Sunder (38 page)

Looking at the horrible blank stare that permeated her ruddy face, Isabella felt sick at the thought of being near Annis again. 

“I don’t want to look at her,” she hissed at Selwyn, who was still holding her by her arms. 

“Nor I,” he spat, leading her by the hand up the hill, toward the Great Hall. Not a single man turned his attention to watch them go. Every head stayed turned toward Garrick and the traitor he dragged down the road
. 
 

***

The fleck of spittle lobbed at Annis from Kenrik Lach as she passed him on the street dropped from her face onto the wool of her cloak, finally clearing the fog of despair that had so sinfully compelled her to seek her own death—at that monster Deorca’s hands no less. She had closed her eyes in the jail, in the time between Deorca’s departure and Cædda’s arrival. She had closed them to pray and blot out the sight of Wyrtgeorn’s too-still body. But when she had tried to open them again, her lashes had stuck to the congealed layers of blood on her face and she’d had to use her fingers to wrench her lids free.

Her eyes were open now, wide open as she sat on the floor of the empty Great Hall, Garrick standing over her silently. Her mind had been so hazy as Garrick dragged her through the street, through that sea of revolting men who had the nerve to shout at her, to
spit
on her. She had half expected the spit to evaporate under the heat of the shame searing her face
.
 
 
 

But now in the silence, she felt nothing but gratitude for Garrick’s act of cruelty, even for Kenrick’s vile disrespect. For that glob of mucus and spit forced her to remember herself. She was the Lady of Shaftesbury and as such, she would face what was coming, the unjust wrath of a husband she had so lovingly served. It had been almost twenty years she had served him unfailingly. Wise and even-tempered, her husband was worthy of her service. He would not fail her now.

His rage in the jail had not been his fault. She could not fault him for striking out at her, for his cruel words. His heart, though strong, was full of love, and the sight of his child… of course she would not, could not, judge him for what he had said to her. If Deorca had done as she asked and left her the knife, it would not have been so. If her husband had come into the jail to find her dead next to Wyrtgeorn, she knew he would have understood. That she loved him. That she was sorry for her failures. He would have clutched her to him and wept for her as she watched him from Heaven. But seeing her alive… seeing the blood completely covering her face, obscuring the sorrow in her eyes, he had lashed out in grief for their child. It was not his fault. He was not to blame. No, it had been Deorca from the very start. Her evil had permeated every heart and hearth of Shaftesbury. Even the previously steadfast Garrick had been corrupted by her.

He had not looked at her—Garrick—not once as he intentionally dragged her through that cloud of men, those filthy wretches who had mocked her in her own Hall night after night. He kept his silence even as they stepped into the Great Hall, horribly empty and cold
. 
The look of disgust, that same look every kitchen trolluphad given her every day of her life, had radiated from Garrick’s face as he finally turned his eyes on her. But still, he had said nothing, only dropped the heavy chains of her shackles, the weight of them dragging her down to the ground into a heap before the lord’s table. Before her table
.
 
 
 

She had sighed with relief when Garrick had dropped her there. Seeing the empty Hall assured her it would be only her husband here to judge her, to hear what had happened. It would be just the two of them. But then she had seen movement out of the corner of her eye, dragging her head around to see what it was. Her stomach burned and she heard herself gasp in fury as she recognized Deorca standing in the far doorway, the one that led, quite appropriately, to the whipping post.

While Annis scraped her knees on the ground, bent in supplication for the judgment to come, Deorca stood leaning against the doorframe, her back facing Annis as if she had not a care in the world. Even looking at her disheveled braid and the soiled, too-short cloak she wore drew bile into Annis’ throat. The Silent One stood near Deorca, just inside the doorway, arms crossed, his eyes studiously focused on Garrick instead of on her. Annis had never liked him. Seeing him now, standing sentry over that succubus, only verified her instincts of him had been correct.

Why is she here?
 

