Sunder (27 page)

Without moving away or changing her facial expression, Annis said just as softly, “Put my shift on and get me my cloak.”

Too stunned even to nod, Isabella stooped to the floor and pulled up the loose cotton shift puddled around Annis’ feet. After putting her arms through the sleeves and straightening the collar, Isabella darted as fast as her swollen ankle would allow her to the opposite side of the room, where Annis’ cloak was resting. But being out of her immediate body space did not lessen the feeling of dread that choked Isabella.

Carefully sweeping the cloak around Annis’ mangled shoulders, Isabella dreaded what she knew was coming next. She would have to help this insane woman who wanted her dead walk out to the whipping post. It wasn’t far, but as she wrapped her arm around Annis’ waist and felt her body press against her, it was all she could do not to vomit.

The tepid winter sun did nothing to heat the morning. All it did was shine into Isabella’s eyes as she emerged from the last protection of the walls of the Great Hall with Annis leaning heavily on her. The area immediately outside the door on the backside of the hall was a patchwork of spotty grass, dirt pathways, and animal droppings. She had been here many times, but always on her way somewhere else, never as a destination. Looking around, Isabella was relieved to see there was no crowd, only the same four men who had come from Annis’ chamber.

Isabella tried to keep her face passive as she brought Annis to rest against the wall. Cædda was standing farther off, his head bent slightly as Garrick muttered something in his ear with a dissatisfied tone. Neither man came to be close to Annis.

“Did I not say for you to be ready at the pole when I came back?” Redwald’s roar preceded his appearance around the corner of the building. “Get over there! And why the blazes are you running around in your shift? I’m a married man, ya harlot!” Redwald roughly pulled the whip out of his waistband and nudged Isabella’s shoulder toward the solitary post planted in the middle of a dirt patch.

“Just get on with it, Redwald. I think we would all like this done with.” Cædda sounded exhausted.

“Verily, M’Lord.” Redwald turned Isabella’s shoulders, positioning her in front of the six-foot wooden post.

Isabella had walked past this post many times on her way to the goat paddock to hide from her chores and there were typically one or two horses loosely tied to it. But now as she wrapped her forearms around the roughhewn wood and saw the flecks of dried blood, she realized it was not a hitching post being used for a beating. It was a whipping post that sometimes people tied horses to.

She allowed herself a shudder as the icy morning wind kicked up a gust. Though she had awoken this morning frightened of being whipped, she had at least been relieved that it would all be over after this. But now she knew it would never be over. This whipping was just the beginning, and she had to squeeze her eyes to stop the frustrated tears.

Never cry when you’re afraid, Mija. Never.
The voice seemed to rise out of the breeze, brushing her hair across her forehead like Mama used to do at bedtime.

The memory of her mother’s voice had been the first thing Isabella had banished from her mind. Only months after Monica’s death, Isabella could no longer remember the barest hint of it. But now it came back to her, as clearly as if she had heard it yesterday.

So what do I do, Mama?

Smile, Isabella. Smile while they stab you.

She had been eleven when Mama had surprised her with that unusually bleak advice. She remembered thinking it was a silly thing for her mother to say. After all, Isabella’s chosen defense had always been not to
let
them stab you in the first place.

Looking over her shoulder at Annis, she finally understood the helplessness that must have driven Mama to say that to her. Isabella was too young to understand it then. Perhaps she was even too young to have understood it last week. But she understood it now, and with one last breath to expel her fear, she smiled at Redwald.

Surprised, he cocked an eyebrow at her, but then he smiled broadly back, followed by a meaningful nod as if to ask,
you ready?

Instead of nodding back, Isabella turned back toward the post and gripped it tightly as she lowered her head. The whip was short, so Redwald stood very close behind her, so close she could smell the odor of tanning wafting off him. She could also hear him draw the whip back.
Perhaps the first one won’t be that painful.

Thwack!

