Mathis, Jolie (23 page)

Frantically, Isabel searched the ground for any sort of weapon. She cringed, hearing Rowena's screams, and again, the sound of rending cloth.

Desperately her hands grasped a huge stone, too large for her to lift. Again, she heard the laughter from deep within the man's throat. This time, instead of inspiring her to tremble in fear, she trembled with rage.

She would not allow her sister to be defiled by this foul beast. One defiler of women upon the earth was one too many, and if she had to exterminate them all, one by one, she would begin now.

With sudden strength, Isabel bellowed, and lifted the stone into the air, above her head.

Upon the ground, the beast grasped her sister's hands over her head and sought to part her thrashing legs with his knee.

Isabel staggered beneath the weight of the stone. The beast, intent on his prey, remained oblivious to her presence behind him. A smile curved Isabel's lips.

Steadying herself, ensuring her aim, she catapulted the stone in a downward arc. It landed on the Viking's head and rewarded her ears with a satisfying crunch. Rowena screeched.

The stone bounced off the fiend's skull and rolled to the side, while the mercenary collapsed onto her sister.

"I'm here, Rowena." Isabel scrambled to pull her sister from beneath the unconscious hulk. "He won't hurt you."

Rowena continued to scream, even as Isabel dragged her away. "He was going to... going to—"

"I know. I know. But he won't now."

"Is he... dead?"

"I don't know." Isabel glanced toward the giant. "I think so."

"I can't bear to look at him." As if to emphasize her disgust, Rowena screamed again.

Unable to take any more screaming, Isabel moved to block her sister's view of the man. "Calm yourself, sister. We must think of what to do."

Suddenly, Rowena's eyes widened. A shadow fell across them.

Rowena screamed.

Pain ripped across Isabel's scalp, as if her hair had been torn from her head. Above her, the sky moved in short, jagged bursts. He dragged her by her hair. Pain shot down her spine as jagged stones gouged her skull and back. Desperately, she dug her fingers and heels into the earth.

He stopped and crouched above her, his lip curled into a wicked smile. Blood trickled from his forehead, down his nose, and dripped onto her cheek.

This time it was Isabel who screamed. Though she knew her strength to be futile in comparison to his, she curled her arm and rammed her fist into the side of his face.

Shockingly, his expression went blank. He tilted to the side, and collapsed. Isabel shoved the senseless heap from her shoulder and leapt to her feet. Oh, God, the stench of him. It was all over her.

Frantic, she searched the small clearing for Rowena, but realized she had been left completely and utterly alone with the downed Norseman.

Rowena had run away, leaving her here to fend for herself.

At her feet the man stirred, groaning. Isabel did not tarry another second, but lunged into the thicket. She ran. Beneath her feet the spring foliage crunched and rustled. The sound of her breath echoed off the trees.

"Rowena!" she shouted. "Rowena!"

She paused, listening for a response, but there was none. Not even the sounds of the battle penetrated this deeply into the forest. Isabel heard only the furtive clickings of insects, the rustling of foliage. Bird songs. Nature held herself oblivious to the spilling of human blood.

Behind her arose a bellow of rage, and a startled flock of birds.

Clasping her hands over her mouth, she fled into the thickest part of the undergrowth. She did not call for her sister again.

Chapter 22

"Isabel!" Kol bellowed into the darkness. He had not paused for even an instant after felling the final challenger, before crashing into the forest in search of her.

Ranulf fled north, but Kol did not care. Nothing mattered anymore. Nothing but Isabel. He had to find her. He had seen the mercenary take her and her sister into the forest.

Even now dusk fell in a thick, smothering blanket across the land. How long would he be allowed to follow the trail left by the Norwegian giant?

He forged ahead, tracking the beast. In time, he could no longer perceive the crushed grass, the bruised leaves or broken stems. Fear clenched itself with an iron vise around his heart. If Isabel was dead, he could only hold himself and his pride to blame. For so long he had pursued his vengeance, scorching his way across the earth and stamping out those he deemed unworthy of a life he would not be allowed to live himself.

