peace shattered.
Four warriors stood just inside the portal. They blocked her entry or any view of the altar. Fear stabbed through her, along with the remembrance of history lessons learned at Lindisfairne. Norsemen had come. Monks had been murdered, altars defiled. Had the barbarians from the north now desecrated Calldarington's Christian church? Did they intend to burn it to the ground? What of Father Janus who tended to the spiritual needs of the villagers and who had been so kind to her during such a difficult time in her life?
A dark figure hovered beside her.
"My lady," Vekell said, taking her elbow; pretending at civility when there was no need. "It appears he is almost finished."
As he led her aside, her imagination produced shocking, horrifying images. "Finished. Finished doing what?"
She pushed forward, bracing herself for the atrocities she would witness. Indeed, she wanted to witness them to make her hatred complete. Vekell stepped in front of her and took her forearms. Over his shoulder she saw what he sought to protect. His leader knelt in supplication before the altar. A goodly number of his warriors knelt alongside him.
"What is he doing?"
"Surely that is clear."
In amazement, Isabel watched Father Janus come forward, clothed in vestments, his eyes fixed upon the crown of the Danish invader's head. In a lowered voice he offered the sacrament.
"He is Christian?" A bitter laugh broke from her throat.
"Aye." He grimaced. "One of Rome's missionaries saw to that."
She jerked out of his hold. "And you?"
"I fear I remain just as steadfastly pagan as ever before." His smile did not ascend as far as his eyes.
Isabel returned her attention to the abomination in the chancel. "For what does he pray? The strength to destroy my people? For wisdom in stealing children from their mothers?"
Vekell's jaw tightened. "Do not speak of my lord so."
Reverence for the church kept her from shouting her demand. "Tell me for what such a man prays."
With a sudden fierceness, he tugged her close and whispered, " 'Tis no secret. He prays for death."
"Death?" she repeated. "My brother's death? For my death? My people's?"
"Nei, my lady. For his own."
His words resonated inside her head. "What manner of man prays for his own death?"
"One who is heljar-karl."
"Heljar-karl," she repeated.
His brow furrowed, as if he searched for the appropriate translation. "Accursed. Doomed to die."
Isabel stared at Kol's dark head lowered over the priest's hands. She had heard of such men. Warriors whom Wyrd, in her indifferent weaving of destinies, had marked for death.
She whispered, "A dangerous man, one who has nothing for which to live."
"Aye, and I would remember that if I were you."
Isabel was given no time to ponder whether his words should be considered a threat, for just then, Thorleksson arose and turned toward the nave. His eyes met hers as he lifted the crucifix from his chest. Solemnly he pressed his lips to the cross, and tucked it inside his jerkin.
Isabel gasped, for in that moment she caught a fleeting glimpse of the savior of her dreams, albeit a wounded one.
"No," she whispered, shaking her head. That savior did not exist. He could not exist, could not share existence with the beast who had stolen her innocence.
She backed through the doors and descended the stairs. An ocean-spawned wind whipped her hair across her face. Narrow alleys led between rows of peasants' huts. She hurried down the nearest. She did not dare look in his eyes again. Could not allow herself to doubt his guilt, nor fail to condemn him as completely as he deserved to be condemned.
The path led her into the darker heart of Calldarington. Faces peered through open doorways, but when she slowed, the doors slammed shut. Two women, upon seeing her, pressed back against the wall of a hovel and clutched their colorless cloaks at their throats. They considered her with dark, suspicious eyes.
No one called to her. No one offered sanctuary.
I am
Four warriors stood just inside the portal. They blocked her entry or any view of the altar. Fear stabbed through her, along with the remembrance of history lessons learned at Lindisfairne. Norsemen had come. Monks had been murdered, altars defiled. Had the barbarians from the north now desecrated Calldarington's Christian church? Did they intend to burn it to the ground? What of Father Janus who tended to the spiritual needs of the villagers and who had been so kind to her during such a difficult time in her life?
A dark figure hovered beside her.
"My lady," Vekell said, taking her elbow; pretending at civility when there was no need. "It appears he is almost finished."
As he led her aside, her imagination produced shocking, horrifying images. "Finished. Finished doing what?"
She pushed forward, bracing herself for the atrocities she would witness. Indeed, she wanted to witness them to make her hatred complete. Vekell stepped in front of her and took her forearms. Over his shoulder she saw what he sought to protect. His leader knelt in supplication before the altar. A goodly number of his warriors knelt alongside him.
"What is he doing?"
"Surely that is clear."
In amazement, Isabel watched Father Janus come forward, clothed in vestments, his eyes fixed upon the crown of the Danish invader's head. In a lowered voice he offered the sacrament.
"He is Christian?" A bitter laugh broke from her throat.
"Aye." He grimaced. "One of Rome's missionaries saw to that."
She jerked out of his hold. "And you?"
"I fear I remain just as steadfastly pagan as ever before." His smile did not ascend as far as his eyes.
Isabel returned her attention to the abomination in the chancel. "For what does he pray? The strength to destroy my people? For wisdom in stealing children from their mothers?"
Vekell's jaw tightened. "Do not speak of my lord so."
Reverence for the church kept her from shouting her demand. "Tell me for what such a man prays."
With a sudden fierceness, he tugged her close and whispered, " 'Tis no secret. He prays for death."
"Death?" she repeated. "My brother's death? For my death? My people's?"
"Nei, my lady. For his own."
His words resonated inside her head. "What manner of man prays for his own death?"
"One who is heljar-karl."
"Heljar-karl," she repeated.
His brow furrowed, as if he searched for the appropriate translation. "Accursed. Doomed to die."
Isabel stared at Kol's dark head lowered over the priest's hands. She had heard of such men. Warriors whom Wyrd, in her indifferent weaving of destinies, had marked for death.
She whispered, "A dangerous man, one who has nothing for which to live."
"Aye, and I would remember that if I were you."
Isabel was given no time to ponder whether his words should be considered a threat, for just then, Thorleksson arose and turned toward the nave. His eyes met hers as he lifted the crucifix from his chest. Solemnly he pressed his lips to the cross, and tucked it inside his jerkin.
Isabel gasped, for in that moment she caught a fleeting glimpse of the savior of her dreams, albeit a wounded one.
"No," she whispered, shaking her head. That savior did not exist. He could not exist, could not share existence with the beast who had stolen her innocence.
She backed through the doors and descended the stairs. An ocean-spawned wind whipped her hair across her face. Narrow alleys led between rows of peasants' huts. She hurried down the nearest. She did not dare look in his eyes again. Could not allow herself to doubt his guilt, nor fail to condemn him as completely as he deserved to be condemned.
The path led her into the darker heart of Calldarington. Faces peered through open doorways, but when she slowed, the doors slammed shut. Two women, upon seeing her, pressed back against the wall of a hovel and clutched their colorless cloaks at their throats. They considered her with dark, suspicious eyes.
No one called to her. No one offered sanctuary.
I am
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