Sunder (29 page)

Garrick shrugged. “Even the lowliest thief in Shaftesbury thinks you to be some kind of divine talisman from God guaranteeing our victory. No Saxon would agree to harm you, certainly not for that hag. No, a Dane is her only hope of having you murdered.” A shadow crossed his face. “But then, there are two of those in the city.”

“Two?” Isabella looked sideways at Garrick. “You mean Thorstein? He’s my friend. What are you talking about?”

Garrick’s face twisted into a mocking smile, one that said
Oh you poor, sweet simpleton
. “Your friend? I suppose when you boarded the ship that brought you here, you felt perfectly safe with your husband.” His lips parted, releasing a cruel chuckle. “You humiliated that boy; the whole town knows about his womanly display in front of the Great Hall, and most of the town knows you cast him off in favor of the priest.”

We kissed for the first time this morning. How could people know that already? Did Thorstein see us?

“Shame like that changes a man, particularly one so young.” He looked at her meaningfully. “I do not know if he wishes you harm, but I do know this.” Garrick leaned closer to her and lowered his voice slightly. “He had a ring of jailer’s keys in his hand when last I saw him. Now you tell me what use that boy has for keys to the jail.”

Dumbfounded, Isabella could do nothing more than stare at Garrick, the hint of concern on his face stabbing panic into her chest. Thorstein had an assortment of duties in service to Cædda, but Garrick was right—there was no reason for him to have been given jailer’s keys.
He could have just found them somewhere. There is no reason to jump to such a conclusion.

As if reading her face, Garrick sharpened his stare. “You trust too easily, and for one who acts so much like a man, you seem to have little understanding of us.” He shook his head at her and pushed himself off the well, looking up at the sun as if to check the time. “If you survive what Lady Annis intends for you tomorrow, you should marry that priest as soon as Lord Cædda permits. Then you’ll be his to protect instead of mine.”

Despite her disbelief at what Garrick had just said about Thorstein, the mention of marrying Sigbert drove fire into her cheeks.

“Jesus,” Garrick rolled his eyes in disgust.

Isabella smiled back tightly, renewing the sting in her face.
He’s wrong about Thorstein.
“I never thought I would have cause to give thanks to you.”

“Give thanks to Annis,” he spat an enormous wad of phlegm onto the ground, as if her very name left a taste in his mouth. “She couldn’t help but gloat to me. Now,” he reached down and lifted the bucket, holding it out to her as easily if it were paper. “Get your water and drink plenty. You have that odious white film around your mouth and it sickens me to look on you.”

Unable to help herself, Isabella laughed as she took the bucket from him. She couldn’t be certain, but as Garrick turned away from her and walked back towards the hall, she could swear he was suppressing a smile of his own. The freezing cold water hurt her mouth as she drank, but the infusion of moisture into her throat felt so good that she drank as much and as fast as she dared. Water dribbled onto her dress as she wiped her mouth and placed the bucket back on the well.

Her thirst was not entirely abated, but she urgently needed to get to the church. Sigbert would know what to do. He knew Thorstein better than anyone and it seemed he saw so much of what happened around the city. If there was any truth to Garrick’s suspicions—she was sure there wasn’t—Sigbert would know about it, and he would have the best solution for it. Anyway, she wanted to see him. 

As she walked towards the church, she felt a catch in her throat.
What if tomorrow is my last day?
The idea of dying—of being murdered—because of some crazy woman brought the rage bubbling back up in her chest.

In her quest to serve God rather than herself, Isabella had been working hard to be humble, to accept what was laid out before her. Though she could not be certain of God’s plan for her, she had it on good authority that He did not approve of either jealousy or murder, so it could not be His wish for Annis to be successful in her plan. So instead of pushing it away, Isabella embraced the rage and let it course through her body as she shivered against the cold.

