thoughts were so muddled, but it finally occurred to her he was rummaging through her trunks.

“What are you doing?”

The rummaging did not stop, but actually got louder; her clothes and other belongings seemed to groan in pain as they were thrown roughly to the floor. The unknown man straightened once more. Even through the darkness, Annis could feel the pinched irritation in his face.

“So where is it? Where’s the crucifix?” The bishop’s voice was sharp—punctuated with impatience. As the sleep cleared from Annis’ mind, her ears pricked up at something else in his voice.

When Annis had first been introduced to Wessex, she had detected the very slightest of accents in his words. With so many different languages and dialects spoken throughout Britain, there had been nothing amiss in this observation. But in the last sentence he had just spoken, the pretended bishop’s accent was no longer slight. He no longer endeavored to hide the foreign slant to his Saxon words, and every syllable out of his mouth told her exactly where he was from.

“You are one of Deorca’s people.”

“Her name is Isabella.” He exhaled forcefully with exasperation. “Give me the crucifix right now, or I am going to hurt you. Do you understand?”

What did he just say to me?
This imposter, this liar had just spoken to her like she was nothing, as if he had any authority to judge her.

“Now you listen to me…” Her words choked off as the bishop swooped over her and clamped his hand over her throat, silencing her intended insult.

“No, you listen to me! You tell me where that damn crucifix is or I’ll crush the life out of you.”

He was squeezing so hard that her voice simply did not exist anymore. The echo of his raised voice against the wall allowed Annis the dim hope that someone had heard and would come. But it was only for a moment—she did not have enough air to see if her hopes would come to fruition.

Gasping in pain, she clutched beneath her pillow and produced the medallion Cædda had given her those months ago. The grip immediately released her neck, leaving Annis to gasp in as much air as she could while coughing most of it out again.

"There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?" he said coldly.

The insolence of him!
Still coughing and gasping, Annis clumsily grabbed a pitcher next to her bed and flung it viciously at the already retreating bishop. His tall outline slid to a stop as the bits of clay shattered around his feet.

"God will curse you for all eternity for what you've done!
"
she hissed at him, her full body leaning forward to ensure he would not miss one single word she threw at him. “You and that
whore
will die with your entrails swinging around your feet and your eyes eaten out by crows! My husband will destroy your bodies and God will cast your souls into the pit of Hell! I swear on the name of sainted Edmund the Martyr you will burn
!
"

The pretender looked down on her while she sucked in as much air as she could before seething it out again. So great was his evil, that his expression remained calm all while being cursed by the most high God.

"Where I come from Annis," he said softly, "We lock people like you away so no one has to hear their insanity. Maybe one day Cædda will lock you away so he can marry that pretty blonde girl."

He smiled at the last sentence and, before Annis could catch her breathe to scream at him once more, the pretended bishop was gone. The room buzzed with silence; not one sound stirred from within the hall or from outside. Even if she screamed for her husband, he would not hear. No, she would help him catch the pretender another way.

In all her prayers, she had always held back—never giving her whole self to the Lord to beg his favor. But now she needed him to strike down her enemies, and this demanded the utmost devotion. The monks, and many priests, scourged their flesh to implore God’s help. So too would she. Yes, her husband woul
d
catch the dark slave and the blaspheming impostor. And it would be due to God’s favor of Annis
.

***

"Isabella, wake up!" The harsh whisper in her ear coincided with a hand covering her mouth.

Had she been more deeply asleep, the sudden grip on her face would likely have spun her into a panic. But after her conversation with Emilio, she had simply decided to sleep in the barn for the night, and had only been in a light and contented doze.

"What is it?" she let out the lightest of whispers as she rolled onto her side. She did not need to see Emilio's face in the dark to know something was wrong.

“We’ve got to get out of here fast.” The tone of his voice belied the tenderness with which he pulled her onto her feet by the wrists. "They know I'm not the Bishop, so it won’t be long before they tear this city apart looking for me. I just grabbed the crucifix from Annis. You're right, she is a bitch."

“Crazy as hell is what she is. How did they find out?”

“Are you ready for this?” he gave a disgusted snort. “One of the Danes who killed him got captured and they brought him
here
to be interrogated. I was walking back to the hall when I see this teenager being led in shackles, and he’s braying at the top of his lungs, ‘I killed your Bishop, Thor smiles on me!’ I figured I had less than a minute before they figured out exactly which one. So I lit out of there and snatched the crucifix.”

