Mathis, Jolie (3 page)

Kol did behold, and felt each muscle in his thighs, his abdomen, tighten. The face of Isabel, the woman, now obscured any memories of Isabel, the girl. A woman so beautiful it damned his very soul to look upon her. But, alas, he was already damned, despite the cross that hung from his neck.

For some men, redemption was not so easily earned.

The thought made him restless. Remembering what had brought him to this place, Kol turned his attention to matters of conquest. By the time night fell, he had disposed of mounds of treasure. More than generous with his own mercenary legion and those lesser chieftains who had lent their forces to his maneuver, he emptied Ranulf's coffers with astounding alacrity. As was his custom, he kept nothing for himself.

But for the first time, he felt tempted.

"Let the feasting begin," shouted Vekell.

Wood scraped upon stone as warriors dragged large trestle tables from the walls. Teary-eyed serving girls, selected from the scores of prisoners taken in the burh, brought forth steaming trenchers from the kitchens. In the center of the hall, a fire blazed upon a circular stone hearth.

Amidst the smoke and wavering light, Kol's finest warriors clustered around the princess, she a single night-bloom amongst a forest of trees if one did not acknowledge the other princess sniveling at her feet. A heavy curl escaped her veil to shine upon her shoulder. A perfect foil for her white skin and brilliant eyes.

The temptation grew too great.

Would her voice match the one swirling forth from his imagination, rich and smooth? He extended his hand and beckoned.

Betrayer,
her sooty-lashed eyes accused. She did not obey his summons. The coil in his stomach grew tighter.

Ragi stepped forth from the soldiers who surrounded the women.

"Isabel," he exclaimed in so thick an accent, Kol wondered whether she recognized her own name. The gray-haired warrior extended his arm to her, offered his escort.

Did the princess see her name tattooed into the old man's chest? Did she realize she had become an object of devotion to legions for having saved his life? Kol doubted she saw past Ragi's naked skin, still painted with the blood and grime of battle.

The princess bestowed a scathing look upon the man and ascended the dais, her bearing as proud as any queen's. A flash of color drew Kol's attention downward. From beneath her hem appeared the tips of two red, pointed slippers. An unwitting flirtation.

Tejst litla.
If they were lovers he would call her that, his red-footed blackbird.

A shriek shattered the moment. The sound came from the fair-haired princess who stumbled, white-faced, in her sister's wake. Staring horrified at Ragi, the young woman snatched at and hid amidst Isabel's skirts.

Isabel smoothed a hand over the crown of her sister's head, the only gesture of comfort she could manage, and took the final stair. No longer could she delay a confrontation with the monster whom she had gifted with life. From her brother's throne, he watched her, his eyes so startling in their clarity they seemed fueled by a supernatural light.

He spoke a single word in greeting: "Isabel."

God be with you, Isabel.
The words—his voice— echoed up from the recesses of her memory. Two winters had passed. How steadfastly she had believed in his innocence only to find, too late, what a naive girl she had been.

Now, at last, she stood face to face with the man who had betrayed her. Waves of heat surged through her, and with it, a fury she'd kindled for what seemed an age.

When she spoke, her voice barely exceeded a whisper. Inside her flared sleeves, her nails dug into her palm. "What a fine gift thou dost bestow upon me, Norseman."

The warlord tilted his head, and peered at her all the more intently. "Gift, my lady?"

Though his words bore an accent, he spoke her language well.

"Aye." Her eyes slid down the length of him, and back up again. She could not prevent the curl of her lip. "My very own nightmare, come to life."

His face remained carved of the same stone as before.

She despised his silence. Did he have nothing to say to her? Two winters of night-spawned curses and maledictions crowded her throat, but she could take no chances with impassioned words.

She had a secret to protect, and protect it she would.

Remembering this, Isabel drew up her courage and spoke with the dignity expected of a Norsexian princess.

"You and your army must withdraw immediately from these shores."

He responded in a low voice. "You know I cannot."

Isabel stepped closer, her sister dragging behind.

In truth, the monster held her in complete and utter thrall; more so than on the night she had held his head in her lap and prayed for his life. A neat, close-clipped beard emphasized the angular strength of his face. And his eyes.
His eyes.
Two portals to the most dangerous of hearts. A perfect reflection of her wistful, girlhood dreams.

Impulsively she reached out and pressed her hand against his cheek. His lips parted. The hall resounded with the hiss of drawn swords. The two wolfhounds circled, growling. The Norseman lifted a staying hand. His eyes did not waver from hers. Beneath her fingertips his skin felt warm and firm; the bone of his cheek, strong.

