Mathis, Jolie (2 page)

Isabel saw the curl of his lip, the gleam of his eyes, and recognized blatant mistrust. But he faltered. One of his feet appeared to have been injured, perhaps intentionally to hinder any escape.

Knowing she risked her life by doing so, she unlocked the fetters. Instead of snatching for her throat as she feared, he steadied himself against the wall.

With a soft groan, he collapsed to his knees.

Isabel reached out and braced his fall. Her own muscles screamed in complaint. As he slumped, she knelt, struggling to guide his head into her lap. There she sat, rasping for breath.

Likely he'd been given a sleeping herb. How would they ever reach the forest? Even if she were not so weak from her own injuries, she could not carry such a giant. Perhaps after a few moments of rest he would be able to stand.

She worked the woolen tunic from his shoulders. Nothing prepared her for the sight of his wounds. Bile rose in her throat when she saw how the whip had cut through his back, tearing through skin and muscle. If he survived, he'd be scarred for life.

Forcing down her revulsion, she applied Berthilde's salve with the gentlest of care. As she continued her ministrations, his muscles relaxed.

Thinking him unconscious, she settled nervously into the darkness of the corner, his great head in her lap. Her ears remained keen to any sound that might bring about their discovery. Even in the darkness, she could see the powerful slant of his cheekbones and the square line of his jaw. His wife, if he had one, must think him very handsome. She had imagined all Norsemen were fair but this one was as dark as the devil Berthilde had proclaimed him to be.

She ran one finger along his cheek. Much nicer than Merwyn's bristly chin. She yearned to stroke his hair. Instead she contented herself with resting her hand upon his nape. Perhaps her presence might give him some comfort as he slept.

His large hand fumbled for her smaller one. Her breath caught in her throat as he clasped it with near-crushing strength. The last time a man had touched her in such a manner it had been her father as he died in the cold darkness of an early November morning.

"Martr
ö
d,"
the Dane whispered.

"Yes, this is a dream. A very terrible dream." She squeezed his hand and gently laid her other hand upon the black crown of his head. Bending over him, she prayed in near-silent whispers.
Let him live.

How much time had passed? She dared not allow him to sleep any longer. Darkness would not provide its cover indefinitely, and if he remained in the keep another day he would surely face death.

"Wake, Dane. Can you stand?"

His eyes opened, sharp and clear. Perhaps he had never been asleep at all, but merely gaining strength. Although his pain must have been overwhelming, he arose to his feet without her assistance. He seemed loathe to rely on her for support, preferring the wall.

She frowned. "You will have to put your weight on me, Norseman. The walls do not extend to the weald and I would not have you fall and reveal us both."

His eyes flashed but she saw understanding therein. He allowed her to pull his arm across her shoulder. With a low grunt, he took his first step without the support of the wall. Isabel almost collapsed beneath his weight. After a moment he relieved her of much of his bulk, despite his injured foot.

A cacophony of snores came from the guard post and the cells containing other prisoners. Though his injuries slowed them, Isabel was able to guide him out of the cell and toward the secret passageway, pausing only to return the keys to their peg.

With each passing moment she became more terrified. Although a member of the king's privileged household, she did not doubt Ranulf would imprison—or even execute her, if he discovered this treason.

"Anon, there's no time." She urged him down the pitch-dark passageway, into the nethermost regions of the Roman ruins.

They passed through a hundred years of dense and nearly impassible undergrowth. Roots and bramble snatched their clothing, and surely clawed the Dane's wounds, but he made no complaint.

Soon the scent of brine surrounded them, as did the sound of ocean waves crashing against Calldarington's rocky shores. She clasped the Dane's arm, and bade him be still. Her brother currently skirmished with the Northumbrian king over borderland territory and so defenses remained in place.

Hearing no movement of the sentries, Isabel guided the Norseman toward the forest beneath a blanket of ocean-borne fog. Once they crossed into the tree line he pulled away from her and leaned against an oak. He growled, low in his throat.

Remembering the bread and cheese she'd brought for him, she fumbled in her pocket. Had he come from a ship? Perhaps his companions waited for him in one of the many inlets to the south. She lifted her offering.

