Sunder (25 page)

The old man’s breath rattled as it caught in his throat. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said.

“You recall I said if I wanted to take Alfredo down, I could have. How many people were milling around the pool that night? Paramedics, police, not to mention that whore maid and her bastard daughter—all of them with port phones. Did you really think no one would take a picture of Monica Jaramillo with her wrists slit?”

Manuel’s breathing got louder, and for a moment Gabriel almost believed he could hear his pulse through the phone.

“Carlo DiMarco and I paid a lot of money, made a lot of threats, in order to get every single picture snapped, every note taken, every record produced. You were so busy tending to Alfredo’s guilt that you couldn’t be bothered to notice everything we did to clean up your mess—to tow the party line. But I kept the pictures, Manuel—just in case.

“So when the Vatican defrocks you, takes away all the homes they’ve given you, the land you hold titles to, leaves you penniless and without support, do you trust Alfredo to take care of you in your declining years?”

He could still hear the breathing in the phone, so he knew that Manuel could hear him. He imagined the wheels spinning in the priest’s head, scrambling to regain the upper hand. For any other councilman, perhaps Manuel would have been able to come up with something, some damning bit of counter-blackmail. But with Gabriel, he would always come up empty.

Despite being the youngest councilman, Gabriel had been appointed as Vice President. The unusual appointment had been made for one reason only: he was squeaky clean—no mistresses, no illegitimate children, no addictions, no improper conduct of any kind. Gabriel lived his life as if a camera followed him, something the council always appreciated. Though it was unlikely Manuel appreciated it now.

“Whatever is going on in there, it’s time for this to end.” He paused to give the priest one last chance for a response, but it did not come. “Let me in. Now.”

18

The sickening bloody pulp of the dead horse cascaded through the grass in chunks and sprays before finally accumulating in one massive carcass at the far end of the paddock. In the cold darkness of pre-dawn morning, Thorstein stood alone over the dead body.  He had not slept, not in the two days since being awakened by Father, and nothing seemed real to him anymore. His intended task for the day had been to find Bertolf and discover how Lady Annis had come by the jailer’s keys, but when the sounds of the screaming horses had reached his ears, and he knew his previous plans would need to be set aside. Normally he would have bolted from his hiding place in the barn and run furiously to the paddock to try and stop whatever fight was occurring. But he had not. He had stayed where he was and listened to the animal’s awful screams. Only when it was all quiet did he plod out of the barn, grabbing the large wooden sled on the way out.

Perhaps it was his lack of sleep, or perhaps it was his general feeling of despair, but as Thorstein trekked up the hill and entered the paddock to find the dead horse, he had not considered how in the world he would move the body onto the sled. The women were likely already awake and doing their run to the well, but that did him no good; the men were all still asleep.

So there he stood, staring half at the pulpy contorted face of the animal and half into empty space. It occurred to him that the hideous carcass was the very horse Wyrtgeorn had been riding, the young and proud grey colt that was once so beautiful. The chiurgeon must not have tied it up after helping Wyrtgeorn out of the saddle. Free to roam around, the young stallion had apparently jumped the fence into the horse paddock. Perhaps the mares had not minded his presence. But the older stallion seemingly had. And this was the result.
You should have known better than to intrude on an older stud.

“What a bloody mess.”

The gruff voice behind him startled Thorstein back into reality. Of course he recognized the voice immediately, but he still turned to face him. No need to be rude.

“Yes it is. You’re up early, Redwald.”

“I’ve not been to bed. I’ve been tending to my son, who can’t seem to take in ale without trying to murder someone. That boy is my everlasting shame, and his wife has given him nothing but daughters.” Redwald spat on the ground. “It’s good that foreign woman came back else I’d have no one to take on my trade when I die. Never thought I’d live to see a woman tanner, that’s for certain.”

Please don’t ask me anything about Deorca.
In his miserable hideaway in the barn, Thorstein had stewed over the fact that the whole town probably knew about his proclamation of love to Deorca, and how she had slapped it away. He cursed his stupidity for even speaking to her, let alone within sight of the Great Hall. The last thing he needed was for the most tactless man in all existence chiding him for it.

“Have you straps to bind it to the sled?” Redwald squinted at Thorstein, his face in a lesser scowl than usual. “I can help you move it to be burned.”

Thorstein could only nod. He wanted so much to be alone at the moment, but he knew full well he couldn’t move the horse by himself.

“Good man.” Redwald smiled and, very uncharacteristically, suddenly clapped Thorstein on the back. “There’s nothing like hard work to put a man’s mind at ease.” He made eye contact for only a minute, but the brief reassuring smile was enough.

