Sunder (35 page)

It was then—watching his blonde head sway from side to side as she hobbled behind him—that Isabella felt the rage seep into her, almost as if the freezing wind had carried it from Saoirse into her.
I will kill that bitch when I see her. I don’t care who sees or what happens to me. I will cut her open.
 

“Saoirse, slow down.
”Ӕ
mma’s voice was hoarse, shaking with the concentration it took to keep from slipping. Isabella tore her eyes from Thorstein’s ghostly white face to see a look of concerted pain on the side o
fӔ
mma’s face. Pulling as hard as she was, Saoirse was pulling the heavy sled straight int
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mma’s much longer legs. The empty road was slick with partially melted ice from last night’s snowfall and it seemed at any moment the girls would lose their grip on that sled, sending Thorstein careening into one of the empty market tables.  

“The tannery is so far, I will not—” 

“Redwald is at home, Sweet, not the tannery.
”Ӕ
mma pointed towards the cluster of ramshackle huts to the left of the main road, bringing into sharp relief the fact Isabella had never once considered where Redwald went when he wasn’t scraping out cows. The houses had only been a background object for her as she walked to and from her work, and she had never given any thought to the fact that people actually lived here.  

A pinched, hysterical giggle erupted from the little girl’s mouth and she looked back at Isabella, twisting her mouth into a sob-strangled smile. “He will be all right.” 

With a low, bovine grunt Saoirse pulled again, this time more steadily and to the left, directly toward the houses, wit
hӔ
mma heaving out a sigh alongside her, but not a sigh of relief. Isabella turned her eyes skyward to block out the sound of sheer hopelessness ringing in her ears. 

The sight of her friend bleeding had clearly scrubbed all sense of her low station, as Saoirse did not even wait to reach the first house before she started screaming. 

“Redwald! Redwald Tanner you are needed!” Saoirse’s voice had turned coarse, becoming more of a howl. Her cries bounced off the walls of the tightly packed houses, each call prompting several heads to pop out of windows and doorways, all women, all looking concerned and confused.  

Isabella joined in with the cries as they pulled Thorstein across the rocky path, prompting two passing older women to drop their water buckets to run alongside Thorstein’s unconscious body. 

“Deorca, what evil is this?” 

With a start, Isabella pinched off her call for Redwald as she realized the puffy, middle-aged woman with the dark circles under her eyes had been one of the first to help her in the market. The one who had laughed at her when she desperately asked where to buy cabbage. 

“The Mad Lady tried to kill Thorstein,” she panted out. “We need Redwald to–” 

“Redwald!” The woman joined in with Saoirse’s screams, needing no further information, and pushed on Isabella’s arm to direct her farther away from the road. It was only under her direction that Isabella realized she had absolutely no idea which house was Redwald’s 

“God’s death! What are you mass of chickens squawking at?” 

The gravelly bark cut through her cries, clanging off the sides of the houses, and silencing every female voice that had risen up in the street. Isabella whipped around to see Redwald planted on the side of the road, a storm in his eyes and a cleaver in his hand. 

Does he sleep with that thing?
 

 “Redwald,” Saoirse whispered. “Help.” 

The old man’s eyes drifted downward, understanding lighting his eyes as he noticed the “chickens” who had so disturbed him were not hauling a mule’s carcass. His eyes lingered a moment on Thorstein, who laid still as death, before snapping them to Isabella’s face. 

“Bring him. Hurry now.” 

He jerked his head and marched across the road, past the bucket-dropping women, who stared after him, mouths agape. 

“Shall I send me daughter after the men so the chiurgeon can come and see to him?” one of them called after him. 

Whirling around, Redwald jabbed his finger at Saoirse. “You! You ride out and tell Lord Cædda what’s happened. You tell him what that mad bitch of his did and you bring the lach back here. Go now!” 

“I will not leave him!” Saoirse dropped to her knees beside Thorstein, her cheeks red and wet. “Send—” 

Isabella watched the very specific look of fury at wasted time overtake Redwald’s face. In a single smooth motion, he leaned down, wrapped his hand around Saoirse’s tiny arm, and yanked her roughly to her feet. 