The knotted cords of the whip tore into her back, sending shards of pain all the way down her legs, and the foolish dream of remaining stoic during her beating dissolved as a sharp cry flew out of her mouth.

Thwack!

At the second bolt of pain, the sound of her shift ripping accompanied the snap of the leather against her skin, and a droplet of warm liquid flicked onto her ankle as Redwald withdrew the whip. She was bleeding already.

Thwack!

Now it was no longer droplets, but a heavy cascade of warm blood running down her back, down her legs. The third strike felt different, like razor blades had been glued into the whip. Her legs buckled but she did not allow her knees to collapse, even as she screamed.

Thwack!

How many was that? Was she done? There were holes in her vision; she couldn’t see. Why couldn’t she feel her fingers?

Thwack!

There was a sharp ringing in her ears, but beyond that Isabella could not hear anything. Had she gone deaf, or were they all silent? She no longer felt the cold, and having no more lashes coming at her, she let her legs go limp. Her swoon was not graceful enough and a fragment of her shredded cotton shift stuck in the bloody wounds, causing a nasty sting to radiate down her back and another groan of pain to crawl out of her throat.

Shivering violently, Isabella fought for her breath—in through the nose, out through the mouth—refusing to risk losing consciousness. As the buzzing cleared from her head, her hearing returned to her, but still she did not move. She stayed where she was, crumpled at the base of the whipping post, clutching it for dear life.

Finally she heard someone approach, the soft footsteps barely ruffling the grass, and then she felt a warm palm resting on the side of her head, the skin rough and cracked.

“Father…” Completely against every shred of sense she had, Isabella felt her head dropping, her face turning into his hand so that it lay smooth against her cheek. Her eyes remained closed as she breathed out onto his wrist.

“Wyrtgeorn will recover; he sends his regards.” The voice—the hand—did not belong to Sigbert, but to Cædda. In too much pain to pull away from surprise, Isabella just exhaled and let the last tear fall.

“This matter his behind us now.” His tone indicated it was the last thing he wanted to say, but he did not remove his hand from her face.

“You will never have need to do this again, Lord.”

“We shall see.” With that, Cædda withdrew his hand, and Isabella opened her eyes to see him retreating to the Great Hall, pausing long enough to grab hold of Annis to help her walk. Her vision was still blurred, but the look on Annis’s face as she stared back at Isabella was so distinct, it almost seemed to speak to her:
I will kill you
.

She was alone. She was helpless. Was she wrong to come back here?

“It’s not so bad,” Redwald chirped from behind her. She did not turn to look at him, just watched his shadow on the ground in front of her. He tucked the whip into his belt, then rolled his shoulders back, letting out a groan as he did so. “God’s death, I’m old. There was a time I could give a man 40 lashes and then go straight back to scraping pelts.” He reached down and gave her a light tap on top of her head. “I’ll expect you back first thing on Thor’s day, you tripe-visaged shrew. I’ve worked with a whipped back before. You can as well.”

With that, the old man turned and started his trek down the hill. His voice had a certain jovial air to it, and Isabella took a moment to wonder just how many times he had been whipped in his life. Redwald was hard and mean, but as she sat in a heap, Isabella understood how much worse it would have been if he had stood back and allowed Garrick to beat her.
Garrick…

“Is anyone still there?” she called out. She could probably try and turn her body around, but her whole torso was screaming in pain. Plus she was unsure of how badly her shift had been torn. The last thing she needed was to flash any onlookers.

“Just me, Deorca.” Sigbert’s voice, usually so powerful and sonorous, sounded empty.

“Thorstein?” she asked hesitantly.

“He left after the third lash.” His robe rustled against the grass as he moved toward her. “To be honest, I wished to go with him.”

She felt the heavy warmth of a cloak drape gently over her shoulders, his hands pressing lightly on the tops of her shoulders.

“I’m surprised he even came at all,” the spasm of sobs in her throat caught her off guard, and she tried to wrestle them back down, but they would not be controlled.

