them speak her name, in heavily accented syllables.
Curse their pagan souls, how many mercenaries had Thorleksson brought with him to kill her brother? Not one made any move to engage her, but their stares were invasive. She hurried through the narrow passage. Their very presence reminded her all too clearly of the devastating change in her life, and the very real threat to her child's future.
Prior to the Danes' attack, her life had been no great pleasure, save for the love of her child. But her brother had guarded her interests. Godric's future had appeared promising with a king to foster and invest in him.
She pushed through the keep's wide oak doors. The unexpected glare of the sky caused her to lift a hand and squint. Winter air numbed her face and speared through her woolen gunna.
"Greetings, Calldarington," she murmured. A flutter of anxiety arose in her stomach, but she would not turn back now.
Truth be told, her descent from the window the night before had been her only departure from the keep in—
Forsooth, how long had it been? She supposed since before Godric's birth. How could that be?
If she were honest with herself, she could answer the question. Two winters before, Ranulf had quietly, but purposefully, brought her under the iron wing of his protection. He'd insisted the darkness that had inspired one man to violate her could reside in others as well. She knew not where that darkness hid, only that it existed.
But now, her haven had been overrun by that darkness. Peril hovered behind every curtain and wall of Ranulf's palatial keep. Indeed, the personification of everything she feared ensconced himself in the chamber beside hers.
The walls of the keep no longer provided her with any more sanctuary than the burh, or the lands beyond. She could not play the coward any longer.
Behind her, the door creaked, and she heard the Norse giant step out.
Before her, the dirt road thronged with foreign warriors and Saxons alike, thickly bundled in their cloaks. No such protection draped her own shoulders, but, loathe to retreat, she descended to the street.
Soldiers watched as she moved past, and conferred with one another in lowered tones. Her people did the same. She walked without direction. Vekell crunched along behind her.
Something struck her leg.
Isabel looked down. The remains of a rotten cabbage slid toward the hem of her gunna. Its foul stench rose up to taint the air.
"Norse whore!"
Her head snapped up. The words had been Saxon. A multitude of faces stared at her, but no one stepped forward to claim the affront.
Dread trickled over her. Of course. Now her punishment would begin. Two winters ago when Thorleksson had escaped Ranulf's prison the accusations had been whispered. She had never accepted blame, nor denied it. Surely after last night Rowena had let it be known the past suspicions were, indeed, truth.
A Norsexian princess had helped the Dane escape. Now Ranulf's protection was gone, there would be a reckoning.
Vekell moved to her side. Frowning, his gaze spanned outward. He bent, as if to brush the refuse from her garment.
"Do not." She moved out of his reach. "I do not require your assistance."
"As you wish." He straightened.
Just ahead she saw the high wall of the burh's church.
"I wish to pray," she announced to her unwanted companion. Pray for wisdom. Pray for strength. Pray for the courage to take my revenge against your lord.
Without waiting for the warrior to acquiesce, she trudged up the muddy incline toward the church, a place she had not visited in a very long time. Father Janus had seemed to understand her preference for the keep's small, enclosed chapel, and had served her spiritual needs there.
Three limestone steps led to the oaken doorway, steps where she, Rowena, and Ranulf had played together as children, waiting for their father to finish his Mass.
As soon as her hand touched the carved door, peace washed over her. But the moment she entered the church, that
Curse their pagan souls, how many mercenaries had Thorleksson brought with him to kill her brother? Not one made any move to engage her, but their stares were invasive. She hurried through the narrow passage. Their very presence reminded her all too clearly of the devastating change in her life, and the very real threat to her child's future.
Prior to the Danes' attack, her life had been no great pleasure, save for the love of her child. But her brother had guarded her interests. Godric's future had appeared promising with a king to foster and invest in him.
She pushed through the keep's wide oak doors. The unexpected glare of the sky caused her to lift a hand and squint. Winter air numbed her face and speared through her woolen gunna.
"Greetings, Calldarington," she murmured. A flutter of anxiety arose in her stomach, but she would not turn back now.
Truth be told, her descent from the window the night before had been her only departure from the keep in—
Forsooth, how long had it been? She supposed since before Godric's birth. How could that be?
If she were honest with herself, she could answer the question. Two winters before, Ranulf had quietly, but purposefully, brought her under the iron wing of his protection. He'd insisted the darkness that had inspired one man to violate her could reside in others as well. She knew not where that darkness hid, only that it existed.
But now, her haven had been overrun by that darkness. Peril hovered behind every curtain and wall of Ranulf's palatial keep. Indeed, the personification of everything she feared ensconced himself in the chamber beside hers.
The walls of the keep no longer provided her with any more sanctuary than the burh, or the lands beyond. She could not play the coward any longer.
Behind her, the door creaked, and she heard the Norse giant step out.
Before her, the dirt road thronged with foreign warriors and Saxons alike, thickly bundled in their cloaks. No such protection draped her own shoulders, but, loathe to retreat, she descended to the street.
Soldiers watched as she moved past, and conferred with one another in lowered tones. Her people did the same. She walked without direction. Vekell crunched along behind her.
Something struck her leg.
Isabel looked down. The remains of a rotten cabbage slid toward the hem of her gunna. Its foul stench rose up to taint the air.
"Norse whore!"
Her head snapped up. The words had been Saxon. A multitude of faces stared at her, but no one stepped forward to claim the affront.
Dread trickled over her. Of course. Now her punishment would begin. Two winters ago when Thorleksson had escaped Ranulf's prison the accusations had been whispered. She had never accepted blame, nor denied it. Surely after last night Rowena had let it be known the past suspicions were, indeed, truth.
A Norsexian princess had helped the Dane escape. Now Ranulf's protection was gone, there would be a reckoning.
Vekell moved to her side. Frowning, his gaze spanned outward. He bent, as if to brush the refuse from her garment.
"Do not." She moved out of his reach. "I do not require your assistance."
"As you wish." He straightened.
Just ahead she saw the high wall of the burh's church.
"I wish to pray," she announced to her unwanted companion. Pray for wisdom. Pray for strength. Pray for the courage to take my revenge against your lord.
Without waiting for the warrior to acquiesce, she trudged up the muddy incline toward the church, a place she had not visited in a very long time. Father Janus had seemed to understand her preference for the keep's small, enclosed chapel, and had served her spiritual needs there.
Three limestone steps led to the oaken doorway, steps where she, Rowena, and Ranulf had played together as children, waiting for their father to finish his Mass.
As soon as her hand touched the carved door, peace washed over her. But the moment she entered the church, that
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