“Your weeping will do him no good, Woman. The darkie can’t leave the city lest she be accused of escaping again and I haven’t the energy to dish out another flogging. I can’t very well send that fat cow,” he said jabbing his fist at the thin woman who had called out to him, presumably meaning the woman’s daughter was fat. “And I can’t send the Cyclops after him,” he jerked his head at Æmma. “She’d run into a tree ‘ere she left the city.” 

Saoirse opened her mouth, allowing only a single, screeching syllable to escape before Redwald’s bellow cut her off. 

“Who would he trust more than his favorite whore? Run now, Girl!” 

A final agonizing moan escaped from Saoirse as she gave Isabella a last pleading look before turning to run toward the livery. 

I’ll save him, Saoirse. I swear I’ll save him.
She had to save him; why else would there have been a dream at all? 

Redwald, satisfied Saoirse was doing as she was told, bent down once more and wrapped his burly arms around Thorstein’s midsection. “Be mindful now you don’t jostle him, lest the guts fall out before I can sew him up.” He did not look up as he spoke, did not make any implicit commands, but moving as one, Isabella an
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mma bent down and grasped onto Thorstein and heaved him off the ground, carrying him twenty feet into one of the two-room huts near the tree line and laid him out on the long oak table positioned in the center of the room. Horrifyingly, it was spattered with dried blood. 

“Do you know what you’re doing?” Isabella demanded, looking for signs that he brought his filthy tanning work home with him. 

“I know how to treat a stabbing wound.” He shot a glare at Isabella. “Now make yerself useful and fetch the tools,” he pointed to the far corner of the room. “And make sure that fire’s high so I can heat the irons.”  

Following his extended finger, Isabella started toward the fire only to collide with Hilde. Reaching her arms out to steady the old woman, solely out of instinct. No matter what time of day or night Isabella came home, Hilde was always at the Great Hall, always there fawning over Annis or screaming maliciously at the kitchen girls. So wasn’t she there now? Why was she at home in her nightgown in midmorning looking like she might cry? 

“Husband,” she rasped, wriggling free of Isabella’s hands. “What has happened?” 

“That damned Annis has finally gone cracked, that’s what. The needles, Woman!” 

Isabella’s head snapped back as he turned his attention back toward her. Stepping around Hilde, she reached out for the bundled kit next to the hearth, one just like (she prayed not the same one) Redwald used to sew up skins.

“My Lady would never—” Hilde sputtered, swaying slightly as she reached out a bony hand to steady herself on Isabella’s shoulder. 

“Of course she would,” Isabella muttered, her intended hiss tempered by the realization that Hilde must be ill, very much so, to be anywhere but the Great Hall. “And frankly given our company,” Isabella jerked her head toward Æmma, who was feigning deafness as she cradled Thorstein’s head. “It’s an offense to all decency you would pretend otherwise.” 

“You’re all so cruel to her!” Hilde cried out, stumbling as Isabella shook off her grip and moved back toward the table with the bundle Redwald had asked for. 

“Back to bed with you!” Redwald snapped. “This is bloody work and I don’t need ale.” He nodded toward the cup in her hand. “Go back to our bed and stay there. If you need something, the Cyclops here will tend you.” 

“Husband, this woman…” 

“Is my apprentice,” he finished, more softly than Isabella could have ever imagined. “Obey me,” he said quietly. 

Hilde held firm for a moment, seeming to debate the merits of defiance, but in the end she just nodded, and trudged into the adjoining room to lie down. 

Checking the fire as she was asked, Isabella took two of the pokers resting on the hearth and dug them deep into the fire so they could heat. 

“Why do you need the needles and the irons?” Æmma asked as she flicked her eye in Isabella’s direction. “If you burn a wound, there’s no need to sew it.” 

A sour frown overtook Redwald’s face, prompting Isabella to bleat out a single, inappropriate laugh. 

