Mathis, Jolie (8 page)

Prior to the Danes' attack, her life had been no great pleasure, save for the love of her child. But her brother had guarded her interests. Godric's future had appeared promising with a king to foster and invest in him.

She pushed through the keep's wide oak doors. The unexpected glare of the sky caused her to lift a hand and squint. Winter air numbed her face and speared through her woolen gunna.

"Greetings, Calldarington," she murmured. A flutter of anxiety arose in her stomach, but she would not turn back now.

Truth be told, her descent from the window the night before had been her only departure from the keep in—

Forsooth, how long had it been? She supposed since before Godric's birth. How could that be?

If she were honest with herself, she could answer the question. Two winters before, Ranulf had quietly, but purposefully, brought her under the iron wing of his protection. He'd insisted the darkness that had inspired one man to violate her could reside in others as well. She knew not where that darkness hid, only that it existed.

But now, her haven had been overrun by that darkness. Peril hovered behind every curtain and wall of Ranulf's palatial keep. Indeed, the personification of everything she feared ensconced himself in the chamber beside hers.

The walls of the keep no longer provided her with any more sanctuary than the burh, or the lands beyond. She could not play the coward any longer.

Behind her, the door creaked, and she heard the Norse giant step out.

Before her, the dirt road thronged with foreign warriors and Saxons alike, thickly bundled in their cloaks. No such protection draped her own shoulders, but, loathe to retreat, she descended to the street.

Soldiers watched as she moved past, and conferred with one another in lowered tones. Her people did the same. She walked without direction. Vekell crunched along behind her.

Something struck her leg.

Isabel looked down. The remains of a rotten cabbage slid toward the hem of her gunna. Its foul stench rose up to taint the air.

"Norse whore!"

Her head snapped up. The words had been Saxon. A multitude of faces stared at her, but no one stepped forward to claim the affront.

Dread trickled over her. Of course. Now her punishment would begin. Two winters ago when Thorleksson had escaped Ranulf's prison the accusations had been whispered. She had never accepted blame, nor denied it. Surely after last night Rowena had let it be known the past suspicions were, indeed, truth.

A Norsexian princess had helped the Dane escape. Now Ranulf's protection was gone, there would be a reckoning.

Vekell moved to her side. Frowning, his gaze spanned outward. He bent, as if to brush the refuse from her garment.

"Do not." She moved out of his reach. "I do not require your assistance."

"As you wish." He straightened.

Just ahead she saw the high wall of the burh's church.

"I wish to pray," she announced to her unwanted companion.
Pray for wisdom. Pray for strength. Pray for the courage to take my revenge against your lord.

Without waiting for the warrior to acquiesce, she trudged up the muddy incline toward the church, a place she had not visited in a very long time. Father Janus had seemed to understand her preference for the keep's small, enclosed chapel, and had served her spiritual needs there.

Three limestone steps led to the oaken doorway, steps where she, Rowena, and Ranulf had played together as children, waiting for their father to finish his Mass.

As soon as her hand touched the carved door, peace washed over her. But the moment she entered the church, that peace shattered.

Four warriors stood just inside the portal. They blocked her entry or any view of the altar. Fear stabbed through her, along with the remembrance of history lessons learned at Lindisfairne. Norsemen had come. Monks had been murdered, altars defiled. Had the barbarians from the north now desecrated Calldarington's Christian church? Did they intend to burn it to the ground? What of Father Janus who tended to the spiritual needs of the villagers and who had been so kind to her during such a difficult time in her life?

A dark figure hovered beside her.

"My lady," Vekell said, taking her elbow; pretending at civility when there was no need. "It appears he is almost finished."

As he led her aside, her imagination produced shocking, horrifying images. "Finished. Finished doing what?"

She pushed forward, bracing herself for the atrocities she would witness. Indeed, she
wanted
to witness them to make her hatred complete. Vekell stepped in front of her and took her forearms. Over his shoulder she saw what he sought to protect. His leader knelt in supplication before the altar. A goodly number of his warriors knelt alongside him.

"What is he doing?"

"Surely that is clear."

In amazement, Isabel watched Father Janus come forward, clothed in vestments, his eyes fixed upon the crown of the Danish invader's head. In a lowered voice he offered the sacrament.