“Because the Magistrate will want an account of what you have done.”

Garrick’s sneering reply jolted Annis out of her reverie. Had she spoken aloud? She hadn’t meant to. Her teeth pierced her bottom lip, gone dry and cracked, as she fought to calm the hammering of her heart against her ribs.
You hate her too!
She longed to scream at him, to claw at his face.
You know what she is and you take her side over mine?
 

“I am quite capable of giving an account of my actions, Garrick,” she spat through bared teeth, tilting her head to look at him standing over her. “I will submit to my husband’s righteous judgment, but I will not bear her presence!” 

The vaulted ceiling of the Great Hall had such a way of magnifying voices, and Annis’ edict seemed to roll around the room, twice over, prompting Deorca to turn around. Her eyes, unlike the Silent One, instantly fell upon Annis. Aside from the insolence of this slave holding her gaze, Deorca had also shorn up her face into something resembling righteous incredulity.  As if Annis had just said something outrageous. The fear she had shown in the jail as she feigned concern for Wyrtgeorn, the sadness she had mimicked when refusing Annis’ order to leave the knife—those were gone now.
Yes, she thinks she’s won. She thinks there is no further need to pretend
.

Deorca leaned over and whispered something to Selwyn who, instead of the silent noncommittal shrug Annis had always gotten from him, he actually whispered back, his eyes drawing into a slit as they flicked in Annis’ direction.

Anger roiled in her ears as the whispers echoed around her, punctuated by Garrick’s heavy sigh. The sounds pushed down on her chest, squeezing her head from all sides. 

 “You think because you killed that demon, you have a right to be here?” she exploded, leaping to her feet, the heavy chains forgotten as she flailed her arms in front of her. “I would have done it! I would have killed him. With my last breath I would have killed him, and you stand there as if your selfish act of self-preservation entitles you to anything other than Hell?” Hot tears coursing down her cheeks, the tightness in her chest was only made worse by Deorca’s non-response to her screams, by Selwyn’s cold stare. “You think that absolves you of your sin? Of your harlotry? Of your disobedience? Of your wanton wrath?”  

On the last word, Annis ripped at the laces on her dress, refusing to tear her eyes away from Deorca’s
. 
She refused to allow that beast to stare at her so passively, as if she were somehow above them all. Above the lady of Shaftesbury. She would remind her of who she was dealing with. 

As her fingers finally worked her dress loose, pulling both it and her shift off her shoulders, Deorca finally broke out of her stoic charade and pulled herself away from the doorway, her hand outstretched as if to cast a spell
. 
 

“Stop it! What are you doing?
” 
 

“Do you imagine I forgot what you have done to me?” Annis screamed back, oddly gratified that Garrick and Selwyn remained in the room to witness her wounds. They had been absent when Annis first showed them to Deorca, showed her the lengths to which she would go to protect her family. She wanted them all to see.

“You did this! These wounds are the wages of your sin! Of your deceit!” she wheeled around to ensure Deorca could see her marks once more, bringing her face to face with a gape-mouthed Garrick, whose eyes lay firmly on her breasts. “The blood of my child that covers my face is likewise your doing. You did all of this!
” 
 

She pivoted once again, wheeling around to face her enemy. She saw the heifer-like calm drain from Deorca’s face, a raging light of fury replacing it.
That’s right, you harpy. Show them what you really are
.
 
 
 

Deorca opened her mouth only a little, her teeth gritted as she prepared her unholy rebuttal, but was silenced—by Selwyn.

“It’s odd all of the whip marks are centered on your shoulders and upper back.” The man’s voice, flat and quiet, stabbed into her ears as if it were an infant’s wail. “It’s strange the Pretender wouldn’t have gotten at least one lick on the center of your back or at the bottom, since you said you were in bed when he came upon you. As a matter of fact…” Annis felt her stomach sink as Selwyn shifted his gaze to just behind her. “They look very much like the self-inflicted whip marks of a priest doing Penance. Isn’t that right, Father?”