She whispered, "Satan, the sisters taught me, was physically beautiful. One of God's most brilliant angels, fallen from Heaven."

Abruptly Isabel withdrew her hand. "I am no longer a callow girl. I shall not confuse angel with devil again."

"Indeed?" His eyes darkened, or perhaps 'twas merely the smoke from the hearth.

She hated the intimacy of his gaze, for it claimed a connection they did not share.

"Indeed," she murmured, her heartbeat thunderous. Her caution, so recently imposed, fell away. "I would face my own death to kill you here and now."

She knelt between his knees, a false supplicant. "In this hall before your men." She opened one empty palm toward the rafters. "If only I held... a dagger... in my hand."

From all about came the low, astonished murmurs of his warriors.

His expression remained frozen. "We shall be enemies then?"

Isabel winced at his chosen words. Did he seek to take her back to another time and place? A time she had tried so desperately to forget?

"We should never have been anything else."

His nostrils flared in masculine displeasure. "Did you truly believe I would not return?" Still damp with the sweat of battle, his hair clung like polished onyx against his swarthy skin.

"I have prayed each and every day
you would not."
The force of Isabel's words sent her swaying forward.

The Dane caught her arms. She gasped at the power of his touch, but could not stop her confession from spilling forth. "I have prayed
each and every day
to be blest with knowledge of your death."

The Dane's eyes flashed. Rowena sobbed a warning. Isabel tore her arms free from his grip and, with her hands, swept the remnants of treasure from the dais.

"You have what you came for," she hissed. A jeweled goblet thunked down the stairs. "So be gone from this place."

Yes, go, she prayed fervently. Ranulf must be alive. He must return to his throne in Calldarington and everything must return to the way it was, else all would be lost.

"Nei."
The Dane's eyes scorched a path over her face to sear her lips. "Not yet."

The pitch of Rowena's sobs heightened.

Isabel thrust her hands into her skirts and stood. "Then allow a message to be sent to our uncle to the north, Ugbert of Wyfordon. He will pay whatever ransom you require."

"Will he?" the warlord murmured. One side of his mouth quirked upward.

Of course he would smile. 'Twas a shock he did not laugh outright in her face. Laugh at who she was, at the foolish thing she had done in setting him free.

She frowned. "Is that not what you desire? More riches? So much that your boats swell and sink beneath their weight?"

"That is not at all what I desire." From beneath dark lashes, his gaze narrowed. "I have come to this place to claim only one thing."

Isabel's heart ceased to beat.

Did he know her secret?
The reason she had prayed so fervently he would never return?

"I desire Ranulf's death," he growled. "I will not depart until it is done."

Along the outer rim of her awareness Isabel heard Rowena's sobs escalate into outright wails.

The Dane's gaze shifted to Rowena. "If you do not quiet her, I will."

A retort sprang to Isabel's lips, but a scream interrupted from the far corner of the hall, from one of the Saxon women who had been forced to serve his warriors. The Dane did not even glance in the direction of unrest, but watched Isabel keenly.

Perhaps he expected her to cower and beg for their lives, their honor, but she was daughter of Aldrith and sister to Ranulf. She would do neither. She carried the pride of their Norsexian dynasty in her blood.

She challenged his stare. "My sister and I will go to our chambers now." Lifting her chin, she added, "And you will provide us with a suitable escort so we can safely make our way there."

A roar of bawdy laughter echoed off the timber walls. Earthenware shattered. Isabel's lip curled. "Unless you wish for us to remain and watch."

The smile disappeared. He caught the eye of a huge giant of a man, the one they called Vekell, and jerked his head in the direction of the unrest. At this, Vekell plowed through the men toward the source of the distressed cry.

In the next moment, the Danish warlord snapped an order to a nearby warrior. His eyes, when they returned to her, gave off flinty sparks. "You may take your leave." With raised hand he indicated she and Rowena should follow the soldier.

In the next breath he stood. Isabel froze, her limbs bound, as if by some wicked dream. He stopped just beside her and lowered his head, almost as if he intended a kiss. For a moment, they stood as close as lovers exchanging an endearment, she trapped merely by the intensity of his physical presence.

" 'Twould be to your avail, Princess, to assist in drawing Ranulf forth." Though no part of him touched her, his tone ravished, and sent waves of heat down her spine. "We will discuss your choices further this eventide, you and I."

His gaze fell to her sister. His lip curved in disdain. "Alone."

He descended the dais and vanished into the wall of men.

You and I. Alone.
Isabel summoned every bit of her hatred and used it to quell the rapid thrum of her heart, a reaction she could only attribute to fear.

