Sunder (22 page)

“My Lord…” she pulled back against him, trying to stop his pace when they reached her room, but he did not slow. He yanked her arm all the harder, prompting her into a hobbling jog to keep up with him as they moved toward an out-building past the horse paddock, which Isabella had seen before but never entered.

Cædda kicked open the door and flung her inside, a fresh spasm of pain jolting into her back as she slammed into a table in the center of the room. The brief amount of light that leaked in before Cædda shut the door illuminated walls filled with swords and shields, bows stacked in corners, and quivers full of arrows arranged on tables. The armory. No wonder she had never been in here.

With the door shut, it was so dark and so quiet; they were far enough removed from the Great Hall that there was no noise—nothing but the sound of him breathing. Cædda took two large, slow steps so that he was right in front of her, and curled both of his hands around her biceps. Pushed up against the table as she was, Isabella could not back away from him. She started to shake.

“I have tolerated your insolence for far too long. Now that we are alone, perhaps you’ll be more receptive to a lesson in respect,” he whispered harshly as he pressed up against her.

His clear threat of rape was immediately shocking, and a gasp caught in her throat. Even in the dark, he was so close that she could still see his eyes and the conflict raging within them, and her logic returned from the brink of hysteria. Despite having more difficulty reading
Cædda
than she did other men, she knew one thing for certain: he was not the raping kind. He had most certainly brought her in here for a reason, and the fear of what that was hammered Isabella’s chest. But unless the stress of having what he thought was a Dane spy in his midst had caused a dramatic personality shift, Cædda was no rapist.

No, you won’t rape me. You just want me to be afraid.

“You think I won’t?”

Damn this face!
Isabella fought every instinct in her body screaming at her to lean as far back from him as her spine would countenance, and she pushed her face closer to his.

“No, My Lord, you won’t.” Her voice shook. “I have it on good authority you have redoubled your efforts to be a good husband, and my Lady Annis would never approve.”

Cædda gritted his teeth, exhaling some cross between a groan and a laugh before squeezing both of her arms, lifting her into the air, and slamming her down onto the table.

Oh God!

The force was enough to drive the wind out of her lungs, but the worst of it was she still had Garrick’s dagger tucked into her belt in the back of her dress, hidden beneath her cloak. The handle jammed painfully into her spine and clattered loudly as she landed on the table.

The sound did not go unnoticed.

“What is that?” Cædda released her left arm and shot a probing hand underneath her back. “You come into my city armed?” he raged at her.

She felt his hand close around the dagger handle and she immediately arched her back as high as it would go to keep from being cut as Cædda ripped it savagely away from her body, severing her belt as he did so.

Exhausted from the effort, Isabella relaxed her back against the table again, looking up at Cædda as he examined the knife.

The realization that it was Garrick’s lit his face from within. Like it was a movie, Isabella could see the memory of her escape play through Cædda’s head—how she had crushed Garrick’s testicles to break free, how she had stolen his dagger. And then she had charged directly at Cædda, kicking his leg out from under him and stealing the crucifix and the baton from his hands. What Cædda had seen after that was a mystery to Isabella. Because she had been climbing the tree—running away.

The reflection of the memory lit Cædda’s eyes for a moment longer, then a dangerous glitter took them, and he pressed his knee into Isabella’s chest and raised the dagger above his head.

“No!” she screamed with all her might as he brought the knife down with a sick reverberating thud into the table next to her face. The blade was so close that she felt the vibration of its impact with the table through her whole body.

A tear slid down her cheek and she tried to stifle her crying. Attempting to stop the shaking was absolutely futile.
All right, Cædda, you win.

“Now,” Cædda removed his knee from Isabella’s chest and leaned over her so that his mouth was next to her ear. “I have had enough of your lies. Tell me the truth—all of it—and you will be forgiven after a just punishment. But lie to me again, and I will cut out your tongue and hobble you for life. Believe that.”

Isabella most certainly did.

“Yes, My Lord,” she whispered. “I will tell you whatever you want to know.”

Though his knee no longer pinned her to the table, she did not attempt to sit up. So staring up at the ceiling, Isabella took a deep breath and tried to organize the litany of lies and half-truths swirling in her head.

“Who was he?” Cædda’s voice came out in a muted snarl.

“His name was Emilio Delacruz. He was a Castilian mercenary who worked for my father. He was exiled, for what, I do not know. I knew his name, but not his face, Lord. He was a stranger to me.”

“Did he come here for you?”

He believes me.
Cædda’s quick follow-up question with no challenge to her story was extremely encouraging.

“No, My Lord, he did not come here for me. He donned the disguise of the deceased bishop solely to acquire free lodging and possible information that he could trade. When you told him about me, he was merely interested. But when he saw my face, he knew who I was.”

Isabella took her eyes from the ceiling and focused them on Cædda’s face. He was paying rapt attention, and she knew how closely he was monitoring her for deceit. To portray herself as completely innocent in the events of that night would result in losing her tongue. So Isabella knew she had to fall on her sword, at least a little.

“When we left the hall together, he said he could get me away. He offered me passage on a ship. I was happy at the thought of going home. So I arranged to leave with him. But then he arrived at our rendezvous with the crucifix you had given to Lady Annis, and I knew something terrible had happened.”

Cædda’s breathing quickened once more.

“I refused to leave with him, and tried to go back to my room. But he restrained me. It was then he told me of his true intentions to ransom me.”

“If he was holding you against your will,” his voice was softer now, but maintained its edge, “why did you run when we arrived?”

