Mathis, Jolie (7 page)

Desire for another woman burned in his veins. A woman who likely hovered beside her hearth at this very moment, carving daggers from chicken bones or some such treachery, to further her next attempt on his life. Even so, a proxy would hold no true satisfaction. Kol left the woman and child.

From a shadowed corner Vekell arose. "My lord, is something amiss?"

Kol spoke quietly, so that none other could hear, in particular the women who lay nearby. "I wish to speak to the Saxon traitor. He has not yet departed?"

"Nei,
he suffered wounds in the battle. Your physician has treated him and he will leave us before the sun rises."

A fire raged upon the huge stone hearth, but Kol did not need its ambient warmth. His blood remained kindled by his exchange with Isabel. Irritated, his hands fumbled with the broach at the shoulder of his cloak. The sharp prong of the emerald-eyed viper stabbed his palm and he cursed. Why was it things of beauty so often caused the most painful wounds?

His Celt mother, like Isabel, had been beautiful. But instead of bestowing a mother's love upon him, she had wished for his death from the moment of his birth. As a boy, he'd insisted upon seeing for himself the woman who despised him so much as to abandon him, a helpless babe, to a cruel death. He would never forget the moment Vekell finally agreed, and pointed to the madwoman who lived alone at the edge of their settlement. She'd remained there, completely removed from his life, until one night when he was a boy of twelve summers. After he'd led a tattered group of warriors and soundly avenged his father's murder, she had dragged him away from a feast to hiss a maelstrom of incantations above his head. He'd been accepted as a hero by his village, and yet she'd cursed him for being the son of a man who had, years before, forced his lusts upon her, a helpless slave. She had cursed Kol to die young, and without children to beget the jarl, Thorlek's, name.

At this very moment, he felt another woman's curses at work upon him. He glanced at the crossbeam ceiling. With, a growl he pulled on his gloves, working the fitted leather over his fingers.

Vekell moved toward the entrance. "Come, my lord. I will take you to him."

Kol scabbarded his vikingsword into its leather baldric and, accompanied by his hounds, followed Vekell across the outer courtyard. The scent of the sea washed over him, cleansing him. He welcomed the utter darkness of the night and the shock of cold.

As he emerged from beneath the raised wooden gate, Svartkell appeared and fell behind to protect his flank as they walked across the shallow ditch toward a small hut on the outskirts of the burh. Outside stood several guards warming their hands above a fire, but with Kol's appearance they straightened and offered due greeting to their lord.

The animal-pelt door stretched cool and smooth beneath Kol's palm. "I wish to confer with him alone."

Kol opened the door and moved inside, leaving the men and his whining hounds behind. For a moment he perceived only peat-scented haze. Upon the earthen floor smoldered a fire, a small, burning pupil in the otherwise pitch-darkness of the room.

Something moved in the far corner. Kol rested his hand upon the pommel of his sword.

In Saxon, a man's voice demanded, "Who enters?"

"'Tis I," Kol responded with cool assurance. "Thorleksson."

With an oath, the man stood. "I had wondered if we would ever meet, or if I was worthy enough only for your seconds."

"Your wounds pain you. I bid you, please sit." Though his words were gracious, Kol did not bother to keep the edge from his voice. He took exception to the man's insolence.

Ranulf's traitor limped toward him. "Nay. I will stand in the presence of Kol, Son of Thorlek. The Banished One. King of the Sea."

The man wore his battle gear. Dim light quivered over a mail shirt still stained with blood. Sweat had dried his long hair into snakish strands.

Eye to eye they stood, staring at one another. Two wolves, each assessing the other's prowess.

Wolves hunted together. But sometimes turned on one another.

"Your injuries," Kol began, his gaze descending to a linen-wrapped thigh. "Are they grievous?"

"Nay, my Danish brethren." A slow smile curled the spy's lips. "My wounds were salved by the satisfaction of our great victory today. That and the skill of your talented physician."

Kol trusted no traitor. However, the Saxon's hatred worked to his current benefit. He murmured, "I have been told you did not accept your reward."

The Saxon shook his head, his upper lip twitching into a sneer. "Gold is not the reward I seek."

This answer did not surprise Kol. Rarely did men turn traitor for greed's sake alone.

Still, a curious suspicion compelled him to ask, "Saxon, tell me then, what reward do you seek?"

The man turned from him, and retreated into the darkest shadows. "Ranulf's death will be reward enough." Kol heard the rattle of a scabbard being fastened, a sword finding its berth.

"Then go carefully. My captain will see you to the perimeter. In a fortnight we will meet at Leswick."

The man came forth. The stiffness of the wound must have eased, for now he barely limped. "Aye. I will be there, unless Death claims me first."