“There now,” Sigbert said gently, sinking to his knees beside her. “He’s a young man with a tender heart. You did nothing wrong in pointing out that you’re not suited to him. It was a kindness.” He let his fingers trail on her chin. “Thorstein is wise beyond his years, and once the hurt wears off, he’ll understand.”

Pathetically, she nodded her head, sniffing like a four-year-old.

“Can you help me to my room?” Isabella said, trying to regain at least some of her composure.

Sigbert shifted his eyes, but then nodded. “I can go find Saoirse to help…”

“Please don’t leave me.” She grabbed frantically for his hand, her eyes desperately pleading him to stay, just stay with her.

“Please don’t leave me,” she whispered again.

His eyebrows were raised in what was no doubt absolute shock, and Isabella was even surprised at herself.

“Never,” he whispered.

His other hand, the one resting on her shoulder, slid to the back of her neck and gently pulled her toward him. The feel of his mouth as he kissed her radiated down to her chest, down her whole body, causing it to press into him without any bidding from her. With her back still bleeding, he was careful not to touch her where the whip marks stood, choosing instead to take hold of her rear to press her even tighter into him.

How long have I wanted this?
As a small moan escaped her, there was no question, she
did
want this. Everything about him—his smell, the strength she felt in his hands as they gripped her, the heat coming off his body—she wanted it all. She wanted him. She needed him. And even though she had not known it at the time, a part of her had rejected Thorstein not out of kindness, but because he wasn’t who she wanted. She wanted Sigbert.

As the kiss ended, Sigbert let out a contented sigh, pressing his forehead against hers. “Let’s get you back to your room.”

She let out a rakish giggle. If any other man had said those words to her after a kiss, she would know exactly what he meant. But this was Sigbert, and she knew better.

Realizing his unintended implication, he sighed and pulled away slightly so he could give her that look of disapproval he enjoyed so much. “Your wounds need tending to,” he said meaningfully.

She could tell he had meant to say it sternly, but he couldn’t keep the smile off his face any more than she could suppress hers. The idea of being alone with him, of letting him take care of her, filled her with a deep sense of peace, and as she closed her eyes and kissed him again, she realized she had never felt this way before. Not with Etienne. Not with Guillermo. Never in her whole life had she felt so loved, so utterly safe with any man.

As the kiss ended, she opened her eyes and looked into his, the deep blue of his irises shining back at her
. I love him
.

“Come,” he whispered, then helped her rise to her feet. With her arm draped over Sigbert’s, they started walking slowly toward her room, where Saoirse was likely waiting for her. The coming war, Annis’ determination to have her killed, and the blood still pouring from her back were all still present in her mind, but feeling Sigbert next to her made it all seem so far away.

***

The spotty trees between the window of the Great Hall and the paddocks obscured the view somewhat, but not enough for Annis to be confused about what she had just seen. Even with the din of people all around her enjoying their morning meal, she thought she could hear the laughter between Deorca and that treacherous priest. Laughing at her.

She should have known of course. She should have known that was why he took such an interest.

I am her priest just as surely as I am yours, Annis.
Liar!

“You ought to be resting, M’Lady,” Garrick’s voice sounded behind her, bringing her focus back to the present.

“She’s fucking the priest,” Annis seethed.

“Can’t say I’m surprised,” he said, non-plussed with her vulgarity. “She’s too much woman for the northman and not enough for any of the other menfolk. Besides, Sigbert always did like the dark ones.”

Though she could hardly call him a friend, Annis valued Garrick’s company. For with him, she never had to pretend, never had to hold back. Unlike Cædda, Garrick never tried to council her on how to be proper, how to best fulfill her role as lady of Shaftesbury. After all, Garrick was the son of a tanner and a serving maid, yet he had risen to be Shaftesbury’s most trusted captain. He never felt the need to put on airs.