“All right,” Thorstein smiled and pulled the straps out from the front of the sled. “Let’s get the poor beast out of here.”

Redwald was right. The exertion of hauling the sled, the focus of watching to ensure the body didn’t slip off, with only the occasional barked order—
Pull harder, you daft bastard!
—allowed Thorstein’s mind to settle. The hurt, for a moment at least, did not stab at his heart; the shame of rejection no longer burned his face. For now there was nothing but labored breathing, straining muscles, and a fine sheen of sweat, and Thorstein actually felt himself smile.

There were several locations in the city suitable for burning an animal, all of which were located far away from the Great Hall and its nearby paddocks. So by the time Redwald and Thorstein heaved the laden sled to the charred spot of dirt on the edge of town, the sun was starting to rise. It wouldn’t be long before breakfast would be served.

“Should we start the fire now, or wait for the evening?” Thorstein asked between breaths.

“This evening. I’ll ask about to see what other burning needs doing. Seems silly—” Redwald broke off and squinted in the direction of town. “Isn’t that the pagan girl?”

Thorstein wiped a heavy layer of sweat from his forehead and looked in the direction the tanner had jerked his head. Sure enough, Saoirse was marching down the hill, the speed of her stride blowing her hair back in waves. She did not look happy.

“There you are!” Saoirse yelled, still a good distance away. “They’ve already gathered and you stand here fiddling about with a dead horse? You should be there. He’ll listen to you!”

What is she on about?
He had not seen even a hint of Saoirse since finding Lady Annis on the floor, and to his knowledge he had no pressing appointment to attend this morning.  Redwald was equally confused at her outrage, but unlike Thorstein, he was also irritated at the feminine intrusion.

“And who’s minding yer babe while you’re here clucking at men?” he hollered back her, even though she was right next to him now. “Run along, you whore; we have work to do.”

“Hilde is watching Ciaran and Lord Cædda’s son,” she said measuredly. “And I am no whore.” Saoirse shifted her eyes to Thorstein and opened her mouth, seeming to have more to say, but the sound of Redwald snapping the leather straps of the sled together stopped her.

“The fact that he tired of you and sent you on your way doesn’t make you any less a whore. I reckon I recall my wife warning you it would happen eventually and you paid no heed. He may have been
your
first, but you weren’t his, you silly bitch.”

Saoirse flinched, her face a contorting in a battle between hurt and anger.

“Redwald,” Thorstein said in a low voice. Given the tanner’s charitable mood, he was not inclined to seek an argument with the old man. But Saoirse had done nothing to deserve being spoken to in such a way. The crushed look on her face confirmed that Redwald had been speaking the truth—Lord Cædda had apparently stopped his relationship with her.
It seems I am not the only one to be cast aside.

“What did you mean when you asked why I wasn’t there, Saoirse? Where should I be going?”

There was a flush in her cheeks as she continued to stare at Redwald, and Thorstein wondered if she had even heard his question. But then she took a deep breath and refocused her eyes on Thorstein.

“Lady Annis has convinced Lord Cædda that Deorca should be flogged for running away. Since that priest is in their chamber arguing against it, I assumed you also knew about this.”

Flogged? The city loves her as a hero, and she’s still injured for God’s…
Thorstein caught himself before he could get any deeper into his knee-jerk protectiveness of Deorca. He looked over to Redwald to gauge his reaction, but the old man had lost interest in the conversation and was bent over the sled, loosening the rest of the straps from the dead horse.

“She ran,” he said feebly. “She must be punished for that. Free or not, I have no say in the matter.” In an attempt to bring closure to the subject, Thorstein crossed his arms over his chest as if to say
I will not be moved.

But Saoirse, as always, saw right through him. She stepped closer to him so he could see the tears glistening in her eyes.

“She’s still your friend, Thorstein,” she said gently. “Do you hurt so badly you wish twenty lashes upon your friend?”

“Twenty?” Redwald stopped what he was doing and straightened up, a stormy look on his face.

“Yes, twenty,” Saoirse nodded. “Since Lady Annis was whipped, Lord Cædda is allowing her to make the decision, even in defiance of the priest.” She then shot a meaningful look directly at Redwald. “Garrick is there also, lending his full support. Lady Annis says he shall be the one to do the whipping.”

Redwald raised an eyebrow, then spat on the ground. “Deranged hag,” the tanner mumbled under his breath as he took off in a long stride toward the Great Hall.

Startled, Thorstein watched him for a moment before looking over at Saoirse, who also seemed surprised at Redwald’s interest. After one gape-mouthed beat, they both collected themselves and hurried after him.