Before her eyes, he straightened, very slowly. For the first time, she comprehended his true size.

Without warning a hand clapped over her mouth and an arm seized her about the waist. The bread fell from her hand. She struggled—

Until she saw them. Five warriors surrounded her like ghosts in the mist. In the center stood her Norseman, flanked by his companions. Even bent in pain he stood taller, more proudly than the rest.

They would kill her now.

"H
œ
ttu pessu."
The command rumbled from the Dane's throat. Her hood fell to her shoulders as the sixth warrior set her free.

"Your name, little one?" he rasped.

Too startled to do otherwise, she issued a whispered truth. "Isabel."

The wind sang through the trees, silvery and hypnotic.

"God be with you, Isabel."

Though she dared not even blink, the warriors disappeared like apparitions into the night. Only the drying blood and sweat of the Dane remained on her peasant's tunic to assure her he'd ever really existed at all.

Chapter 2

Two winters hence

Kol Thorleksson stood at the apex of his army. Behind him, several hundred foot soldiers formed a massive wedge of human strength. Ocean spray rode upon the winter wind, dampening his hair and body with each gust, yet he felt no cold.

Vekell strode toward him, inspecting the line. Ice crystals glistened upon his golden beard. "My lord, we have given the Saxon sufficient time to rally. Must we tarry any longer?" Once he reached Kol's side he murmured, "We aught have burned his hall in the night. These Saxons are pitiably lax in the winter."

Kol assessed the steep incline they would ascend during the battle, and the great wooden keep, cut step-fashion into the earth and stone of the promontory crest.

"Nei.
I shall have my vengeance here on the field of battle, before the eyes of my men and the Saxon people." He lifted a hand to his chest. The grooves of his crucifix were cool beneath his fingertips. "And before my God."

Vekell, pagan to the core, smiled. "But my lord, is not your God the god of forgiveness?"

With a sharp glance at his second-in-command, Kol caught the cross in his fist. "Some sins God can forgive." He concealed the amulet beneath his mail. "But I cannot."

Through narrowed eyes Kol watched Ranulf appear at the rear of the hastily gathered Norsexian forces. The king, splendidly armored and thickly guarded by a small cavalry, sat atop a black steed.

Kol nodded to Vekell.

"Aaaagh!" shouted the bearded warrior, his legs braced. He lunged forward and cast his spear over the entire gathered force of the enemy, a symbolic act to dedicate the Norsemen and their valor to their battle god. The shield carrying warriors roared in one unified voice. Beneath Kol's feet, the earth trembled.

A ripple of unrest shuddered through the ranks of the Saxons. Their animals whinnied and pranced, their fear scenting the air. A cluster of fyrd warriors broke free from their lines and ran for the forest.

For the first time in what seemed an age, Kol threw back his head and laughed.

He thrust his
vikingsword
into the air. Upon his signal, missile weapons, flung by his
hirdmen,
darkened the enemy's lines, wreaking destruction upon wood, metal, and flesh. Kol stepped forward and the battle rush began.

The next hours passed in a blur of movement and crimson.

Above the clash of battle and the cries of the dying, Vekell bellowed, "We've broken down the gate."

Kol wrenched his vikingsword from the body of his dead opponent. The war trance abated. He straightened to his full height and surveyed the field of battle. Already his standard flew upon the plateau just south of the keep.

But where was the Norsexian king?

During the melee Kol had lost sight of Ranulf. He knew his foe had not fallen in battle. Kol's warriors had been instructed to leave Ranulf alive, for be it now or later, Kol would be the one to finish him. Grimly disposing of another challenger, he crossed the field, the dewclaws of his bearskin boots finding solid purchase in the frozen ground. He joined his hirdmen, who stamped and paced, eager to begin the sacking of the burh.

Svartkell gripped his two-handed ax and shouted toward the keep, "Saxon bastard. Why does he not show himself?"

Ragi, an old berserker who fought without benefit of any clothing, save for a swath of fur across his chest and loins, licked the blood from his sword. With a leer he said, "We have seen naught of him. No doubt the coward runs to hide."

Vekell led Kol through the gate of the burh. "My
stallari,
I have been advised the king's women remain."