Silence descended on the room as all three of her tormentors shifted their eyes to the entryway behind her. Her breathing shallow and her palms sticky, Annis prayed it was only Sigbert behind her in the doorway.
Please God let Cædda not have heard
.

It had been such a short while since Garrick had removed her from the jail and her husband’s anger. Surely it was too soon for him to have fetched the Magistrate.  Clutching the tattered bodice of her dress to her bosom, she turned slowly, swinging her head first so she might see who was behind her before turning fully around.

Sigbert had his massive arm stretched across the entryway, blocking her vision of Cædda, who stood immediately behind the priest. But she did not need to see his face to feel the radiating anger, to understand Sigbert’s arm position was designed to hold her beloved back from striking her.

“You did it yourself?” Cædda’s voice was strained with disbelief, his fury kept at bay momentarily by the sheer shock of his realization.

Opening her mouth to deny his question, to scream protestations, Annis was silenced by Sigbert’s face, his barely perceptible shake of the head. He knew. Seeing her scars, comparing them to his own, or more likely, comparing them to Deorca’s, he knew. They all knew now.

She could feel Deorca’s gaze burrowing into her back, no doubt a smug smile on her face as she shook with tears before her husband. There would be no forgiveness now. No matter if she made him understand the danger Deorca posed or the goodness of her intentions. All he saw now was her deceit.

“You mutilated yourself… and then accused Deorca?” Cædda’svoice rose from the doorway as he pushed past Sigbert, who placed a calming hand on his lord’s arm. “So that I might kill her in retaliation?
” 
 He had not calmed in their time apart. He had not taken the time to understand how it had all gone so wrong. He was still horribly, dangerously angry.

“My Lord and husband,” she started, her voice shaking. Painfully aware of her nudity, Annis could not bear to meet her husband’s eyes, so she shifted them to Sigbert. “I wanted only to serve God by – by ridding this city of evil. The flogging was to show my devotion—” 

“Devotion? You killed my son!
”
  
 
 

“No, My Lord! Do not say so to me. I did not! I did not kill our son! I would sooner impale myself at the city wall than allow harm to come to Wyrtgeorn. He is everything to me!”

“Everything?”  Cædda screamed back at her, shoving Sigbert away from him. “Your children were nothing to you! Your only concern has been your own hubris from the beginning—”

“You dare say so to me?” Annis roared at him, swinging her arms wildly at him, the heavy chains lashing out at her husband’s shocked face. “You dare accuse me of hubris? Of selfishness? Ask your priest how many times I crawled to that church in ashes begging God to make you love me, to make you see my qualities and my love.”

Ignoring the tears and the snot streaking down her face, she jerked her head at Sigbert who, out of all of them, had the decency to look sorry. “I gave you everything! My love, my unquestioning obedience, even while every want, every fear, every desire or complaint you swatted away like so many flies. ‘It’s woman’s business, Annis. I have no time for woman’s business.’ So yes, My Lord, I made my own decisions, my own plans when you brought this harlot into our home, as you bade me! Even while you forced your will on ‘woman’s business’ by making your Celt whore wet nurse to our son!”

Cædda opened his mouth, his hand clenched in a fist, but Annis—for the first time in her life—slashed her hand through the air to silence him. “Wyrtgeorn is dead because you brought this evil into our house, because you silenced my objections and even your son’s! He, our sweet boy, went out on his own to retrieve your runaway slave, even as you stayed in the safety of the walls to cry into your ale!”

She knew the slap was coming and did nothing to deflect it. The crash of force felt oddly relieving as she was driven to her knees with the impact.

“You cast me aside for everything and everyone,” she said, the blood in her mouth doing nothing to impede her words. “Do you think our sons took no heed of how you treated their mother? Do you think they did not mimic it? As all of Shaftesbury mimicked it? What is so repulsive about me that you wish such cruelty on me?” she implored him.