"Remember," Kol instructed evenly. "Ranulf is mine."

Kol watched the spy's lips tighten as he bent to remove the linen bindings from his legs. Beneath, dark stains marred the man's braies.

The Saxon straightened, and cast the linen onto the fire. "Though I crave the honor, I shall remember the oath I have made." The acrid scent of burned blood pressed into Kol's nostrils.

"I have one additional request."

Behind the man, white peat smoke arose from the fire, and streamed upward through the hut's smoke hole.

"What would please you, my lord?"

Reluctant to reveal the extent of his interest, Kol trained his gaze on the upward spiral of smoke. "Learn what you can of the Princess Isabel's husband."

"Her husband?" A low, dry laugh filled the hut.

Unaccustomed to being a source of mirth to anyone, Kol silently tucked the grudge away for later retribution.

"Yes." He met gleaming eyes. "Her husband. Confirm whether he fell this morn or whether he has joined Ranulf s surviving forces."

The man hesitated, as if savoring a flavorful tidbit. "I am afraid our princess is but a songless bird, caged in the splendor of the fortress on the hill."

"Caged? Caged by whom?"

"Ranulf. He hath disallowed her from having a husband." The words echoed like thunder inside Kol's head. Isabel had lied to him. Even as he vowed not to ask, he heard the question spring forth.

"Then who is the father of her child?"

"Christ's blood." The Norsexian traitor moved closer. Smoke danced in slender wisps around his face, obscuring his features. "You know naught?"

"Speak your knowledge," snapped Kol, impatient with the game.

The man tilted his head, his gaze as sharp as a sword. "Why, my lord, you are."

Chapter 6

"But why would the princess tell such a outrageous lie?" Vekell's gaze scorched outward to ensure no other stood close enough to hear.

Morning's blush fell across the eastern side of the keep. Beneath such rosy light the Saxons who lined the ground at Kol's feet appeared almost alive. But each warrior remained just as dead as he had been the day before. Kol had no doubt of this, for he had lifted the shroud from each corpse, confirming once more, Ranulf did not lie among the battle-fallen.

He nodded to a
degn
who stood nearby. "Allow the Saxons to claim their dead."

The soldier nodded, and with his spear, beckoned to the multitude who hovered in a grim-faced mass along the edge of the field. Heels sinking heavily into the mud, Kol turned to depart. The crowd fragmented. Elbows jerked and arms shoved, as the conquered people of Calldarington hastened to remove themselves from his path.

Kol muttered to Vekell. "You tell me why a woman lies about the identity of her child's father."

His marshal shook his head. His breath, visible in the cold morning, puffed out to trail along behind them. "Fenrir's fangs! I would not have believed it of her."

"Believe it." Since hearing the traitor's revelation, Kol's anger had burgeoned tenfold.

Vekell mused, "She must have a reason to claim such a thing."

They walked into the shadow of the burh's high earthen battlement. Arrow shafts jutted forth from the wall, remnants of the previous day's battle. Kol reached out and wrenched one free.

"She hath accused me of rape. All of these people—" With the arrow he gestured at the small clusters of Saxons who skirted past. They hunkered into their dark, shapeless clothing, as if by doing so they could escape his notice. "By God, all of Norsex believes me to be the father of her child by force."

"It matters naught what they think." Only their footsteps sounded between them until Vekell murmured, "You and I both know what she claims is impossible."

The arrow snapped in Kol's fist. He dropped the pine shaft to the ground. Vekell paused to retrieve it.

Kol walked on. Why did it unseat him so severely to have one of his deepest desires so
twisted?
'Twas true, there would be no sons or daughters for him. His mother's curses, contrived to end his father's line, had proven true. Only God knew how intensely he'd tested their power in his earlier years, fornicating his way across the earth with regretfully little consequence, none but a soul-deep emptiness no profusion of carnal pleasure could ever fill. In time he had accepted his fate. In more recent years he'd found contentment in spiritual exploration and an almost monastic way of life.

When the path narrowed, Kol stopped. From this elevated place, just outside the burh's gate, he surveyed Calldarington's harbor. The dragon bows of his ships coiled upward through the morning fog like newly sprouted vines seeking the light.

He had come to await his destiny with a certain amount of peace. But now that he had come to Norsex, the place where he'd fully anticipated his destiny to culminate, that hard-earned peace scattered. Beside him, Vekell twisted the arrow's head off the broken shaft.

"The princess hath no husband, you say?" From his waist he withdrew a small pouch. Opening it, he dropped the head inside.

"Aye, she is unwed. She hath always been unwed."

Vekell tied the pouch at his waist. "Then she protects someone. A lover. One who is already married or below her in eminence. An unworthy liaison for a princess."