“Lord, why do you think I should be so delighted to be owned?” Isabella stopped holding her tears in. “I wanted to be free, so I ran. I ran away from being property, from the constant threat of being raped by Garrick or killed by your wife, or any number of horrible things that are perfectly legal to do to a slave.” She took a shaky breath. “But then I encountered Wyrtgeorn and I knew I had to return. If God intended me to be anywhere other than Shaftesbury, he would not have put your son in my path.”

The sound of Cædda’s breathing once more became the only sound in the room. It was no longer the furious snorting sound. His pulse had calmed, his face had relaxed, and the way he was looking at her now resembled something like pity. Perhaps he could identify with the terror of being cast into slavery, or perhaps he just knew what kind of woman Annis was.

“You belong to me, Deorca. No man or woman may touch you without my permission, least of all my wife.” He slid his hand behind her neck and pulled gently, allowing her to sit up. The movement made Isabella’s head swim. How long had it been since she’d eaten or slept?

“After his arrival, the pretender gave some advice and guidance on the war.” Cædda tilted her chin so she was looking into his eyes. “What were his motives?”

Of all the questions he had asked her, Isabella realized that this was the answer he desperately needed.

“I firmly believe he was simply trying to best fulfill the persona he had adopted, My Lord. My father trusted him as a master tactician. He had the king’s correspondence which he stole from the deceased bishop, and he had his own knowledge of war. I do not believe he would give you harmful advice.”

He nodded. “Is there anything else you would like to tell me?”

In Isabella’s experience, when people asked a question like that, they were looking for something specific.

“I swear by Almighty God I had no knowledge of his attack on Lady Annis. Had I known, I would have done everything in my power to prevent it. I would never wish such violence on anyone.”

“And how did he know Annis had the crucifix?”

“When we were making plans to escape,” she let the words flow slowly as she decided on the best lie, “I lamented that my only valuable possession had been taken from me. He made no mention of going to retrieve it.”

“And where is it now?” His voice remained soft, but hinted at its previous dangerous tone.

I need a lie he will believe.

“I buried it in the forest; I would rather lose it forever than have the last remnant of my father possessed by Lady Annis.” So far, Cædda had believed her story. To suddenly pretend as if she had anything but contempt for Annis might lose her what little trust she had.

As she looked into his face, she saw the predictable flash of anger. But then it subsided into a more satisfied scowl. He believed every word.

Cædda backed away from her, not breaking eye contact. “You will be flogged,” he stated flatly.

How strange that this terrible pronouncement flooded Isabella with relief. He had promised forgiveness after a “just punishment,” and flogging sounded infinitely better than being hobbled and having her tongue cut out.

“Come to the Hall tomorrow at dawn. My wife will decide your number of lashes. As she was put to the whip for your sins, so shall you be put to the whip for the pretender’s sins.”

“Yes, My Lord,” she said in a thin voice.

Cædda moved to the door and opened it wide, giving Isabella an expectant look as the moonlight illuminated him.

He doesn’t want to leave me alone in here with all the weapons.
Gasping lightly in pain, Isabella willed her body to move off the table. She felt numb as she limped out the door, past the glowering form of Cædda.

Once she crossed the threshold, Cædda also exited the room. He then withdrew a heavy key ring from his belt and locked the armory door. The fact that the door had not been locked when they first arrived did not escape her.
He unlocked it in advance.

As Cædda walked away from her without so much as a glance behind him, Isabella wondered how much of that outburst had been planned and how much had been provoked by her crack about Saoirse.

It doesn’t matter.
Isabella shook her head and slowly made her way back to her room, hoping fiercely that Saoirse was asleep. Tears and hysterical sobs were forcing their way into her throat, but she choked them back…all of them. She had come back here to face her punishment, and now she knew what it was. There would be plenty of time for crying tomorrow as her flesh was getting ripped off her back—plenty of time for hysteria while she healed with no antibiotics and no pain killers. But for now, she had to be strong—strong enough to show God that she meant what she had said about accepting His will, and strong enough to
never
let any one of those bastards see her cry about it.

***

Safely hidden away from the stares and mocking laughter of the townspeople, Thorstein allowed the hot tears to streak down his face and no longer bothered to contain his sobs.

Stupid! That was so stupid!

He had not meant to say any of those things to Deorca. But when he saw her, he was just so glad to see her, so afraid of losing her again. Not only had she spurned him, but she had done so in full view of the Great Hall. By morning everyone would know what a fool he was.

Thorstein had come to the only place he knew for sure would be deserted—Shaftesbury’s jail. He huddled in a corner of the barn-like jailer’s pens, so thankful to finally be alone in the empty room. Even the most scurrilous man was far too busy with war preparations for mischief, and the jailers were no doubt enjoying ale and laughing over the already spreading gossip of Thorstein’s pathetic proposal.

He raised his hand to wipe some of the moisture from his cheeks, but his hand froze as he heard the sound of a heavy creak.

The door to the stockade.

The jailers pens were empty, but as Thorstein felt a knot twist in his stomach, he remembered the adjoining stockade was not. The Dane who had killed the real bishop, the one Garrick had dragged into town by the neck, was the sole resident of the thick-walled stockade. He rose from his corner and walked softly toward the back of the jailer’s pens, wiping the last of the moisture from his cheeks with his sleeve. As he rounded the corner into the back hallway of the pens, Thorstein saw he was correct—the heavy door to the stockade hung wide open, drifting back and forth on its hinges.

Had he been wrong about the jailers? Were they here? Creeping as silently as he could, he walked through the gaping door, straining his ears to detect any sounds of movement. Unlike the pens, the stockade was solid stone, built into eight fortified cells. A soft flicker of torchlight oozed out of the last cell, and as he moved closer, he could hear voices in the dark. He tried to make out the words, but they were muffled by the stone.