She did not know what ultimate fate God had designed for her, whether she would remain in Shaftesbury and marry Sigbert—the thought of which made her smile uncontrollably—or find some way back to where she had come from, back to her father and her old life. If Providence so desired, Nils Karlsson still had another month in Thetford. But God had led her back here, back to Shaftesbury, and no matter which way her life was to go, she had to survive Annis first.

As God is my witness,
I will not die tomorrow, nor any other day on the whim of that awful woman.

***

The rectory had always been such a familiar, comforting place, so it was odd for Thorstein to feel nervous as he rapped on Sigbert’s door for the third time. It was mid-morning; Father was certainly through with Mass. The lack of an immediate answer to his knock prompted all kinds of silliness to drift through his head.

Since that day he burst in to see Father holding Deorca’s hand, he had not come back here. The lessons and relaxed fireside conversations they had so many evenings came to a complete halt. With all the goings-on, Father had not inquired after Thorstein’s sudden remove from the church and, for that, he was grateful.

Now as his knocks went unheeded, Thorstein’s stomach twisted into knots as his mind concocted an image of Sigbert standing on the other side of the door, waiting for him to go away.

Ridiculous
. Thorstein shook his head free from the nonsense rattling inside it and pushed open the heavy door.

“Father?” he called softly, peeking his head into the dim room. Ordinarily, upon seeing the room empty, Thorstein would have simply closed the door and returned another time, but he feared if he left now, he would never come back.

He had only ventured to see the priest because he knew of no one else to turn to. His intended inquest of Bertolf had come to nothing; the jailer had staggered out of the Great Hall just as Thorstein made his way into breakfast. As clear as day, Bertolf had his set of keys hanging out of his trousers, meaning Annis had acquired her set by some other means. Unsure of how to proceed, Thorstein fell back to his old habits—he would ask Sigbert for advice.

Determined to wait for the absent priest, Thorstein stepped fully into the rectory, closing the door behind him. His sensation of intruding remained once inside and he rocked back on his heels, letting his eyes flit back and forth over the room he knew so well. In all the years he had spent his evenings here, it had always been a place of gentle words and laughter; the current tomb-like stillness made him long for a distraction.

As if in response to his wish, a swishing of sackcloth behind him announced the arrival of Sigbert. Turning toward the sound, Thorstein watched his priest emerge from the darkness of the back rooms—with Lord Cædda immediately behind him. When the two men caught sight of their unexpected guest, an identical shadow of surprise and guilt flickered on their faces.

“Thorstein?” Sigbert halted in his tracks, forcing Lord Cædda into a hasty side step to avoid colliding with his priest.

“Forgive me, My Lord, I did not mean to interrupt.” Thorstein bowed his head slightly and turned to scurry out of the rectory, suddenly ashamed to be there. Clearly, he had intruded upon something important—something reserved for his
betters
.

“Nonsense, Thorstein, stay,” Cædda’s voice commanded him. “I’ll not chase a man from the house of God. My business with Sigbert is finished.”

Thorstein turned back uneasily, noting Cædda’s secretive tone.

“After the hunt we will discuss this further. It would be best to have it done before it gets too cold.”

“Indeed, My Lord,” Sigbert said just as quietly, his eyes flicking nervously away from Thorstein.

Lord Cædda, most uncharacteristically, also seemed to avoid Thorstein’s eyes as he stepped out into the cold. What in the world had they been discussing?
Perhaps they were laughing about you.

The nasty thought ruffled his senses as the door to the rectory closed behind Lord Cædda and silence once more enveloped the small room, punctuated only by the occasional pop in the fire.

Sigbert cleared his throat. “I’m glad you’re here. I have missed you.” The words sounded pained as they rumbled through the room.