“Jesus,” she whispered, her pulse quickening. “Where’s the retrieval assembly?” Her head still swimming from sleep, Isabella hiked her skirt up as far as modesty would allow to avoid rustling the hay as she tiptoed with Emilio toward the barn door.

"I still have it; I need some light to put it together. It's kind of a delicate process, as I'm sure you can imagine." Irritation crept into his voice, and Isabella recognized him as a man who did not react well when his plans were foiled. It was something they had in common.

The barn door still hung open, and together they paused at the threshold to listen for any sound. Isabella’s heartbeat was steadily quickening, but still the silence held true.

"Where can we go that a fire won't be seen?" The fact that no men on horseback were tearing through the city seemed to have calmed him a bit.

"The stink hut," Isabella said instantly. "No one will be over there."

Emilio nodded curtly, and in almost a grand fashion, swept his arm in front of her as if to say
after you.

With a prolonged exhale, Isabella allowed the memories of all her training and experiences to take hold her of her body and tell her what to do. The barn was toward the back of the hill, so the two of them would make a wide semi-circular path to Redwald's hut, seeking cover behind buildings where they could, avoiding all contact with the townspeople. Though Emilio was no doubt more experienced in stealth operations, he did not know Shaftesbury well, so he would have to trust in her.

You can do this
, she prompted herself as she took off like a shot across the grass, her posture hunched and her footsteps light as she darted away from the barn and down the backside of the hill. This was not the first time she had had to run for her life, and to be honest these were the most ideal conditions she could ask for. Whoever was out looking for them did not know where to start.

The back side of the hill faced north, and had a steeper incline. It felt like she was running up a wall sometimes, but Isabella did not slow pace or look behind her to check for Emilio as she darted toward Redwald’s hut for the last time. Approaching the small hut, she allowed herself one brief moment to acknowledge she would miss the old man.

Coming upon the tanning shack, they slowed to a walk and Emilio let out a gag at the smell Isabella no longer even registered. She hurriedly gathered some brush and, thanking God for the rare dry conditions, sparked a flame. Emilio moved closer to the light, pulling the cross and assembly furiously out of his pocket while Isabella kept watch for anyone approaching.

“Now I want you listen to me very carefully, Isabella.” His head was still bowed as he squinted at his work with the assembly, but his voice was not so muted that she could not hear the worry tainting his words.

“If something happens to me or if this retrieval doesn’t work, you have to get to Thetford. It’s a town in East Anglia 300 kilometers away bearing 51 degrees northeast. Another traveler is there posing as a ship builder. His alias is Nils Karlsson. Tell me what I just said.” He had thrown his words at her like a sack of potatoes and his sudden quiz threw her off, but only for a moment.

“Nils Karlsson in Thetford, 300K bearing 51 northeast,” she recited to him, repeating it over and over in her head.

“He’ll be there for seventy-six days, counting today,” he said, acknowledging it was almost sunrise. No matter which route they took, they both had to be away from Shaftesbury by then.

Isabella turned her attention back toward town, keeping an ear out for sounds of an intruder. The silence stretched out languorously between them, with only occasional pops from the weak little fire to mark the passage of time. Staring out into the inky blackness, Isabella couldn’t help but be alarmed by the lack of activity in Shaftesbury. Emilio had been very sure his deceit had been discovered. So why then had no alarm been raised? Why wasn’t every man out looking for them right now?

“Are you almost done?” she whispered without looking back at him.

“I just need to connect a few wires to the battery, be patient,” he snapped at her.

The assembly was very small, and Isabella could appreciate that it must be very hard to put it together. But waiting there for something to happen was torturous, and in the once-more dead silence, Isabella found herself wishing that they would be discovered, just so she wouldn’t have to wait for it any longer.

***

Thwack!

“Merciful God, I beg you to deliver your enemies to death!”

Thwack!

The knotted whip cracked against Annis’ flesh as she swung it over her shoulder.

“Bring my husband and his servants to where the harlot is hiding. Allow your loving children to take vengeance on the vassals of Satan.”

Thwack!

As the whip tore at her naked back, the sensation sent shivers of joy throughout her body. She did not feel the cold or the rough floor of her chamber beneath her knees. She did not feel the ache of her recent childbirth or the dried blood on her thighs. No, she did not even feel the fresh blood that must surely be running down her back. She felt only the love of God caressing her while she gave herself utterly unto his will.