“I won’t know whether sewing or burning is better for the wound unless I see it.” He grabbed hold of Thorstein’s trousers, held in place by laces. “And I need to wake him. For all I know, the shock of the burn will kill him. That would do no good, now would it? Wake up, Boy!” Redwald shouted at Thorstein as he tugged the trousers down, exposing the deep V of his pelvis and the bloody gash in his side. 

“Ssstttoppp.” Amazingly, Thorstein’s eyelashes fluttered, his fingers reaching down instinctively to halt Redwald’s invasion of his modesty.  

“None of your popish prudery today, Boy. And you,” Redwald’s eyes, creased with worry, flashed at Isabella. “Fetch me all the wine you can carry from the Hall’s kitchens. He’ll need something for the pain.”  

Isabella nodded, turned to do as she was told, then jolted to a stop as Thorstein’s icy finger clamped tight around her wrist. 

“Jesus!” she screamed, pulling away on instinct. 

“Wyrtgeorn,” he gurgled. 

“What?” she leaned down to be near his face, pushing her braid off his forehead. 

“Don’t move you daft bastard, or we’ll be done before we start!” Redwald cried, pinning Thorstein’s shoulders to the table. “Help me get these damned wet trousers off him afore he freezes solid, Cyclops.” 

“My name is Æmma, Old Man.” 

“I sent Wyrtgeorn to the jail,” Thorstein moaned, raising his voice as best he could over the sniping.  

Isabella made a soothing sound and laid her hand across his forehead. “It’s all right, Thorstein. Lady Annis would never hurt Wyrtgeorn, even if she sees him. We need to get
you—” 

“Einar will kill him,” he coughed out. “She’s letting him out. She doesn’t know her son is there. I sent him… please.” 

The room went silent. 

“The crippled lordling, face to face with the Bishop Killer.” Redwald breathed out heavily through pursed lips. He took his hands away from Thorstein’s belly and stared at Isabella, dragging his eyes up and down her body in an appraising way. “Go to the jail. And bring that stupid boy back here.” 

 “What should I do if she already let the Dane out?” Isabella felt her legs weaken under the intensity of Redwald’s stare. 

“Run,” Æmma gasped out. 

“Run, nothing you miserable cunt!” Redwald shot his most poisonous glare a
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mma. “You kill him, that’s what you do. Take those with you,” he jerked his head toward the corner of the room, where a longbow and full quiver leaned against a chair. “I trust you know what to do with them, you great bull of a woman.” His eyes bored into hers for just a moment before he returned his attention to Thorstein. 

There was one weapon in all of creation Isabella felt comfortable with, and there it was—nearly identical to the yew longbow she had used in international competitions since she was twelve. She ran her fingers across the smooth wood of the bow as she bent to pick up the quiver, swinging it over her shoulder as a stab of pain radiated across her body.
Yes, that was definitely one of the lashes reopening
.  

“Deorca.” 

Isabella, startled by Redwald calling her by name, turned back to meet his piercing gaze, lifting the bow as she did. 

“He is Cædda’s first born and most beloved. Bring him back here. Kill her if you have to.” 

The conflicted tension in his eyes flashed for only a moment, just enough to assure Isabella that were it not for the bleeding boy in front of him, Redwald would be sprinting toward the jail right now, bow in hand, ready to rain death upon anyone other than Wyrtgeorn he found in that jail. 

“I will,” she swore. “I will protect him.” 

***

Like a terrified calf, Wyrtgeorn wobbled against his crutch, not even succeeding in taking a single step before Einar fell upon him with a joyous screech.

He’s a demon, not a boy at all. I’ve unleashed a demon upon us all.
Annis could not move as the red glint in Einar’s eye registered in her brain for the first time. It had been too dark in the jail; she had not seen. She had not looked at him properly this morning. So rattled from killing the Northman, she had not examined the creature she was loosing upon her family—the creature she had given a dagger.  

Hysterical whimpering wracked her frozen body as the Viking demon whipped her son around to face her, limp as a rag doll in the bigger boy’s grip.