This time things would be different. This time she was awake and aware and would not find herself—too late— a victim of the Dane's treacherous hand.

Perhaps his return was a gift from God. A chance to take her revenge. For her king and her people. For herself.

But first she must take care to hide her secret. Anxiety speared through her. Blessed Lord. Godric. He was still out there. Waiting for her.

Chapter 3

"Everything was so perfect," railed Rowena. "So beautiful. And now 'tis all laid to waste."

Her sister lifted shredded garments, and, with glazed eyes, set various trunks aright. The women's rooms had been ransacked. Only a lantern's meager glow revealed the devastation.

Rowena lifted a jewel case and peeked inside. The box clattered, empty, to the floor, amidst the sound of her sobs. From the doorway their guard watched, unabashedly amused.

Isabel stood in the center of the room and touched nothing. The chamber held none of her belongings. She no longer resided in this sanctuary of chastity. The women's rooms were a place where a noble maiden's purity was protected. She had learned her lessons well.

No chastity—
no sanctuary.

She wondered whether her own chambers had been plundered. Yet in truth she did not care. The air frosted with her shallow breath. Her hands hung at her sides, as heavy as loom weights. Blessed Lord, had fear turned her to stone?

No!
Inside, her pulse thundered so loudly, even Rowena's wails grew faint to all but one thought. Isabel's gaze fixed upon the window.

Her beloved was out there.
Just the thought of Godric waiting in the forest—

She crossed to the window. The Norseman's gaze narrowed, followed her. She drew aside the heavy pelt and pushed open the shutter. Winter chill struck her full in the face, leaving her without breath.

He would be so cold.
Tears stung her eyes, painful and sharp in the frozen air. She blinked them away, and took a deep breath. She had to find him. If the Dane came for her tonight as he'd promised, she might not have another chance.

Isabel peered outward. Small fires dappled the narrow flatland surrounding the burh, evidence of their captors' presence. Beyond that, the forest encircled the western face of the keep, as dense and black as a sooted cauldron.

From the corridor a voice sounded. She gripped the windowsill as the guard opened the door. For a moment he leaned out and spoke, then he turned to indicate she and Rowena would remain under guard. He quit the room and closed the door. Footsteps faded, and there was silence. Rowena's gaze turned to her.

Beneath Isabel's palm, the edge of the window became numbingly cold. Her pulse raced. A sudden gust of wind, smelling of brine and kelp, tossed her veil across her lips and face.

She must go now. Their guard could return at any moment.

Rowena hissed, "I despise you with each breath I take."

But first she owed Rowena an explanation.

Tangled skeins of yarn fell from Rowena's hands as she charged forward. Red blotches marred her skin and tears wet her cheeks.

"I defended you to everyone." Rowena said, jabbing a narrow finger toward Isabel. "All along what they said was true. You helped the Dane escape." Her blue eyes seared Isabel. "Prithee, tell me. Is what I say true? Is that not the same heathen beast whom our brother imprisoned for attacking you two winters ago?"

Never before had her elder half sister dared to ask the question, not when Ranulf had always been there to protect and interfere. He had commanded Isabel's silence, and though he'd never spoken the condition aloud, she had known her quiescent submission was the only way to guarantee her king's continued favor for the one she loved.

But how could Isabel lie to Rowena now? All along she had despised the cool distance that had cleaved between them as Ranulf's clear, but unsolicited favoritism had become more and more apparent. But their regent was absent now, perhaps dead. Isabel was left with only the counsel of her conscience.

"Aye, 'tis true."

Rowena's eyes widened. Her body trembled. Slowly she came to stand even closer to Isabel. She shrank not from the wind and cold.

'Twas almost a relief for Isabel to avow her crime. Perhaps it was not too late to allay the rivalry between them, the one she'd neither desired nor cultivated. "Sister, for so long I have wanted to confide in you." Isabel reached for Rowena.

Rowena snatched her hand away. In the next instant Isabel felt the sting of a palm against her cheek.

Her half sister bared her teeth. "Never call me sister. Never again."

Isabel stood stunned. Though her cheek blazed with the force of the blow, as well as the heat of humiliation, Isabel did not raise her hand to soothe away the burn. In this moment, she deserved whatever retribution Rowena saw fit to mete out.

"Forsooth," Isabel whispered with a nod of her head. "I understand your anger. Endlessly I have prayed for forgiveness for setting the Dane free."

Rowena lunged. Her hands clenched Isabel's neck.

Isabel grasped Rowena's fingers, desperate to pry them loose, but Rowena, larger and stronger, held her fast. She could not breathe. Tears wet the corners of her eyes. Her sister's face shone vividly pale in the half-lit room.

