Sunder (37 page)

Looking back at Annis, she saw what she needed. In two steps, Isabella was in front of Annis. She grabbed hold of the shackles hanging from the wall above Annis’ head. Before the lady of Shaftesbury had time to react, Isabella closed the shackles around her wrists, pressing the single padlock closed.

“Your soul is your business, Annis. But you will not take mine.”

24

Isabella had lost all feeling in her fingers by the time the bells rang out from the gates to announce Cædda’s return to the city. She had been standing there on the main road next to Einar’s body for what felt like an eternity, her hair plastered to her face by the sticky dried blood of two boys who had never harmed anyone. The fog had cleared with the dreary noon sun, allowing Isabella to see the enormous band of men as they galloped across the meadow toward the city from miles away. Whatever Saoirse told them had seemingly included the Dane prisoner’s impending escape, because only half of the men entered through the main gate, charging up the road directly at her. The other half broke to the left, likely winding their way to the back gate to ensure a fleeing prisoner could not escape. But there was no chance of that. Einar wasn’t going anywhere
.
 
 
 

 
She had been correct in her assumption that the Dane boy had snapped his neck when he fell from the horse; his body had settled in an awkward rhombus-type shape with his face planted in the mud and his ass in the air. Unwilling to be anywhere near the jail and the scent of Wyrtgeorn’s blood, Isabella had wandered over to Einar’s contorted body and, being discomfited at the unnatural position of the corpse, had rolled him over onto his back before taking up her strange hours-long vigil over him. Of course, having flipped him over, Isabella could see the blood-stained dagger protruding from the dead boy’s belt, besetting upon her the knowledge she would never escape from Wyrtgeorn’s remnants, not even if she burned her clothes and scrubbed her skin raw
.
 
 
 

After leaving Annis to her insane ramblings, Isabella’s first instinct had been to return to Redwald’s and see to Thorstein, to let him know she was there for him in between his bouts of unconsciousness. But hidden behind the need to be near her friend, she knew there lurked an ugly cowardice. How long it would take Cædda to return to the city, she had not known. But whenever his arrival came, it would be in total ignorance of his son’s horrific fate. If she hid away at Redwald’s, who could know where Cædda would go first? Perhaps to the Great Hall, looking for his wife to verify what Saoirse told him. Maybe even to Redwald’s to see Thorstein. But in all likelihood, he would proceed straight to the jail to ensure his prisoner remained securely captured, leaving him to find the mangled body of his son. Isabella could not allow that horrible shock. So she planted herself in the center of the road, ready to tell Cædda the terrible news when he arrived, to steel him against the sight of his son and heir lying dead. 

The ground beneath her vibrated as the swarm of horses closed in on her, Cædd
a 
at the front with Garrick and Selwyn, as always, immediately behind him. Every man had his sword drawn, the bows they had brought for the wolves slung across their backs. Her own bow lay at her feet, not wanting to risk any misunderstandings if the men were to see her armed. With every footfall, she could see Cædda more clearly, and she watched as his face morphed from confusion at seeing her standing in the middle of the road, wet and bloody, to the recognition there was a body at her feet. The lord of Shaftesbury held his sword over his head and bellowed, “Hold!” prompting a cacophony of horse screams and snorts as their bits were jerked back and faces ran into hindquarters
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The midnight-colored warhorse Cædda rode skidded to a stop in front of her, and Isabella tilted her head up to him, but she could not force her eyes to meet his. Clearly winded from his long ride into the city, Cædda looked down at her, from her head all the way down to her feet, and then to Einar’s carcass in the mud. To her horror and grief, she watched a proud grin break across his face
.
  
 
 

“Father Sigbert has gone to Redwald’s to seek you out. Saoirse did not say you intended to hunt the prisoner yourself,” he beamed down at her
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Behind him, Garrick looked so pleased, she thought he might burst into song at any moment.
But what will you think when you go into the jail? How will you feel when you see I killed him too late
?
 
 
 

“It was not my intent, My Lord,” she whispered, unable to keep the trembling from her voice. A low murmur spread through the crowd of men as those who had a clear view of the body and the dark slave passed the word back to those at the rear of the formation. She had to stop this
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“My Lord—
”
 
 
 

He held up a hand to silence her, his attention seemingly enraptured by something on Einar’s body. In one swift motion, he swung his leg over the rear of his horse, jumping down into a squat next to the body. Cædda looked from Einar’s corpse and back up to her, twice, three times. What was he looking at? The fact that she was covered in blood, while the dead prisoner was nearly clean? The only drops of blood were from where the dagger had rubbed him.
The dagger, that’s what he’s looking at
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“This is the weapon that laid Thorstein low?” He squinted up at her, curious, but with a flash of fury in his eyes, one much sharper than the night he had threatened to hobble her
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“Yes.
”
 
 
 

With a furious jerk, he ripped it off Einar’s body and stood up, whirling around and holding the dagger out to Garrick
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After a beat of dangerous silence, Cædda growled out, “Am I mistaken?
”
 
 
 

Garrick blanched, holding his eyes steadily on the weapon being presented to him. “You are not, My Lord.
”
 
 
 

Oh my God.
It was Garrick’s dagger. The one Isabella stole from him the night she escaped. The one Cædda took back from her the night she came back with Wyrtgeorn
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“And where is Lady Annis?” Cædda’s voice had a hard, icy edge
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“She is in the jail, My Lord,” she croaked out. “I- I shackled her.
”
 
 
 

A muscle flexed in his jaw and he looked sideways at Garrick. “I will tend to her myself.
”
 
 
 

“Please!” Unbidden, her hand shot out, snapping closed around his leather-covered wrist. “Please, My Lord. It – it is not only Lady Annis in the jail.” How could she tell him? What would he do
?
 
