Mathis, Jolie (13 page)

Yes. That is exactly what he desired.

He curled his fingers more deeply into the furs, and dragged her closer still, until her face was no less than an inch from his. Through the linen he saw the glistening of her tears. Impulsively, he smoothed the pad of his thumb over her cheek, through the wetness. And then across her lips.

Her hand moved beneath the linen and grasped the collar of his tunic. With an urgency he did not understand, she pulled the garment from his shoulder until its absence revealed his bare skin. Her fingertips fluttered across the scar.

He murmured, "I vow, I did not hurt you that day."

"I want to believe." She turned her cheek into his palm.

He traced the column of her neck, and threaded his fingers into her hair.

Savoring the warm fragrance of her hair through the linen, he pressed his lips to her temple. He felt her breath upon his cheek. His mouth brushed hers. She did not turn away. Kol had never experienced such an intense, yet bittersweet pleasure. His body thrummed in reaction to her gentle capitulation.

Unable to resist, he drew the cloth aside. Blood rushed to his head. Soft lips pressed against the corner of his lips.

Too sweet. Too intoxicating.

He exhaled raggedly and lowered the linen between them. "Nei, Isabel. I want you too badly, and fear, too greatly, you do not want me at all."

When he sat up, she arose onto one elbow, her eyes bright and dismayed.

He murmured, "None of this matters. Not in the end. Sleep." He stood, pulled on his jerkin, and caught up his scabbard. Stepping into the courtyard, he traversed the slough toward a cluster of his warriors.

Soon, the cold and numbness returned, and he was glad to think clearly once again.

Chapter 12

Though a sea of men surrounded her, she felt utterly alone.

Isabel guided her mare up the rocky path, just behind Vekell. Since the night before, Kol had eschewed her company. How thankful she was for that. Shame flushed her cheeks, a constant reminder of how firelight had combined with loneliness to make her see a man, and a connection, that did not exist. An illusion of the night. But in the daylight she saw her plight with the utmost clarity.

She was a Norsexian princess, held prisoner by a mercenary warlord, one who very likely had taken her innocence two years before. One who presently hunted her brother with an all-consuming desire to kill him. How had she, in her childish yearnings, allowed herself to forget those things for even a moment?

The group she rode amongst broke from the forest onto the mountain road, and joined the large contingent of Danish foot soldiers she had not seen since departing Calldarington the day before. The cadence of the warriors' footfalls echoed off the high jagged cliffs, steady as an untroubled heart.

Did she witness a march into battle? Why else, Isabel marveled, would such a force be assembled? Fear trickled down her spine.
Had Ranulf been found?

One thing she knew—they approached Lothair's Ravine.

Her mare staggered against the force of the wind. Though again, she had begrudgingly worn the Dane's fur-trimmed cloak, it did little to smother the cold. In furtive gusts, it crept beneath her hem. Despite the way she'd twisted her hands in her sleeves, her hands had gone numb.

Lothair's Ravine marked the western boundary of Ranulf's kingdom. As children, she and her half siblings had visited the marvel with their father. They had sat upon its rocky edge, dropping pebbles and ash twigs into the fathomless depths. Aldrith had warned them away, claiming the chasm had no bottom. If they fell into the darkness, he'd intoned, they would find themselves in the burning lands of the ogres.

Neither she nor the others had been brave enough to test the truth, although now, she wondered if ogres might be better company than Danes. Especially the tall, dark Dane with whom she had humiliated herself by kissing the night before.

Remembering the shining face of her childhood brother, she wondered, where was he now? She scoured the weather-beaten crags, as if she might discern, by mere will, where he and his surviving officers hid, planning their countermeasures. The alternative was unthinkable. She thought it anyway. Was he dead?

Wind gusted into her face. Her eyes watered. Her hands gripped the reins.

No.
That was not a possibility. Not only was her brother a strong ruler, he was a clever warrior and strategian. He would not fall so easily. Truly, he would be a fearsome match for the Dane. Which is why she still did not understand his disappearance from the battlefield. Ranulf was no coward.

His egress must have been part of a plan. One that, despite leaving her and Rowena behind, would work for the larger good of the kingdom. Perhaps even now, beside some burning hearth, Ranulf united warring rulers into a united front.

Yes, benevolent Lord, she whispered silently. Let that be so.

Since birth, Ranulf had been her protector, a younger mirror of their father. Not only her protector, but the protector of his people. And that role had not come to an end, Isabel assured herself.

Inside her an even greater fear resurfaced. The noble dynasties of the isle were hewn of treachery and blood. Without her brother's protection, she continued to fear for Godric's life. She prayed the Dane's promises were true, and that her child would be safe within the abbey. Her whispered appeals were lost to the wind.