"Tell me, little sister, was your treachery intentional or spawned by stupidity? When you set him free were you aware of his sin? The terrible thing he had done?"

Unable to speak, Isabel shook her head.

Rowena's gleaming eyes suddenly went flat. " 'Tis no matter. Stancliff is dead. Hermione saw him fall, and you are to blame." She thrust her thumbs into Isabel's throat.

No,
Isabel thought, choking. Stancliff, Rowena's betrothed, and countless others lay dead upon the battlefield because of her. Murdered by the Norse monster she had unleashed upon the world. Perhaps even the blood of her half brother, the king, lay upon her hands, for in the midst of battle, where had he gone? Ranulf was among the most skilled of warriors, and no coward. She could not imagine him riding away to escape, no matter how fierce the foe.

Without air, Isabel's consciousness dimmed. How long would it take to die if she did not struggle?

From her psyche hurled forth a fragmented memory, of another time when she had felt the nearness of death. Water and darkness. An angel who carried her into the light.

No, no angel.

The Dane should have let her drown. If he had, he would have died in Ranulf's prison and none of this would have come to pass.

Godric.

Strength surged into her limbs. She tore Rowena's hands from her throat and shoved her away, hard. They both collapsed to the floor. Air flooded Isabel's lungs, painful and sweet.

"I hate you," Rowena wailed, her gunna bunched gracelessly at her hips. With one foot she kicked Isabel's thigh.

Isabel grasped the edge of a table and pulled herself up. The secret passageway. The same one she had taken those years before from this very chamber to descend into the pit. 'Twas her only hope. The tapestry hung heavy and thick in her hands. She lifted it and shoved the wood plank aside.

Light flickered up from the depths where there should only have been darkness. Amidst the voices of men, stone scraped upon stone.

"Meira. H
é
rna."
More, here.

The Norsemen sealed the passage.

Isabel's hope faded. She pulled the plank back and dropped the tapestry into place. How would she escape now? Think.
Think.
She turned.

Rowena lifted a weaving hook and stabbed.

Isabel shielded herself but fell beneath the force of the attack.

"Traitorous bitch!" Rowena's curses filled her ears.

The door crashed open. A male voice commanded,
"Nei. H
œ
ttu pessu!"

Rowena thrashed as a soldier pulled her off. "You killed Stancliff! You killed them all." Isabel crawled away and stood.

"Shhh," the soldier soothed. He carried Rowena toward a stool. The chamber echoed with her screams. Aghast, Isabel retreated until the backs of her thighs 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 events.

At her cry his head whipped around. 'Twas not a scream, but a challenge to do battle. Like a Valkyrie, the princess flew at him—her visage radiant with anger, her black hair evidenced only by its high sheen beneath the night sky.

So entranced was he by the sight, she was upon him before he could react. Her hands struck his thighs, clawed at his mantle as if she would dismount him from his horse. Holding the child close, he scabbarded his sword.

"Give him to me." Her face gleamed white with cold and whatever emotion that fueled her attack. Fear or hatred? Both, he surmised. He reined his mount to the side, so as not to trample her.

"Mama."

The child spoke softly but the word stung Kol's ears as if it had been shouted by an army of thousands. His gaze held hers as he allowed her to take the child. Of course. Beside him stood a noblewoman, full-grown. He should have known she would have a family. A child.

A husband.

So why did he feel as if he'd been dealt a blow by the flat side of a sword? A vision formed in Kol's mind, that of a shining, faceless hero.
Her husband.
Hatred and jealousy flared deep within, and with it a primal desire.

She backed away, her eyes narrowed. Against her breast she held the child tight and whispered against the small cheek. Kol jerked the reins and spurred his mount to follow her. Over the child's head she cast him a venomous glare, clearly intended to wound. The effect was opposite.

He wanted to touch her.

"Come here." He dismounted.

"Nay." The princess's eyes darkened, clearly sensing a new and different danger. "I will not."

Silence ruled the grove, save for the rush of the wind through the trees and the elusive patter of Heaven spilling its frozen, fragmented tears upon the earth.

Had he met her husband in battle?
He hoped so.
A succession of images flashed through his memory, one after the other. The men he had fought and defeated that day. Each and every death-moment.

He moved toward her. She retreated, turning the child's face against her neck.

A woman's cry and the sound of horses' hooves tore his attention from her. Vekell burst from the weald atop his mount. Before him scattered a dozen or so children and one very terrified woman. Soldiers quickly fenced them in.

"Hermione," the princess called. Kol's eyes descended over her wet garments, which molded against long, slender legs. "Children."