Kol's feet, like his mind, moved forward. "I can think of no other explanation."

Vekell matched pace with his lord. "Mayhap 'tis why she set you free from the pit, for if you remained in Calldarington alive—"

"Aye." Kol's jaw tautened. He glanced at Isabel's window in the upper hall, visible just above the battlement. The shutters remained closed tight against the outside world. "She could not take the chance her lies would be revealed."

Vekell grasped Kol's shoulder. "If what we believe is true, you bore punishment for another man."

"Ranulf would have executed me regardless of Isabel's deception." Ranulf had been waiting for him. Ranulf had known he would come.

Vekell's lips twisted and he shook his head. "Still, something does not sit well with me in all this. May we not delay our judgment of the princess until we know for certain her motivation for telling such lies?"

"How quickly you fall under her spell," Kol teased, but an underlying sharpness abided in his tone. "Her actions are betrayal enough."

Vekell's gaze skipped away. "She is not your mother. Do not assume she—"

Kol balked at any discussion of his past, especially when it had to do with women. "Our ships," he interjected. "Have they been duly unloaded?"

Vekell sighed, then nodded. "The furs have been laid out. The ivory and all the rest will be brought out in ample time."

"Good. Spread word amongst the citizenry of Calldarington, the harbor will open for commerce in a sennight."

"Aye, my lord."

Side by side he and Vekell walked beneath the wooden gate which led into the settlement. From all about came the greetings of men who worked to repair the damage of the previous day's conflict. Mostly Danes, but there were also Slavs, Arabs, and Franks among them, warriors of all lands who had, for whatever reasons of their own, joined his legions. Outside the stables, a contingent of his men prepared to ride, upon his orders, in search of Ranulf and any surviving North Saxon forces.

Kol suspected the king remained near in hopes the Danes would do as most Norse scavengers did, and simply leave once the burh had been divested of its riches.

Kol nodded toward the stables. "Be sure to choose a mount. Few of the Saxon animals remain, and our livestock will not arrive for another day, perhaps two. After noon you will ride with me to assess the available land. I do believe there is plenty for settling."

Vekell looked to him sharply. "I protest. You cannot mean—"

Kol lifted a hand. "I believe, with some care, the Saxons will become amenable to a foreign settlement."

Vekell glared at Kol's hand, and then at his lord. "And so, I suppose one morn we will awaken to find holes gouged in the hulls of our ships and you gone, alone, under cover of night so we may not follow?"

Kol smiled, despite the ache he felt in his chest. "I would make no coward's farewell."

"You cannot simply leave us here. You are the only jarl these men recognize. Every man here has sworn fealty to you, and would stand by that vow until the end of his days."

"Verily, my friend, I fear that would be a short time. You know as well as I, my destiny draws near. The omens appear more often in recent days. The men talk of dreams. I hear the whispers. I see the way they look at me. As if I am a dead man already."

"Nei,
lord. You will be with us for countless days."

Kol wished that were true, but knew the truth of his fate. 'Twas time to begin preparations. '"Tis not as if we have a homeland to which we may return. We must make a place for them here."

Vekell insisted, "I will hear no more talk of this."

Kol spread his hand on Vekell's shoulder. "You can accompany me only so far on this journey, my friend. The rest I must confront alone. And so, until then, I must consider your future and the future of these men."

With a shake of his shaggy head, Vekell stopped, ankle-deep in mud. Gray with gloom, his gaze scaled the high front wall of Ranulf's keep.

After a moment of silence, he asked, "What do you intend to do with the princess?"

"Mama!"

As instructed by Kol's lone berserker, Ragi, Isabel did not enter the great hall, but stood at the entrance, and looked inward. Though she had not seen Kol this morn, she felt his presence everywhere. In the foreign men thronging about her. In the very air.

"Mama!" Godric wiggled like an unruly worm on Berthilde's lap.
Wiggle wiggle little bug.
Isabel flushed, remembering how the Danish lord's lips had formed those words the night before.

She could not help herself. She moved toward her son, over ancient mosaic tiles which proclaimed
Legio IX Severus,
the name of the Roman commander who had claimed the promontory now known as Calldarington, so very long ago. Already the strewing herbs, which lay amidst the floor rushes, grew brittle and stale. The room smelled of men.

Ragi also moved close. He shook his head. "No, no, no. My lord hath ordered it so. You do not touch the child."

"Have I touched him?" Isabel demanded in her most cutting voice.

His bushy eyebrows crept up like twin caterpillars.

"Nei,
lady princess."

She hissed, "Then stand off."

With jaw squared, the man stepped back, but remained close enough to observe any defiance of his lord's command.