Kol spat on the ground but found his teeth intact. " 'Tis Ranulf I want."

"And Ranulf you shall have," Vekell grinned. "The Saxon traitor tells us the women are the king's blood-kin. His sisters."

Ragi broke into a yellow-toothed smile and rasped,

"Princesses."

Kol's lip curled. "What sort of man leaves his family behind as recompense for his sins?" But he knew full well the nature of the man he sought to destroy. "You are right, old friend. If these women share blood with Ranulf I shall take pleasure in making their lives hell as my hostages. With them in hand, Ranulf will be drawn forth and I will see him dead."

Warriors thronged about him, clamoring to continue the siege. He lifted his sword. "A-viking, my hirdmen."

From the outer passage Isabel caught a glimpse of the women clustering in the courtyard to form a human fortress against the invaders.

Where was Ranulf?
For as long as caution allowed, she had watched the battle from the high earthen rampart. She had not seen her brother fall. He had simply vanished.

"To the stairway, my lady." Berthilde slammed the door and turned with half-crazed eyes. "Follow the Princess Rowena to the old hall. Anon!"

Just as Isabel turned she heard screams. The massive door splintered. Isabel whirled, her instincts drawing her to protect the others, but Berthilde pushed her toward the stairs. The servant remained behind to offer her life in defense of her mistress.

"Berthilde," Isabel protested.

"Go, child. He waits for you in the forest."

The doorway collapsed inward with a groan. Isabel looked over her shoulder. A swarm of foreign warriors invaded the narrow hall. Berthilde's scream was cut short as a hulking Dane swatted her into the wall. Isabel rushed to defend her maid, dagger in hand.

At that moment, another Dane appeared. His immense frame filled the portal as he bent to enter. He wore a shirt of mail, not the common leather hauberk of the others. He straightened to a terrifying height. The wide iron nosepiece of his helmet prevented any humanizing view of his face. Blood, sticky and black, spattered his chest. He clenched a long, blood-darkened sword, the gold and silver weapon of a Scandinavian aristocrat. The hilt dangled with exotic decorations, trophies of past battles won. The Dane scanned the room.

"Parna!"
called the voice of a soldier.
There.
All eyes fixed upon her. Isabel's heart constricted in fear. She had to survive.
There was one who depended upon her to do so.
She snatched her head-rail close, as if the garment might make her disappear. She fled to the stairwell, slamming the oaken door behind her. She had not yet lowered its heavy bar when the door crashed open, narrowly missing her as she fell backward. Rolling to her belly, she scrambled up the stone cut stairs.

She heard him behind her, the tall, bloody Dane so distinguished from the others, his pursuit unhurried, as if he knew she could not escape.

Isabel fought panic, but stumbled over her gunna as she climbed. With luck, her half sister Rowena had already left the keep.
And her beloved. Let him be alive.
Reaching the top step, she dashed headlong into the room, her intention to turn and bar the door. She would vanish into one of the secret passages and escape the keep.

Two burly arms wrapped around her, nearly crushed her. She screamed. The scent of sweat, acrid and stale, invaded her nose. A Dane held her in an inescapable vise. He gripped her wrist and squeezed until her dagger fell to the ground. She clawed at him, but her nails met only the impenetrable barrier of a leather jerkin. With a laugh, he shoved her to the center of the room. At the same time, another warrior flung Rowena toward her.

Isabel's sister cleaved to her, her face a mask of terror.

With her eyes on the circling men, Isabel whispered to her elder half sister, "Are you hurt?"

Rowena stared at Isabel as if she no longer understood the spoken word. The scent of blood and sweat permeated the room. Men's triumphant exclamations, spoken in the Norse tongue, crowded Isabel's ears. The door of the secret passage hung open. Danes spilled forth from its darkened recesses. Confusion and fear swarmed her mind. How had they learned of its existence? Now she understood why the fortress had been penetrated with such ease.

The room fell silent.

Oh, God. How she
sensed
him. The hair on her neck stood on end and she turned to face the huge Norseman who stood in the doorway. Rowena clawed her arm. Isabel saw the deference given to the warrior by the others. It was he who would kill them, the sisters of a defeated Saxon king.