"He is Christian?" A bitter laugh broke from her throat.

"Aye." He grimaced. "One of Rome's missionaries saw to that."

She jerked out of his hold. "And you?"

"I fear I remain just as steadfastly pagan as ever before." His smile did not ascend as far as his eyes.

Isabel returned her attention to the abomination in the chancel. "For what does he pray? The strength to destroy my people? For wisdom in stealing children from their mothers?"

Vekell's jaw tightened. "Do not speak of my lord so."

Reverence for the church kept her from shouting her demand. "Tell me for what such a man prays."

With a sudden fierceness, he tugged her close and whispered, " 'Tis no secret. He prays for death."

"Death?" she repeated. "My brother's death? For my death? My people's?"

"Nei,
my lady. For his own."

His words resonated inside her head. "What manner of man prays for his own death?"

"One who is
heljar-karl."

"Heljar-karl,"
she repeated.

His brow furrowed, as if he searched for the appropriate translation. "Accursed. Doomed to die."

Isabel stared at Kol's dark head lowered over the priest's hands. She had heard of such men. Warriors whom
Wyrd,
in her indifferent weaving of destinies, had marked for death.

She whispered, "A dangerous man, one who has nothing for which to live."

"Aye, and I would remember that if I were you."

Isabel was given no time to ponder whether his words should be considered a threat, for just then, Thorleksson arose and turned toward the nave. His eyes met hers as he lifted the crucifix from his chest. Solemnly he pressed his lips to the cross, and tucked it inside his jerkin.

Isabel gasped, for in that moment she caught a fleeting glimpse of the savior of her dreams, albeit a wounded one.

"No," she whispered, shaking her head. That savior did not exist. He
could
not exist, could not share existence with the beast who had stolen her innocence.

She backed through the doors and descended the stairs. An ocean-spawned wind whipped her hair across her face. Narrow alleys led between rows of peasants' huts. She hurried down the nearest. She did not dare look in his eyes again. Could not allow herself to doubt his guilt, nor fail to condemn him as completely as he deserved to be condemned.

The path led her into the darker heart of Calldarington. Faces peered through open doorways, but when she slowed, the doors slammed shut. Two women, upon seeing her, pressed back against the wall of a hovel and clutched their colorless cloaks at their throats. They considered her with dark, suspicious eyes.

No one called to her. No one offered sanctuary.

I am naught but a stranger in this place.
Isabel's steps slowed. She turned around, her arms clasped at her waist.

As a girl she had known every nook and cranny of the burh. But now, she felt lost. Where did she go from here?

From behind, footsteps sounded, heavy upon the damp pathway. Her heart beat frantically in her chest. The Danes had followed her.
He had followed her.

She turned to confront her pursuers. Three men stood there, bleak-faced Saxon men. Their sturdy bodies blocked the path down which she had come. The largest stepped forward, his meaty fists clenched into cudgels.

He taunted, "Why dost thou run, Princess?"

Isabel's blood ran cold.

Another sneered, his yellowed teeth gleaming like tallow in the mid-morning light. "Whore! Has your lover cast you out now that he has taken what he wants?"

The third man shouted, "Aye, our homes and our dead sons." His voice broke with emotion. "Traitoress."

The first man lunged. Isabel fell back, only to feel the hands of another man clench upon her waist. He pushed her to the ground so forcefully, breath forsook her lungs.

She tried to stand, but someone shoved her down again. Stones gouged her palms and her knees. In the periphery of her vision, a door opened. Light footsteps approached. Those of a woman? Surely a woman would offer her refuge.

"Bitch!" Something soft and wet struck the side of her face. The remains of a decaying onion fell to the ground. "My man is dead because of you."

Hands slapped her buttocks, yanked her hair. Toes and heels jabbed her sides. Laughter and curses flooded her ears. Isabel dug her fingers into the ground, and felt the jagged edges of crushed mollusk shells press into her skin. Amidst the clamor, someone sobbed, and she realized it was herself. She clamped her teeth shut, just as a stone struck her side.
She deserved this.
Mud splattered onto her back.