“I’ve missed you too,” Thorstein mumbled out quickly, still unable to meet Sigbert’s eyes. He was surprised at how true it was—how much he had missed his friend. He had come there only with the intent to seek the priest’s advice on what to do with his knowledge of Lady Annis’ trip to the stockade. But now as he stood in that warm familiar room, he ached for something other than knowledge. He wanted his friend back, his mentor. But the longer he stood there, the harder it became to look directly at Sigbert. It was not the shame of the threat of tears in his eyes that kept him from looking up at Sigbert—it was shame for the sinful envy he knew lurked just behind his irises.
Why did you take her from me? Of all the women in the world, why did you take the one I wanted?

“Your hair suits you.” Sigbert’s voice, overly loud in the silent rectory, jarred him back from his thoughts, and Thorstein hazarded a look upwards.

Father had maintained his stiff posture in the center of the room rather than sitting in his customary chair, or even moving to lean against the hearth. It was as if he had been frozen in place.

“Now that I’m free, I thought I would grow it out. It’s nice to have it long again, particularly in the winter.”

Their stilted small talk stalled again, the weight of their mutual struggle to find something, anything, to talk about other than the woman they both loved crushed Thorstein’s lungs. The specter of Deorca hung between them like a thickening fog, and Thorstein realized it was a mistake to have come.

As a Christian, it was incumbent upon him to forgive his priest and be happy for his new courtship, and for a moment, he thought he had. But looking now into Sigbert’s face, he saw the guilt painted in broad strokes across every inch of his countenance, the guilt of a man who had won a distasteful victory. The taste in his mouth soured as he saw other things too, things that had never risen to his notice before now—Sigbert’s strong brow and piercing blue eyes, the way his beard grew in so evenly and the massive shoulders and arms that showed their strength even through the sackcloth robe. He saw all the things Deorca—all women—want in a man, and it sickened him.
I should never have come here.

Without conscious prompting, Thorstein’s feet moved backward toward the door.

“Please don’t go.” Sigbert held up a hand, his voice sounding even more pained. “Let us talk.”

The hurt in Sigbert’s voice only magnified Thorstein’s.
You knew my love for her and yet you took her anyway.

“I can’t.” A sob muffled his words, finally giving him the courage to turn full face toward the door, not caring if the priest saw him flee. He grabbed the handle and yanked on the door, bringing a waft of air into his face that carried the most subtle smell of rancid decaying animal—the smell of a tanner, the smell of Deorca.

Her hand was raised in an interrupted knock as Thorstein thrust himself onto the threshold, stopping just short of plowing into her.

“Oh,” she breathed out, starting at his sudden emergence. “You.”

Disappointed?
He thought bitterly.

“I’m just leaving,” he stepped quickly to the side, intent on brushing past her and retreating as quickly as he could to the barn.

Her cold fingers closing around the thumb of his left hand stopped him immediately.

“Please stay,” she whispered. She gave a halting, timid smile and as her cheeks rose, he noticed a red mark on the left side.

“What happened?” he asked sharply. Raising his own hand to her cheek, he felt the unnatural warmth beneath her flesh, and thought perhaps he could make out finger impressions.

She did not step away from his touch; rather, she looked into his eyes in a probing way.  “I was at the well and I lost my footing. I hit my face on the hand crank.”

The nervous giggle she let out completed the pattern of behavior he had come to expect from her when she lied—first, she would look down, perhaps fidget with her clothing, then she would either giggle or let out a huff, whichever was more appropriate to the situation.

“You should be in bed, Deorca. Even if you cannot sleep, you still need to rest,” Sigbert called. “Redwald spared you from work until Thor’s Day for a reason.” There was an edge in Sigbert’s voice and from the corner of his eye, Thorstein could see the priest staring at the hand he had placed on Deorca’s cheek.

She’s lying. If you knew her as I did, you would know that.

Feeling a smug smile rise to his lips, Thorstein moved his hand away from Deorca’s face and swept her braid off her shoulder.

“I like your hair this way,” he said quietly. “I think in years to come I will always remember you just like this.”

The smile froze on her face.

“Come sit down, Deorca. I’m sure you must be tired,” Sigbert called.