He should have lived, he should have loved, regardless of the brief time he would be allowed. Now his time upon the earth, and all its violent glories, faded to nothingness beneath the knowledge his bride might be dead.

Kol fell to his knees and stared up through the trees, into the purple sky of twilight. Had it taken her death to bring him to final redemption?

He halted, perceiving a sound. A low groan. Male.

His nostrils flaring, he lifted his sword and held it ready. But the man, when he found him, offered no threat. He lay crouched, his head in his hands. Blood matted the man's hair, as well as the ground beneath him. A large stone lay nearby, it too circled with blood.

Then he saw them. Shreds of cloth, their weave fine, their color, delicate of hue. Pieces of a woman's tunic. Kol swallowed hard and circled the man. For Kol, the twilight turned red. Blood red. With a foot, he shoved the Norseman to his back.

Through rage-clenched teeth, Kol hissed, "Where is she?"

"Danish bastard." The Norwegian's lip curled. He attempted to spit on Kol, but managed only to spray red hued spittle upon himself.

Nostrils flaring, Kol extended his sword. "My enemy, this death will be the easy one. For if I find you have hurt her I will follow you into your Hell and slay you a thousand times more."

He finished the warrior.

Turning, he peered at the circle of forest around him, his eyes keen for any sign of Isabel's path of escape.

Blood stained the grass, and there, the trunk of a tree. Inside his chest, his heart quaked. He crashed through the forest, his heart growing colder in tandem with the chill of the descent of night. Though his body performed instinctively with the stamina of a warrior, he grew increasingly soul sick. He had seen the wickedness of men firsthand, the consequences of human deviance. Too vividly he remembered these horrors, and could not prevent his mind from placing Isabel's image in their midst.

"Isabel!" he bellowed his anguish into the colorless purgatory which surrounded him.

He wandered. For an eternity, it seemed.

From somewhere came the murmur of water over stones, smooth and demulcent. He pushed toward the sound. Overhead the sky mimicked the river's path, a midnight swathe of blue, revealed by the treeless riverbed. Beneath his feet the wet river stones clicked and slid. He stumbled the last few steps, as an excruciating thirst built like a ball of flame within his throat. Kneeling, he plunged his hands beneath the surface and drank, and drank.

Finally, realizing his thirst would never be satisfied, he stared down into his hands. The water slipped through his fingers, ran in fine rivulets down his forearms, to paint streaks of black in the dirt and blood.

Inside, his soul screamed its loss. He crouched, wanting to retch. For so long he had battled to remain within this life. But without her he did not care whether he lived or died.

He heard a sound. Or thought he did.

He stood, straining to hear above the rush and splash of the water. Stone scraped upon stone. The hair on his neck arose. Crouching, he lifted his sword, and drew back away from the river.

The sound came from—he closed his eyes and lilted his head to better perceive its source—upriver. He looked north, across the expanse of the water.

From the darkness emerged a slender figure. Low, hiccuping sobs met his ears, mingled with the din of the river. The woman stumbled on the rocks and, for a moment, knelt, as if she had no more strength left in her.

"Isabel." Was she real or had she joined the shades of his mind?

The water crashed against his shins as he stormed into the river, never taking his eyes from her, afraid to blink for fear she would disappear.

"Isabel," he shouted from the abyss of his soul. His voice cut through the night.

Her head snapped up. Her face shone white amidst her dark, wild curls.

She pushed up, stumbled on her hem. "Kol!"

She fell into his arms. Stains mottled her tunic. Blood, he could smell it. Did Death follow her, just beyond the range of his sight? He did not look into the trees, afraid he might see an otherworldly being, flanked by his demons, stalking her.

She belonged to him. Death would not claim her. No one would take her from him. Never again.

Who could have thought he would be brought to his knees by his love of a woman? Frantically, his hands moved over her, searching, but he quickly realized there were no wounds, no evidence of violation.

She cried, "There is so much blood." Her hands gripped his arms. "You are wounded."