Berthilde peered over the top of Godric's head. Bruises still purpled her cheek, but her hair and clothing appeared as tidy as ever. "My lady, I was told by young Wynflaed that our Godric passed the night well. She said the Dane's wolfhounds seemed to offer him distraction."

No hounds lazed at the hearth now. They must have accompanied their lord elsewhere. Isabel knelt beside her son and the maid, exerting every ounce of her will to keep her hands at her sides.

"My lady," warned Ragi, as she edged closer.

Isabel ignored the hoary old warrior. Godric smiled, golden-skinned and sweet.

Isabel lifted her hand to her maid's face. "Berthilde, your cheek. Doth it pain you greatly?"

Berthilde flushed. "Nay, one of the Danes—indeed, the very warrior who caused me the injury, applied a dressing last eventide. Tis much improved."

'Twas difficult to imagine one of these warriors doing anything so benevolent. "Indeed?"

Berthilde nodded. Beneath the bruise, her blush deepened.

Isabel bit her lip. "What of Rowena? Have you seen my sister?" She both dreaded and craved her half sister's company, yet she had not seen her this morn, and feared for her well-being.

"Aye." Berthilde shrugged. When Godric reached for Isabel, the maid bounced him on her knee so that he clutched her leg and laughed. "She keeps to the bower with her women."

"Mama, see me ride horse." Godric giggled.

"Good boy." Isabel smiled, hoping he did not perceive her gloom. "But Rowena is well?"

"As well as
that one
can be, under our present circumstance." The maidservant rolled her gaze in the direction of the bower. "I hear her wails from time to time, but from what I have seen, the Danes have let her be." Berthilde sucked in her cheeks, as if she held back further comment.

Softly, Isabel chided. "Be kind."

Berthilde's brown eyes flashed. "She treats you with constant discourtesy."

Even now, the small wounds beneath Isabel's sleeve throbbed. "She hath been through much. Stancliff is dead."

" 'Tis a tragedy." Berthilde shifted upon the stool, and drew Godric closer. "Still, you forgive too much."

"Berthilde, do not forget yourself."

"How can I, when always, you play my conscience?" Humor replaced the ire in her maid's eye, and from beneath the bruises, emerged the lively woman who, over time, had become Isabel's closest friend.

Isabel placed a hand upon Berthilde's knee. "Your smile always heartens me, and gives me hope."

Berthilde leaned toward her. "Hold that hope close, for all this will pass in due time."

"Mama, hold
me."
Godric strained toward Isabel. Her heart caved inward. She lifted her arms to him, only to have them forced down by Ragi's hands.

She pushed up from the floor, anguish fueling her fury. "How does separating me from my child serve your lord? I know not where my king hath gone, nor whether he lives."

The old man's lips parted, but he gave her no answer.

Through tears, Isabel comforted her son. "Beloved, I will hold you very soon. Until then, Berthilde will give you a thousand sweet kisses." She smiled, if only to assure the boy, then departed the hall, for she could not bear being so close to him without holding him in her arms.

Even if she did know where Ranulf had gone, did Thorleksson truly believe she would betray her king to satisfy her own maternal longings? She would not, for no matter how strong her instincts, no matter how much agony she felt at being torn from her child, Ranulf's survival and continued sovereignty had to be preserved.

Aside from the fond familial attachment she felt toward her brother, she could not forget that without him, there would be no protection for her son, no favor. Indeed, by Ranulf's mere absence, Godric's life might be in danger. Though a fatherless child, he bore the blood of kings in his veins, and that alone made him a threat to anyone who would seek to claim the rich kingdom of Norsex for their own. Children had been assassinated for less.

With those thoughts clouding her mind, she passed beneath the arched doorway, but a chest as broad as a ship hull barred her path. The giant called Vekell stood there.

The night before his eyes had glown with male interest and good nature, but his eyes held no warmth now. She gathered Kol must have informed the man of her attack on his life the night before. This warrior, like the others, seemed to look upon Thorleksson as some sort of god or king, and any offense against him would be construed as a strike against his legion as well.

Silently, he stepped back. With extended arm, he encouraged her to proceed. Though unnerved by his mute regard, she did so. She crossed into the outer passage, his footsteps sounding behind, heavy and long of pace. Along either wall, soldiers oiled swords and mended shields. Gazes lifted to consider her as she moved past.

She heard them speak her name, in heavily accented syllables.

Curse their pagan souls, how many mercenaries had Thorleksson brought with him to kill her brother? Not one made any move to engage her, but their stares were invasive. She hurried through the narrow passage. Their very presence reminded her all too clearly of the devastating change in her life, and the very real threat to her child's future.