A shout pierced the haze of Isabel's misery. A woman screamed. Footsteps retreated. Isabel lowered to crouch against the earth. Why could she not sink into it and disappear?

Two large hands touched her.

"No." She flinched. But the hands pushed her hair from her face, and moved over her back and sides. Men spoke the Norse tongue, in lowered voices.

He lifted her against his chest and for one astonishing moment she felt protected from all who threatened her. She did not need to look to know who held her.

His presence had become as familiar as her own.

Chapter 7

Kol kicked the oak plank shut in the faces of his guards, who clustered at the doorway to his chamber, doing their best to attain a glimpse of the princess. She curled like a sleeping child in his arms. He had held her once before like this.

As a girl, she had exuded innocence and light; whereas now, as a woman, her soul seemed cloaked in shadows.

How heartily he wished for her to cry, to curse him or even claw at his eyes. Instead she remained motionless, her face hidden against his chest.

He lay her on the bed. Though the chamber fire dwindled, her skin shone vivid against the furs. Tears glimmered on her lashes, but her eyes remained shut.

"Art thou injured?"

She made no response, save to lift her arms and cross them over her face. Kol diverted his gaze from the generous swell of breast, revealed by her damp, clinging gunna. At her knees, her skirts bunched haphazardly, and beneath, her stockings were torn. He pulled her hem down to cover her ankles, more for his comfort than hers.

"No scarlet slippers this day," he mused.

Instead she wore finely wrought leather boots, cut to display the delicate form of her ankle, the arch of her foot.

He much preferred the slippers. Perhaps because they offered a vision of Isabel he might never be allowed to see for himself. A vibrant young woman, with joy in her eyes, and laughter on her lips.

Had she been that woman before he'd loosed destruction upon her world? Having blazed so instantly and violently into her world, he knew not what assumptions to make. His gaze ascended the length of her body. Nothing bespoke an obvious injury. Betwixt her crossed arms, her mouth trembled.

Did she cry from emotional pain alone, or physical pain as well?

He made another attempt. "Art thou able to move your limbs?"

"Leave me," she ordered in a low, thick voice. She curled onto her side, away from him, and pressed her hands to her face. A sigh staggered from her lips.

"
Nei
, my lady. There are too many questions which require answers, and I would have those answers from you." He leaned forward to smooth the hair from her face. She jerked away, as he'd known she would.

He remained there, his hand motionless beside her cheek. How tempting it was to feel sympathy for her. To wish to comfort her. Did she inspire such a reaction in all men?

Was she the artful seductress he believed? A woman so wicked even her own people despised her? Something inside him did not find accord with that suspicion. At this moment she simply appeared to be a young woman whose heart had been shattered, but he recoiled from pitying someone who, like the enemies of his past, had chosen to betray him with lies.

"What sin did you commit that your own people would turn on you so completely?"

He did not expect an answer, only silence, and perhaps more tears. Instead she flung her arms from her face. A slight swelling affected her lower lip and a bruise formed on her temple. She lifted onto her elbows to glare at him with enough intensity to make his pulse trip, a rare occurrence, even in the most dire of battles.

"You wish to know my sin?" Heat sparked from deep within her eyes, and along with it, an obvious accusation of fault.

He frowned. "You look at me as if you hold me responsible for what they did."

"Oh, nay. I am entirely to blame." Acrimony tainted her voice. She pushed up to sit, wincing at some undisclosed discomfort. Tears swelled to her lashes. Beneath her stained gunna, her breasts rose and fell with ragged effort. "For if I had let you die in my brother's pit, none of this would have occurred."

He cautioned, "Perhaps it is best you return to your silence."

"You wish for me to be silent, when I have only just begun to speak?" She inhaled several times, as if breath eluded her. "Two winters ago I aided your escape for the simple reason I was a stupid girl who believed you had saved my life."

"And that I did."

Her scathing look told him she believed otherwise.

"That I did," he repeated harshly. "Do you believe the river spat you out of its own accord?"

She sat silently, but he saw the tremor which moved through her body. He knew she must be very cold. He withdrew to the hearth and added several logs, and kindling, to the ashen heap. All the while his mind worked.

Turning back, he demanded, "Of what do you accuse me, Isabel?"