As they neared the crevice, the contingent of warriors she rode among drew aside into a sheltered alcove of rock. Vekell indicated with extended arm she should do the same. Thankful to escape the sharp wind, she sidled up against a steep wall.

All around, curiously, foot soldiers tugged off their boots. To Isabel's horror, their disrobement did not end there. Fur vests and woolen tunics were discarded to reveal naked torsos. She gasped and turned her cheek as braies, too, dropped to the ground.

"You have naught to fear."

Isabel looked up sharply. Kol sat atop his monstrous black animal, reins in hand.

In that instant, Isabel's greatest fear was that he would remove
his
clothing as well.

One furtive glance revealed the warriors had once again donned only their rough fur vests, which barely concealed their chests and loins. Her eyes settled on Kol's shoulders and arms, so completely covered in protective leather and mail. Her mouth went dry. That first night she had seen him almost naked, without his tunic. Even now, the image remained emblazoned in her mind. The hard flex of his muscles and the perfection of his male form defied the scars which marred his skin. She averted her gaze.

Clearly her mind had already settled upon his innocence if it allowed her such musings. Could she allow herself that belief? To condemn someone else. A faceless, unknown Saxon. She looked up, but found him already gone.

Vekell remained clothed beside her. "Your reins, my lady."

He extended a hand. Bemused, she gave them over.

Vekell smiled. "Try to appear distressed."

"Distressed?" She narrowed her gaze upon him. "I am surrounded by a hundred naked barbarians. Do I not already appear sufficiently distressed?"

"Nei,
a bit more emotion is required, I think." When her expression remained unchanged, he lifted his hand and, with two fingers, pinched the air. Wearing a knave's smile, he threatened, "Perhaps a pinch to your bottom would help?"

Isabel scowled. "You would not dare."

"One day you will adore me, Princess. That I vow." With a chuckle, he led her mount forward, away from the protection of the crag. She clutched the pommel with both hands, unhappy with her lack of control over her mare, and the situation at hand, for she sensed something momentous was about to happen. Excitement charged the air, raising the hairs on the back of her neck.

Surrounded by more half-naked men than she could count, she and Vekell joined a group of mounted soldiers and climbed the final incline to the chasm. All about her she searched. She did not see Kol.

No trees provided a haven from the wind. Only a barren expanse of rocks spread beneath them. Unprotected, Isabel's hair flew free and wild. Across the abyss, she saw movement. Color.

The banner of Osbeorht, ruler of Northumbria.

Though she did not see Osbeorht himself, she spied his regional ealdorman, Thrydwolf. The man sat atop a horse, sheathed in armor. On either side of him spread Northumbrian soldiers, some mounted, most on foot. Many held white shields, indicating their leader's desire for a peaceful exchange.

Isabel turned to Vekell and spoke against the wind. "If I have been ransomed, I will not go."

"No?" Although he shouted, his words were nearly swept away.

"Not without my son."

He leaned from his saddle, closer. "Do not concern yourself." Tugging her reins, he drew her forward, where she would be more visible to the Northumbrians. "My lord would never make such an agreement."

At that moment the wind began to howl at a terrible pitch.

Then Isabel realized 'twas not the wind she heard at all. Her skin turned to gooseflesh. All about her, naked soldiers seethed and shouted. They snapped their teeth and tore at their hair. Some howled like wolves.

Like animals.

The Danish throng, so recently a highly disciplined force, parted down the center, and out from the midst rode Thorleksson. Though a helm covered his face, she knew it was he.

Isabel looked at the Northumbrians. They lined the opposite side of the chasm and she saw a shudder ripple" through the army. Thrydwolf, the coward, dropped his sword. The surrounding crags echoed with the humiliating clash of metal and stone. Her attention returned to Kol, trying to see him as he must appear through Northumbrian eyes.

She understood their terror.

He looked like some thing escaped from a nightmare. For a moment there was absolute silence on either side of the ravine.

A blackened helm eclipsed his face. Atop the skull-plate were fashioned two sharp-tipped ears—or horns—she knew not which. The chin piece narrowed to a point. The mask gave him the appearance of a demon, sprung straight from Hell. From his body swung chain mail and furs. With his advance, the air brimmed with the shouts and exclamations of his army. Isabel gasped and sought to calm her mare as several soldiers threw themselves prostrate beneath him, as if in worship. Or sacrifice.

Here were the barbarians of Lindisfarne.

Kol's steed did not misstep once. Vapor curled from his nostrils. He trod over each of the men, his sharp, metal-encased hooves never touching flesh.

