Sunder of Time by Kristin McTiernan

Author:Kristin McTiernan
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: time travel, alternate history, saxons, viking, dystopian, captive woman
Publisher: Kristin McTiernan
Published: 2021-07-20T00:00:00+00:00

SAFELY HIDDEN AWAY from the stares and mocking laughter of the townspeople, Thorstein allowed the hot tears to streak down his face and no longer bothered to contain his sobs.

Stupid! That was so stupid!

He had not meant to say any of those things to Deorca. But when he saw her, he was just so glad to see her, so afraid of losing her again. Not only had she spurned him, but she had done so in full view of the Great Hall. By morning everyone would know what a fool he was.

Thorstein had come to the only place he knew for sure would be deserted—Shaftesbury’s jail. He huddled in a corner of the barn-like jailer’s pens, so thankful to finally be alone in the empty room. Even the most scurrilous man was far too busy with war preparations for mischief, and the jailers were no doubt enjoying ale and laughing over the already spreading gossip of Thorstein’s pathetic proposal.

He raised his hand to wipe some of the moisture from his cheeks, but his hand froze at the sound of a heavy creak.

The door to the stockade.

The jailer’s pens were empty, but as Thorstein felt a knot twist in his stomach, he remembered the adjoining stockade was not. The Dane who had killed the real bishop, the one Garrick had dragged into town by the neck, was the sole resident of the thick-walled stockade. He rose from his corner and walked softly toward the back of the jailer’s pens, wiping the last of the moisture from his cheeks with his sleeve. As he rounded the corner into the back hallway of the pens, Thorstein saw he was correct—the heavy door to the stockade hung wide open, drifting back and forth on its hinges.

Had he been wrong about the jailers? Were they here? Creeping as silently as he could, he walked through the gaping door, straining his ears to detect any sounds of movement. Unlike the pens, the stockade was solid stone, built into eight fortified cells. A soft flicker of torchlight oozed out of the last cell, and as he moved closer, he could hear voices in the dark. He tried to make out the words, but they were muffled by the stone.

His final steps brought the occupants of the cell into sight, and Thorstein froze in an awkward pose, his face contorting in confusion.

Lady Annis, wearing only her shift and a single fur, stood in the cell with Einar, the Dane prisoner. Einar sat in a corner still shackled—by his wrists, his ankles, and his neck—so there was no danger. But what was Lady Annis doing in here with him? And in such a state of undress.

Thorstein could imagine the look of shock painted on his own face, though it would likely not compare to the flash of abject terror in Annis’ eyes.

“My Lady, what—”

“Thorstein, you surprised me. I was here to tell the news of Jesus Christ to your countryman here and I wasn’t expecting you to have allowable

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