"I am well," he murmured into her hair. "Now that you are returned to me."

Devon was dead, by the hand of a Norwegian mercenary, and he did not know where Rowena had been taken. He did not care. Isabel had been returned to him, and he vowed never to let her go again.

The cries of the wounded punctuated the silence of the burh. Black smoke merged with the low fog. Those who were able, crawled over the debris of war and searched for fathers, brothers, and comrades. In the coming hours they would tend wounds or hold vigil. Or say prayers for their dead.

The sight of the destroyed burh would have overwhelmed Isabel if not for Kol. He led her through the destruction, a steady hand at her back. Thatched cottages smoldered. Flames cast eerie, wavering light against the mist.

Isabel took in the horror through a sheen of tears. "I would not have thought my broth—" She bit down on the word. She had almost called him
brother.
But never again. "I did not think Ranulf capable of this. These were his own people."

Kol stepped over a fallen timber, and guided her across. She knew he had seen much worse during his lifetime.

Somewhere a child cried for a father who most likely would never return. "Even if he were not a true son of Aldrith, the people were not to blame."

"The most dangerous men are those who act in desperation." Kol spoke softly. His blue gaze, true and steady, settled upon her face. "He will not return to Calldarington again, Isabel. Not alive. I swear it."

"I see now, that is the way it must be."

"My lord!" A voice pierced through the darkness. "Thorleksson." She believed it to be Svartkell. The smoke was so thick she could not see the warrior, although he could not be so very far away.

"This way," Kol murmured, taking her forearm.

At that moment a figure lurched from the darkness. Isabel recoiled, but the man slumped at her feet. "My lady. Help me."

Though the man lay facedown, the muffled voice was Saxon.

"Thorleksson!" Svartkell called again.

Isabel urged, "Go to your men. I will stay here and see what help I can offer the wounded."

"You should not wander alone."

"'Tis my duty to tend to them. They are my people, more so now than ever before."

Kol considered the man at her feet. "I will return for you posthaste. Do not move from this place."

Isabel nodded. When he was gone she bent to the prostrate figure. "Friend, reveal to me your wounds, so that I may help."

"Princess." The slumped figure straightened, grew broad and solid. Beneath the deep hood of the man's mantle she saw only darkness where a face should have been. Fear took hold of her. She pulled back, but a hand snared her.

"Do not fear." The man pushed the hood to his shoulders. " 'Tis I."

Her sister's betrothed sat before her, his face muddied and nearly unrecognizable. Though she felt no loyalty to her brother or his officers, she knew this man had been just as deluded as she about the nature of her brother. "You must go, Stancliff. Your life is in danger here."

"Perhaps I should spare your Dane the trouble of killing me." He cursed beneath his breath. "I am tempted to kill myself for giving my fealty to such a madman as Ranulf."

Isabel blinked in disbelief. Stancliff had always been Ranulf's most stalwart supporter. "You have turned from him?"

"He hath deceived me, my lady." He rose to his knees beside her. His face was weary. "How long has he known he was not Aldrith's true son? He could have confided in me. I would have supported him regardless. Blood alone does not guarantee a throne, not on this wicked earth. But now... he has gone too far."

"Rowena," Isabel gasped. "He has harmed her?"

"God protect her, I do not know. He has gone mad, I swear it. He will not let me so much as see her, let alone speak with her. He intends to imprison her at Caervon."

She grasped his shoulder. "Come. Let us tell Thorleksson. He will rescue her."

"I pray it." He peered at her through the fringe of his hair. "God has led me to a difficult decision, but one into which I place my whole heart. I have come to give my fealty to Thorleksson."

Isabel stood. "I will take you to him."

"Wait." Stancliff held her fast. "There is a reason for my secrecy. There is danger—"

"Danger?"

He licked his bottom lip. His hands were gentle as he took her forearms in hand, holding her, preparing her for some revelation. "You must be strong."

"What is it?" Inwardly, she braced herself. "Do not delay, tell me now."