Redwald’s long legs propelled him forward, the hill doing nothing to slow his stride, and both Thorstein and Saoirse had to jog just to keep him in sight. With the back side of the Great Hall in view, Thorstein pumped his legs even harder, determined to catch up to Redwald so they could all enter together. But Saoirse reached out and grabbed his wrist, pulling him gently to a stop.

“I can’t… I have to see to the kitchen. You go in and stop this. He likes you. He’ll listen.”

A glister of tears returned to her eyes, and Thorstein realized her sudden halt at the precipice of the hall meant that she was not really
choosing
to go elsewhere. She was barred from being near Cædda. As cutting as it had been for Deorca to declare her sisterly love for Thorstein, whatever Cædda had said to Saoirse must have been so much more terrible.
I don’t love you, stay away.
How horrible for her.

“She is lucky to have your friendship,” he said, trying to sound sympathetic.

She gave him a strained smile and nodded, then awkwardly turned away.

Thorstein watched her for just a minute before sprinting into the Great Hall, slowing to a trot as he approached the back chamber Lord Cædda shared with Annis. As he got closer, he could see Redwald leaning in the doorway, watching the goings-on inside. Though he could not yet see into the chamber, Thorstein could hear Annis perfectly well.

“We all commend you for your charitable heart, Father. It’s so lovely to see such compassion for
this
particular slave. But she ran from her master! She set that beast upon me!” The piercing voice echoed throughout the Great Hall, and as Thorstein came to a halt next to Redwald in the doorway, he could see the old man’s face pinched in discomfort at the shrill diatribe assaulting his ears.

“She did no such thing, your husband says as much!” Sigbert was standing across from the bed where Lady Annis sat, pointing frantically at Cædda as he spoke.

I wonder how long they’ve been having this argument.

“Father,” Cædda tried to interject.

“My husband gave that black deceiver to me! She is mine to do with as I please, and mine to punish as I see fit! And what I
please
is to have Garrick give her twenty lashes! You have no—”

“Begging your pardon, M’Lady.” Redwald’s gravelly voice silenced the remainder of Annis’s sentence.

Every face in the room swiveled to the doorway, including Cædda, Annis, and Sigbert—in their sweltering triangle of rage—and Garrick, who stood against the far wall with his arms crossed over his chest.

Thorstein’s heart caught in his throat as he noticed Deorca sitting on the ground next to Garrick’s feet, her face as pale as he had ever seen it. Like everyone else in the room, she turned her face toward the new additions to the room. But instead of fixing a surprised look of annoyance upon Redwald, as everyone else did, Deorca locked her eyes with Thorstein’s, before quickly looking away.

“What are you doing here, Tanner? We are not to be disturbed!” Annis’ high-pitched shriek caused everyone in the room to wince.

“If you are looking for your wife, Redwald, she is in the kitchen.” Cædda flicked his head subtly toward the kitchen, seemingly hoping that would send the two of them on their way.

“No, M’Lord, I don’t seek my wife at the moment. I heard from the pagan wench there might be some judgment on the matter of my runaway apprentice. I came straightaway.”

“Yes, Redwald you have heard our lord say she is to be flogged.” The nasal annoyance in Annis’ voice gave way slightly to a tone of self-satisfaction, and Thorstein watched Sigbert’s face set into a murderous scowl.

“Indeed Ma’am. I also heard you start to say it should be my son to give her twenty lashes. Being as I am the only one here who has lost wages because of her running off, I reckon I ought be the one holding the whip and deciding how many lashes she gets.”

From the corner of his eye, Thorstein could see Deorca’s head snap up with obvious shock. Had she been unaware Garrick was Redwald’s son? It was true the two men looked nothing alike, but surely she had noticed their other similarities.

“You are not the one she beat during her escape, Tanner.” Flecks of white started to appear around Annis’ mouth. “Garrick will do the flogging and he will administer twenty lashes! Twenty!”

“When the foreigner first came to us, Garrick beat her senseless for no other reason than she was there.” Redwald removed his shoulder from the doorpost and took a confident step into the room, looking sideways at his son. “I reckon a pair of crushed balls is a fine penance for that. She and my boy are even now.”

He flicked his eyes briefly down to Deorca, who still had the same drawn expression on her face, before returning his gaze to Cædda. “It is I who she has wronged and I think five lashes is plenty for a woman’s back. She’s no good to me if she dies or if she is bedridden for a month. We have plenty a need for more leather, and I only get slower and more feeble with every passing year. I need my apprentice.”