Trembling took hold of her body now that she faced her death.  He did look like Death come to claim her.  The blood of her people slid down the length of his sword to make small puddles upon the floor.

The Dane took another step toward her, skimming the tip of his blade along the floor.  Its eerie, metallic death-song reverberated through the high-ceilinged room.  Although stricken with terror, Isabel stood tall, determined to die with honor.

Who would tell the one she loved she had died bravely?  Isabel raised her chin to meet her executioner's eye.  Hateful blue eyes, like those of a banished angel, gleamed at her from behind the bloodied helm.

The Dane raised his sword and she flinched.  Its blade rasped through the air beside her cheek.  Rather than severing her neck as she expected, he caught the point of his blade inside her veil and thrust so it fell to her shoulders.

The Dane stepped closer.  There were rousing shouts of victory from the hoard, but their leader held up his hand.  Instantly, the room fell silent.

Only Isabel heard his whispered curse, and then, "Is it you?  Isabel?"

Her name arose in a mumur all around her, spoken first by the men forming the inner perimeter and then the others.  Before long, the room thundered with the unanimous acclaim of the Norseman.

"Isabel!"

Isabel covered her ears against the damning sound.  The room spun around her in a nightmarish vortex.  What had she done?