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touched the window.
    The window.
    Across the room the door hung open on its hinges.
    Surely once they realized her absence they would assume she had escaped into the hallway.
    Moments later Isabel clung to the face of the wall, her fingers and toes shallowly wedged in the crevices between its timbers. Ivy covered the wood, allowed to remain in place by Ranulf for the purpose of lessening the winter winds' penetration of private chambers of the upper hall. Even in the spring, the weak, spidery stems would never support the weight of a man. Yet, in the past, they had given support to an innocent girl brimming with mischief and curiosity for the world, one who sought to escape the women's rooms to visit animals in the stable or to deliver a basket of bread to the widow who lived at the far edge of the burh.
    A desperate sound left Isabel's lips. That girl no longer resided within her. She was a woman full-grown, with a woman's weight and height. Her veil swirled off, claimed by the dark wind. Why had she believed herself capable of this?
    She pressed her forehead against the brittle, winter-dead leaves and closed her eyes. From the haze, Godric's face appeared and with his image came courage. Cautiously she bent her legs and, with her foot, searched for the next gap in the timber. Vines snapped, and gave way. With a painful scoring of her nails against the wood, she caught herself upon a narrow ledge. Though nearly paralyzed by fear, she forced herself to continue her descent. After an eternity her feet found purchase in the thicker vines at the stone base.
    She heard the voices of nearby soldiers, yet there were no cries of alarm. Nearly blinded by the night, she stumbled into the ditch that surrounded the burh. Brackish water permeated her slippers and skirts. So cold. She welcomed the discomfort, the numbness. How deeply she despised herself for having been inside the keep while Godric had suffered in the forest.
    She had not thought the water would splash so loudly. Rigid and aware she stood, awaiting a horde of barbarians to descend upon her in a wave of death. But none came. Perhaps the moan of the wind and not-so-distant crash of the ocean had muted her haste. Warily she resumed her trek and ascended the opposite side of the ditch. Sodden earth crumbled and slid beneath her slippers, but she thrust her hands into the mud and climbed.
    She halted, faced with the expanse of land that had been the day's battlefield. Having no other choice, she delved into the blackness. The scent of burned thatch and blood hung heavy in the air, along with a low-lying fog that teased her eyes with false images—surely false!—of the men slain there that day. All at once, a wall of trees rose up before her.
    Into the thicket she darted. Godric must be safe and alive. She could not bear the loss of him. Panicked thoughts swarmed her mind. Had he been found? Captured? Killed? She approached the clearing.
    "Godric," she called into the fathomless pitch. Her sodden skirts clung to her legs. " 'Tis I."
    Frantic, she ran in circles. No response greeted her but the sound of the wind and the creaking of winter-bare trees.
    "Godric!"
    Just as a sob of grief arose in her throat, she saw a movement across the clearing. A flash of gray against the black. A person or the cursed fog? She could not be sure.
    A familiar figure emerged. Her heart swelled with relief. She broke into a run. "Beloved."
    From behind her came the sound of thunder. A winged figure swooped past her like a fiend from Hell, clods of frozen earth flying in its wake. Terror crashed through her.
    Fool! How could she, in her sense-numbing fear, have allowed the Norse overlord to follow her to the hiding place of the treasure she held most dear? She watched in helpless terror as he swept low from his saddle, sword in hand, to capture Godric. Her son.

    A child. He held a very small child, no older than two winters, in his arms.
    Kol had no time to consider the unexpected turn of