"'Tis Godric." In that moment, the world stopped around Isabel. His next words seemed spoken from the bottom of a well. "Ranulf has taken him from the abbey."

"No." She shoved him. Her words sounded muffled to her own ears. When her legs failed, Stancliff held her.

"Isabel, Ranulf is out of his mind with hatred for you since learning of your marriage to the Dane. He killed those who stepped in to protect the child."

"Please, no!"

Stancliff closed his eyes, as if blocking out a terrible vision. "Isabel, he hath confessed to me the siring of Godric."

Isabel wrenched free of him, and took several paces into the dark before bending at the waist. Her stomach heaved. She could not breathe.

Behind her, Stancliff said softly, "Now that he has Godric, he will not rest until he has you as well. He swore to me—

She swung round to face him. He clamped his lips closed.

"What? What did he swear?"

He took a deep, steadying breath. "He swore he would release Rowena to me if I brought you to him."

"That is why you came here." Isabel stared at him in horror. "Such wicked games my false brother plays."

Stancliff rubbed a hand across his brow. "I would not do it. No matter how much I love her, you are as dear to me as a sister. We will find another way."

"Kol would never allow me to go to Caervon without him. Tell me, doth Ranulf know you have turned from him?"

"Nay." As if shamed, he looked to his feet. "I do believe he expects me to bring you to him."

Isabel lifted her fists to her cheeks. "If Kol charges in to rescue Godric, I fear Ranulf's madness, and what he might do to my child in his fury and determination to keep him from me."

"Aye," Stancliff conceded. "As do I."

Isabel made her decision. Though she loathed any deceit against her husband, she would do anything to save the life of her child, even if it meant giving her own. "Come. We must find horses so that we may travel to Caervon now."

"But lady!"

Isabel drew herself up, and aligned her shoulders. "As daughter of Aldrith, and princess of this kingdom, I command you to do as I say. You will take me to Ranulf."

Stancliff closed his eyes, then nodded. "I shall do as you wish."

Together they hurried toward what remained of the stables. From the haze, a tall figure emerged. "Isabel."

'Twas Kol. Isabel's heart fell, for how would she save her child now? Already, he had seen her.

Isabel quickly formed another plan. She gripped Stancliff's arm, praying he would follow her lead.

"Husband. Ranulf's adviser has come to offer you his fealty."

Kol peered through the smoke, his eyes riveted to Stan-cliff's face. "Has he, now?"

Stancliff stepped forward to kneel at Kol's feet. Isabel spoke again, before Stancliff could ruin her intentions. "Stancliff hath brought word Ranulf holds my sister and—" Isabel's voice failed her. Did she do the right thing? Could she, alone, save her child? "And Godric as well, at Caervon."

His face devoid of suspicion, Kol sidestepped Stancliff, and moved to her side. "Isabel." He pulled her to him.

Guilt nearly overwhelmed her, but she could see no other way. "What will you do?"

"We will depart for Caervon posthaste."

Isabel nodded. 'Twas what she'd hoped for. "Ranulf doth not know of Stancliff's change of loyalties. You may use him as messenger."

Early the next morn, as the pyres still lit the sky, they departed for Caervon, and arrived there just as evening turned the afternoon sky into a deeper blue.

Kol walked through the trees, into the clearing. Warriors had been posted to protect the encampment through the night. All about him, his men clustered, and lit fires. Among them were Saxon men who had sworn fealty to Kol after witnessing the violence their usurped king had wrought upon Calldarington's innocent citizens in the name of vengeance.

His gaze found Isabel, who sat beneath a tree mending a sword gash in his tunic. Tomorrow morning he would wear the garment beneath his mail when he met Ranulf on the field of contest.

Moments ago, he had sent the Saxon, Stancliff, to Ranulf, under the continued guise of a loyal thane, to deliver terms. At first light, Kol would meet Ranulf on the field at Caervon. They would fight to the death, for the kingdom of Norsex, and for the lives of Isabel's sister and son.