Kol rode to the edge of the ravine, a spiked mace clutched low, beside his thigh. He bristled with easy arrogance, a barely harnessed wildness. A man in complete control of a hell-borne army of barbarians.

Suddenly he rode away. His men shrank back, like a ripple of brackish water. Then, turning back to the Northumbrians, he dug his heels into the steed's side. The beast galloped toward the ravine. A scream rose in Isabel's throat. She pressed a hand across her mouth, smothering its escape.

Man and beast sailed across the chasm with otherworldly ease. The horse landed, his muscular haunches bunching with effort. The metallic hiss of chain mail echoed off the stone as did the low guttural grunt of satisfaction from deep within the steed's throat.

A score of mounted Danes followed over the chasm on the backs of their powerful animals. Those unclothed soldiers acting the part of berserkers raced toward the edge as well, as if to attempt the impossible leap in mindless fealty to their liege lord, but were pulled back by their comrades. They snarled and frothed at the mouth like rabid beasts who had scented blood on the air.

Unrest beset the Northumbrian lines. Isabel spied several men lying in heaps on the stone plateau, fainted from mortal fear. Of those brave enough to remain standing, most fell back a step or two when the Danish leader and his warriors moved past.

Kol did not move forward to speak directly to Thrydwolf. Instead, one of his legions approached the king's emissary, feigning the role of translator, she supposed. Isabel could not hear what words were spoken, but all eyes turned toward where she sat.

Vekell murmured, "Make no move but to breathe."

He led her closer to the edge, where she would be most visible to the Northumbrians. For a moment, terrifying images flashed through Isabel's mind. Herself being cast into the ravine, a sacrifice to ravenous, pagan gods.

Beneath his layers of protection, Thrydwolf nodded. Several Northumbrian soldiers brought forth a coffer the size of a small cow, and opened it for Thorleksson's perusal.

Isabel bristled.

Vekell anticipated her question. "'Tis no ransom, my lady."

Nay, Isabel realized. 'Twas payment made by Osbeorht, to ensure the protection of his kingdom from the Danes. At least for a time. Without the help of allies, how would Ranulf regain control of Norsex?

"Cowards!" The accusation burst from her lips. The word reverberated off the stone, and seemed to swirl into the wind. All eyes shifted to her, including the fathomless gaze behind the mask. Vekell shushed her, but smiled. Laughter arose from the Danish horde but there was only silence from the Northumbrians.

Two mounted Danes hoisted the coffer and carried it between them. They rode in a wide arc, picking up pace, and leapt in tandem over the chasm. Kol crossed next, followed by the remainder of his men.

The armies diverged. Each withdrew from the naked, unprotected stone where they had met, into the forest lands. With a stiff wave of Kol's hand, Danish patrols set off in either direction to maintain the integrity of the Norsexian border.

Isabel found herself again riding in Kol's party.

She felt numb, as if she had been forced to watch an execution. For an execution it was. Ranulf's chances of a successful counterattack against the Danes had been soundly undermined.

All along the Dane had planned this. He had kissed her last eventide and wiped her tears, knowing that on the morn he would destroy her world.

She did not need counsel to understand there would be no heroic rescue of Norsex by a combined English force. Ranulf had not been on good terms with Osbeorht, but she had not expected this. A complete abandonment, with a payment of riches made for good measure. Osbeorht had turned his back on Ranulf.

All around her echoed the laughter and jibes of the Danes. They had terrified the Northumbrians with their false portrayal of a berserker army, and had gained considerable wealth as a result.

She shared her brother's humiliation. This day, Ranulf had been outmaneuvered by a man who assumed whatever role suited his current purposes with ease. Is that what he had sought to do with her last night? To woo her into believing his innocence?

But for what purpose? For the spiteful joy of watching her believe?

Her eyes pinpointed on the back of his head, their aim as true as a finely tipped arrow. He rode near the front of the army, having cast off his demonic garb. Now he simply looked like a man. In profile, she witnessed for the first time, his smile, his laughter, and fought against a begrudging admiration. All about him his men basked in his pleasure, like hounds circling at their master's feet.

Vekell cantered alongside him. The wind carried his words to her ears. "Thorleksson, I have ordered the men to search the nearby areas. If Ranulf is here, we shall find him."

Silently Kol nodded his assent. All around, Danes delved into the forest. Others set off into the rocky bluffs. Like insects foraging for sustenance, they wove in and out of the cliffs, exploring caves and crevices for signs of her brother and his surviving legion.

Isabel assured herself her brother would not be so easy to find. Perhaps he or his men had rested in these caves, but they would not have remained so vulnerable to capture. Aiken had been an exception because of his injuries.