" 'Tis no matter." She watched his every move with suspicion. "What matters is what they believe." She unfurled her arm toward the window, which, if opened, would overlook the burh.

"And what do they believe?"

Her face hardened, as if he forced her to confess a humiliation too shameful to bear. "They believe we were—"

She swallowed hard. Her face twisted, as if a bee had flown down her throat.

He found it difficult to contain his impatience. "Just say it."

"Lovers," she gritted.

Kol laughed, a sharp, mirthless sound. But in the next moment a stunning succession of images emerged from deep inside his mind. His body entwined with that of the princess. Sweat. Satiation and joy.

He rejected the visions.

He asked, "Why would they believe such a falsity? Have there been so many lovers in your past?"

The princess swept her hand over her cheeks, purging the tears which fell there. "Swine. You disgust me." She grabbed one of the embroidered cushions which lay like jewels atop the king's bed and flung it at him. He caught the cushion against his chest, a warning on his tongue— but Isabel went rigid atop the coverlet, and pressed her hand to her side. Short, shallow breaths came from her lips.

"Tr
ö
ll hafi pig." He
dropped the pillow and moved to her side. "You are injured. Twice in as many days. This self-endangerment must cease."

"I am not injured. I do not require your assistance." Pain weakened her voice, and undermined the legitimacy of her claims. Closing her eyes, she fell back onto the bed. "All I need is for you to leave, and to send my maidservant. She is called Berthilde and you will find her in the hall below."

"Nei."
Kol shook his head. Already his hands moved over her torso.

"Do not touch me." She gripped his hands. Hers were shockingly cold.

Their gazes clashed. For a moment, an odd sort of familiarity coursed between them, an intimacy borne, he supposed, of the previous night's kisses and bed-tussle.

"Your maid tends to the boy and will continue to do so."

Her dark lashes lowered, severing the connection. White teeth bit into her swollen lower lip. Clearly she had hoped he would allow her son to come with the maid. "If not her, then I beg you, please send for my sister."

"Speak you of the same sister who stabbed you last eventide?"

She shoved his hands away, her face white except for two vivid spots of color on her cheeks. "I would not have you tend to me in this manner."

Moving back, he shrugged his soiled jerkin to the floor, and rolled up his tunic sleeves. "I will entrust your care to no Saxon. Not after what I just witnessed."

Her gaze fell upon him, narrow and sharp:

"Do not misunderstand my concern. Two days henceforth we ride, and you must be well enough to travel at the pace of my men."

"Travel?" Alarm softened her tone. "Where?"

Gently, he took hold of her wrists. "Try to stand."

Frowning, she allowed him to raise her to her feet. Surely because she wished to get as far from the bed as possible.

She gripped his arm. "Answer me, please. Where do we ride?"

He guided her toward the hearth. "If I told you, then you'd have nothing to contemplate for the next two days." Her furrowed brow and down-turned lips confirmed she

did not at all appreciate his humor. "What of my son? Will he travel with us?"

Kol pulled a chair into the circle of warmth.

She caught his arm. "Answer me. Tis not safe to leave him here alone and unprotected. Even now I fear—oh."

She bent toward him, her face pallid.

He lowered her onto the stool and knelt. "You must trust me now."

"Of course." No smile accompanied her laughter. "I shall do that without hesitation."

He pulled his knife from his belt. "We must determine your injury, and your garment fits too snugly to pull over your head without causing you more discomfort. Your inability to breathe fully and the pain in your side imply you have a broken or bruised rib."

Flat with dread, her eyes lowered to the blade. "This becomes an unwelcome habit."

"Cease placing yourself in danger's path, and I shall cease with the daily destruction of your garments." Though he sought to speak lightly, his words issued like a threat; he realized that in the instant stiffening of her frame. He attempted to ease her fears. "Please be assured I have much experience with regard to injuries."

"As one whose existence centers upon killing and maiming most certainly would."

Kol exhaled. He would not allow her to goad him into overreaction as she had the night before.

He caught her hem in his fist, careful not to take hold of the kirtle beneath. The princess did not struggle; she did not speak one word of protest. Indeed, she moved nary a muscle. Through the thick wool, his blade whispered upward until he severed the last bit between her breasts.