 
 

Cædda stared at her, concern and confusion darting his brow. “What do you mean? Who else would be with her?
”
 
 
 

“My Lord!” The distant cry came accompanied by the patter of hooves, turning the heads of every man in their group toward the sound
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Sigbert’s body tilted forward in the saddle of the galloping horse, his arm outstretched in a halting motion and his face stricken white as he rode toward the group
. 
 

He knows.
In his trip to Redwald’s, Sigbert had of course been apprised of where Isabella had gone, and more importantly, why. She could only wonder if Thorstein remained alive to relay the information himself
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“What now?” Cædda muttered as he stuffed Garrick’s dagger into his belt, adjacent to his own. “Is it Thorstein?” He called out to Sigbert as the priest yanked his horse to a stop and jumped off
. 
 

As his feet hit the ground, Isabella’s heart sank as Sigbert gave her an inquiring look—a look that begged she had already told the terrible news. But as always, he knew. Without asking. Of course she hadn’t told him. And the realization in his eyes stabbed an indictment in her heart.
You coward! You should have already told him
.
 
 

“Thorstein lives, My Lord.” Sigbert did not even look at Cædda as he proffered his clipped response. Instead, he bore his eyes into Isabella, dread shining out of them. “Did you find Master Wyrtgeorn?
” 
 

Overcome with the desire to run, Isabella forced herself to look at Cædda, his bewilderment turning into panic
. 
 

“My son? He should be at the Hall with Hilde.
” 
 

“He is not there, My Lord,” her words slurred against her quivering chin and were it not for the soft touch of Sigbert’s hand on her back, she may well have fled from him, from what she had to tell him. “I found your son as the Dane was making his escape.
” 
 

Understanding lit Cædda’s eyes—the eyes he had given his son—and Isabella could look nowhere else as his breathing became shallow and his hands tightened into fists
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He took two cautious steps, bringing himself directly in front of her. “Where is he?
”
 
 
 

She watched Selwyn and Garrick crane their necks, trying to hear the lord’s pleading whisper, an identical look of alarm spreading across their faces in tandem
. 
 

Her throat clamped shut, she could only flick her eyes at the jail as her sobs exploded out of her. “I was too late. I’m so sorry, I was too late.
” 
 

Before her last wheezing syllable left Isabella’s mouth, Cædda took off running straight at the jail, his sword clenched in his hand, chopping the air with every step
. 
 

With a quick squeeze of her arm, an apology for leaving her, Sigbert bolted after Cædda. The herd of men, perhaps on instinct, moved forward to follow their lord as well. Midstride, Garrick whirled around, ripping his sword from his scabbard and screaming, “Stay!” at the men, spraying those closest to him with spittle, before turning back around and following fast behind Cædda
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Selwyn did not pursue. The sound of his sword being sheathed sent a shiver down her back as she allowed her legs to collapse, helplessly sobbing in the mud
. 
 

“Isabella?” Selwyn squatted down, resting on his heels and peering into her face as she cried, his perennially passive expression marred by barely concealed sorrow. “Is any of this blood yours?
” 
 

She shook her head, as much to answer his question as to try and rid herself of all that happened
. 
 

“Then you need to come with me.
” 
 

Selwyn put his hands under her armpits to lift her up, but he yanked them back as a horrible, ear-piercing scream ripped through the city. 

“I’ll kill you! I. Will. Kill. You! You traitorous devil. Release me, Sigbert! I command you!” 

The echoes of Cædda’s rage rippled through the crowd of men, followed by a mournful howl with no recognizable words.  Resting her hands on Selwyn’s arms, Isabella pulled herself up off the ground. Had that been Annis? Had Cædda killed her? 

“Selwyn?” she looked at him with desperation in her eyes. “Would he?” 

He cut off her sentence by jerking his head at the jail. There, coming out of the door, was Garrick, walking at a quicktime pace, dragging Annis behind him by her wrist shackles. 

“What is he doing?” Isabella sniffed.  

Garrick dragged Annis directly toward them, his eyes set past Isabella, likely on the Great Hall. There was really nowhere else the main road would take him. 

“Garrick is giving our lord some time to remember himself,” Selwyn muttered, his usual dry tone tinged with an acidic pain. “The Magistrate will need be present for whatever judgment falls upon Annis. It is not for Cædda to decide himself.” 

Straining her eyes to see over the distance, Garrick’s face grew more clear as he leaned into the hill, coming closer to them. It was red, contorted in grief. She knew he was not crying, doubting at this point in his life Garrick even possessed the ability to shed tears. But the pain cutting across his eyes and the fury lining his mouth reached out and burned Isabella’s throat across the distance. He wanted to kill Annis. Just as badly as Cædda had. But he was preserving the rule of law instead. Cædda’s laws. 

“Garrick is a good friend,” she whispered. 

“The best you could ever have,” Selwyn replied. “And very defensive of his lord.” 

Defensive indeed
. As Garrick strode ever more rapidly toward them, Isabella saw he could easily divert around the crowd of men, the angry, confused men who only knew their lord was in agony and their lady was in shackles. But he did not divert. He intended to pull Annis directly through the lot of them so she could face their rage.