Free Sunder by Kristin McTiernan

was afraid.”
    The men stilled with shock. Who had they thought she was?
    The man in the rough garment knelt down in front of her. “What is your name, Woman?” His Latin was perfect, but accented.
    “Isabella de la Vega.” Her Christian name was common enough, but in case her existence should ever be documented, she must obscure her true identity.
    “Where do you come from?”  he asked.
    He was in his forties, she guessed, perhaps slightly older; his beard was accented with grey and the lines on his face spoke of a hard life. The arms he held out to steady her were thick and his sturdy frame would have been more appropriate on a blacksmith than a priest. He had a very heavy brow that cast a shadow over his shockingly blue eyes.  All she wanted to do was collapse into those massive arms, but instead she wracked her brain to remember what Northern Spain had been called in the Dark Ages, hoping she had her time frame right.
    “My land is called Castile. It is within the Kingdom of Asturias. I was thrown from a ship, and do not know where I am.” She didn’t know if there was an ocean anywhere near here, but the excuse would have to suffice. “Who are you?”
    The leader was listening intently, his eyes never deviating from her face, while the angry man—still beet red with rage—stood farther off with the other man who had looked at her so fearfully. But the boy, the teenager who the angry man was taunting, was standing just behind the priest paying rapt attention. Did he understand Latin?
    “I am called Sigbert,” her rescuer said. “I am a priest.”
    Isabella smiled. It was a small victory to correctly identify him as a holy man. She was glad to have an ally here. However, her life depended on the wishes of their leader. Still kneeling, she lifted her eyes toward their master. “And you, My Lord?”
    He did not smile as he looked down on her. “I am Cædda, Thane to King Alfred of Wessex.”
    She looked at him in confusion. “Where is Wessex?” 
    Sigbert and Cædda looked at each other, but did not answer her question.
    “Will your people come for you?” Cædda asked, his stare seeming to dare her to respond in the affirmative. Were they at war? Did they think her to be a member of their enemy’s people? She knew nothing—nothing to even hint at what could be the appropriate response. She had only her training to fall back on. If you are ever confronted by a native with questions, stay as close to the truth as possible.
    “No Sire,” she said, groping for an explanation. “I disobeyed my husband and was discarded. No one will be coming for me.”
    The man who titled himself as “Thane” smiled at that, and Isabella wondered what kind of man now had control over her.
     
     
     
     

6
    More than three hours of riding, and still the dark woman remained entirely motionless behind Father Sigbert on his horse. Thorstein had been watching her the entire time, sure she would feel him looking and return his gaze. But no, she had just lain her head against Father’s enormous back and, with the exception of her dangling (and embarrassingly bare) legs, had not stirred at all during the journey. Was she asleep?
    They would be home soon and Thorstein was relieved that this silent journey from Wimbourne Minster would soon be over. Having the dark woman along was uncomfortable for him; he felt it was his fault she had been taken. Had Garrick not been so intent on taunting him, the noblewoman may have been allowed to go unmolested to the Abbey. Now she would likely become a slave like himself.
    Seemingly in response to his thoughts, Thorstein saw Garrick leave the front of their loose formation and steer his horse toward the back. The warrior looked menacingly at the captive woman and Father Sigbert as he passed them, only to have Sigbert return Garrick’s look with a smile—friendly, yet holding a warning against bothering the lady behind him. Garrick shifted his gaze to Thorstein and continued on his