From her shoulders and arms he pushed the gown, until it fell over the sides of the chair, into a dark pool upon the floor.

For a long moment they stared at one another.

All at once she looked away, and shivered, her eyes fixed on the hearth. In a low, husky voice she asked, "I beg of you, might I have some water, with which to wash?"

Such was not an unreasonable request. The examination could wait until afterward. "Of course."

He stood and crossed to the hearth. From above the fire he unhooked a small cauldron. Inside, water sloshed against the rounded sides of the vessel. He returned and held it for her use. She cupped her hands, and lifted the crystalline fluid to her face.

The liquid glistened upon her skin, and trickled downward to dampen the linen over her breasts. The cloth took on the same delicate flush as her flesh beneath.

"Better?" His mouth had gone too dry to allow more complex speech.

"A little."

He watched, transfixed, as she drew her hair over one shoulder, and threaded her fingers through. "If you would allow me to do so, I would wash the stench from my hair." The dark fringe of her lashes concealed her eyes. "And from my skin."

'Twas a wonder the pot did not shatter, so tightly he did clench it. If she smelled foul from whatever the Saxon horde had pelted her with, he could not tell. Perhaps his eyes, trained so intently upon the shadowed channel between her breasts, weakened the abilities of his other senses.

"Please," she murmured. "I cannot bear the smell another moment more."

His blood expanded, thickened in his veins. At the same time there awakened a dark suspicion within him.

But her invitation enticed too sweetly to be declined. Lifting the pot, he tilted it and allowed the water to pour over her raised palms, and her upturned face. She smoothed her hands across her cheeks, and into her hair. The water cascaded over her shoulders. Her neck. Her breasts. The kirtle went sheer against her body, revealing tautened nipples, and lower, the dark shadow at the joining of her thighs.

How skilled she was with this false enticement. She sought to seduce him, he knew. Just as she had the night before. To gain the return of her son. To manipulate.

How foolish he had been, holding onto the hope she was an honorable wife and mother, when in truth she was as wicked and purposeful a seductress as Samson's Delilah.

The cauldron dripped, empty now. He lowered it to the ground and knelt before her. Water permeated the knees of his braies.

Droplets sparkled on her eyelashes. She did not avoid his heated stare.

"Tell me where you feel the pain most strongly."

She took his hand, and pressed it against her side. "Here."

Beneath the wet linen, her skin radiated with faint warmth. Her hair, longer now that it was wet, gleamed over her shoulders and breasts. Methodically he examined each rib, pressing his fingertips along her torso.

"Here?" Kol frowned, attempting to smooth a wrinkle in the cloth so that he might better discern any variation. 'Twas difficult to discern
anything
with the blood buzzing so heavily in his head.

"You may remove it."

Her words echoed amidst the thunder of his pulse. She grasped her kirtle at the knees. Slowly she drew the garment up. He heard the wet slide of it against her thighs. "Would you not see better without it?"

Every inch of Kol's body throbbed, as if he'd drunk too much wine. Desire swirled low, in his groin, like a warm tongue, well practiced and bold with its promise of pleasure.

Again, she took his hand, but this time she placed it at his waist, over his knife. "Concern yourself not with my modesty. After all, you yourself said I must be prepared to ride, two days henceforth."

He pulled the knife free, and slit her kirtle up the center. Barely able to contain his anger, he stripped it from her limbs.

Her skin shone like amber in the firelight. Proudly she sat, her shoulders back, her breasts out-thrust. Legs covered only to the knee by her stockings, and slightly parted. He knew she watched him take his fill.

He slid close to the edge of the chasm. How easy it would be to accept what she offered, and to give her what she wanted in return. How pleasingly heavy her breasts would be in his hands.

His desire lengthened against his thigh. He drew his thumb along her naked skin, just beneath one breast.

He did not look at her face, for already he knew what he would see. He had seen it the night before. The sneer of her lips. The hatred in her eyes.

What a little fool she was to believe him so weak.

He splayed his hand over her naked skin. "You feel pain here?"

She nodded, turning her face aside, no doubt to hide her disgust.

In one sudden move he hooked his arm around her back. She gasped, and he knew he had hurt her.