Isabel peered out from beneath her head-rail, awestruck as he approached. 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 a narrow trail 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. She flinched as 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. Rousing shouts of victory arose from the horde, but their leader lifted his hand. Instantly the room fell silent.

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

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

"Isabel!"

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

As Rowena slumped to the floor, Isabel stared into the eyes of the man who still haunted her most secret dreams.

Upon the dais in Ranulf s great hall, Kol sat straight-backed in the king's
Yppe,
the ornately carved throne signifying its occupant's superiority upon the earth. Vekell stood beside him. Together they surveyed the fruits of their victory.

All around him, his soldiers celebrated. At his feet lay the bounty of the burh. Finely crafted weapons, jewelry and vessels. Gold and silver. Ruby and pearl. But nothing so fine as the amethyst eyes he'd stared into.

She had whispered simply,
"You."

And then he had watched as her bravely veiled fear had transformed into hatred. The young peasant girl who had saved him from death two winters before was, in truth, Ranulf's sister. The Princess Isabel.

At this moment she stood motionless at the lower corner of the dais, cloaked in the mystery of her woman's clothing, glaring her hatred with her extraordinary eyes. The other, fair-haired princess crouched at her feet, and sobbed as his warriors presented each treasure.

Strange how he had forgotten her. But as soon as he had looked into her eyes he had remembered. Vividly.

Since that night two winters before, he had put her from his mind, she only the vague memory of a girl through the haze of his pain. Seasons had passed. He had thought of her rarely.

Usually only in dreams.

Beside him Vekell lowered into a crouch, his voice but a murmur amidst the boisterousness of the hall. "My lord, she leaves me speechless."

"Oh?" Kol shifted upon the throne. At his movement, his hounds, Hugin and Munin, leapt to their feet and settled again. "Of whom do you speak?"

Vekell stared him hard in the face.

The man knew him too well. A smile curved Kol's lips. "All this time I had assumed her a wicked little horse thief." His gaze settled upon her. God. How shockingly fine she was. Fine and sweet and lovely. And clearly
furious
with him. His smile grew. "I simply believed when she made her own escape she thought to take me with her."

Vekell purloined another look at the princess. "That night when I saw her there in the forest, by Thor, I believed—"

Kol interrupted with a low laugh. "Yes, how couldst I forget?" He smoothed the pad of his thumb over the swirl pattern carved into the chair's arm. "You claimed she was a swan maiden, sent by the goddess Freyja to spare me from an unworthy death."

Vekell frowned. "You scoff, but they exist."

"I was grateful to her then." Kol touched his goblet to his lips and sipped Ranulf's wine. Woodsy and sweet, it mellowed his mood. "Now, after learning her lineage, I question her motives."

Vekell shook his head, the set of his lips firm. "Whatever her intentions, she spared your life and I revere her for it.
Wyrd
did not intend for you to die without valor, chained and bleeding in a filthy cell."

No, indeed, thought Kol.
Wyrd, or Fate or God had other plans for him.
He tipped the goblet in mock gratitude to the spirit of the witch-mother who had cursed him so vengefully, when he was but a boy of twelve winters.

Vekell gave a dry chuckle. "I do not believe the princess would extend the courtesy again, if given the privilege."

Kol felt her eyes upon him. With a sideways glance he met her unwavering stare. A sudden fire blazed through his veins, and with it a primal urge to react. To pursue and claim. He exhaled through his teeth.

Fortunately he had grown skilled at controlling urges borne of impulse and heat. He splayed two fingers across his lips in an attempt to suppress his smile.

He could not deny it:
her fearlessness excited him.
He perceived not a bit of fright in her. She must truly despise him.

Whatever her reasons had been for setting him free from the pit, it pleased him beyond measure to learn she was sister to the very man who had chained and tortured him there. He wanted to crow her treason to the rafters.

Leaning forward in the chair, he mused aloud, "Dost thou believe Ranulf knew of her betrayal?"

Vekell twisted one end of his fork-braided beard. "Behold her rich clothing, the perfection of her skin. If he did know, she was not punished for it."