The Sea King

by Jolie Mathis

  She saw the flame in his eyes, and as forbidden as such a response was—she felt one spark within her. "As you yourself said last eventide, none of this matters. Not in the end."

  "I was wrong. You matter to me."

  She inhaled, unsteadily. "Do I matter more than your quest for vengeance against Ranulf?" Would she sacrifice herself to aid her brother? Even she did not know for sure.

  He hissed, and looked to the ground. Again, he raised his eyes to hers. "What matters to me most, at this moment, is that you know I did not steal your innocence." His dark hair merged with the darkness of the cavern behind him. Though he stood his ground, and did not pursue her, she saw the tension roil beneath the surface of him. "I would hear of my innocence from your lips."

  Wind shoved at her back, as if compelling her toward him, but she braced against it. "How can I trust in you, the man who seeks to lay waste to my entire world, and the world of my son?" She turned from him, her intent to escape into the whirling expanse of snow.

  "Do not turn from me."

  She felt the snag of her cloak, as he caught her, and tugged her back, into the cradle of his arm. She stared up into Kol's face, which remained tight at the lips, and square of jaw.

  He said, "Stop running away."

  She cried out softly when he pressed his lips to hers. Against her mouth he whispered, "You know the truth. I see that in your eyes." Soul-deep earnestness roughened his voice. "I did not hurt you. Would never hurt you."

  With a shove, Isabel broke free. To wholly believe in Kol's innocence would be to betray everything in her life which had meaning. Her past, present, and future.

  "You may remain here if you like," she said in a quavering voice. "I shall return to the burh."

  He called from behind. "Isab—"

  A loud crack split the air, followed by a swift, sucking sound.

  Thud.

  Isabel froze. She waited for the sound of his footsteps. His voice. She heard nothing but the sway and creak of the trees.

  The wind strove to tear her veil away. She balled her hand into the cloth, and held it at her throat. She turned, to find Kol supine upon the ground.

  She stared at the bottom of his boots. The cavern's shadows engulfed him from the waist up. She crept toward him. Only then did she see the chunk of ice which lay beside his shoulders, as large as a meat trencher.

  "Art thou... dead?" she whispered.

  He did not answer. Of course, he wouldn't if he were dead.

  Her heart pled, a bit more strongly than she wished: please no. Yet her Norsexian-princess-mind swarmed with the possibilities of the moment. She bent down and touched her fingertips to his throat. Beneath warm skin, a pulse throbbed steadily.

  Relief clashed with disappointment.

  She should leave him, and flee to Ranulf's side, where her loyalties would no longer be tested. She stared at his closed eyes, at the dark lashes which lay against his cheeks, as if he slept the soundest of sleeps.

  Yet, if he awakened, would he punish Godric for her escape? She bit her lip, and looked toward Morke, who stamped nearby in the snow.

  She clasped her eyes shut and summoned a vision of the Dane as he had appeared at the edge of the chasm, his face concealed by the blackened mask, the mace clutched ready in his fist. She reminded herself that was the man with whom she battled.

  She would do what she had to do.

  She extended her hand to the horse. "Here, boy."

  Chapter 13

  His head. How it ached.

  Kol peered through slitted eyelids. Above him, a low ceiling of uneven stone wavered orange and black. He attempted to roll to his side. Furs rustled. His arms—his legs—

  Were bound.

  Bound hand and foot, to a crude wooden frame. With a growl, he tested his bonds. Thin leather straps bit into his skin. Nei, not just straps. 'Twas the leather girdle the princess had worn at her waist when he'd seen her last.

  He eyed his bonds.

  Where was she? With a flex of his abdomen, he wrenched sideways. Beneath him a rope bed creaked. A small fire burned an arm's length away. Ice rimmed a smoke hole overhead. Melted by the fire's warmth, it dripped through the cavern ceiling, to fizzle and spit in the flames.

  He peered over the makeshift hearth, outward. Snow-hazed darkness glared at him from the mouth of the cave like the cataract-blinded eye of an old man. Night had fallen. Just then the princess entered his line of vision. "Come along," she murmured.

  She tugged Morke's reins, and the steed followed, a large cluster of spindly underbrush in tow. With this, the princess concealed the mouth of the cave. Turning, she fastened his animal to one of the sturdier limbs, covered his back with a blanket, and moved inside.

  Bending so as not to strike her head on the low ceiling of the cave, she drew nearer.

  "Why have I been bound?" Against his bonds he flexed. Dizziness plagued him. Beneath him, the ropes complained.

  She did not answer, but knelt beside the bed. Snow glistened against her dark hair. For the first time he saw his sword on the ground beside her. With both hands she lifted it, and stared into the blade as if it were a looking glass.

  Kol swallowed.

  She barely managed to hold it aloft. Her arms trembled with its weight. Shadows mottled the delicate skin beneath her eyes. When had she last slept? Beneath his cloak, the one she still wore, he saw the mud-crusted hem of her tunic.

  Mud from yesterday morn, when he'd dragged her into the mire of a winter road. A sphere of images revolved inside his mind, remembrances of the way he'd treated her that day. He had taken her child. Today he had ensured her brother would have no military support from his neighboring kings.

  All were worthy reasons to find himself bound.

  Regardless, he would not abide captivity, the foremost reason being that he cared not for the way she looked at the blade.

  Her brow furrowed. Relief ebbed through him as she lowered the sword, though he flinched at its metallic crunch as she lay it upon the earth. Were she not so careless with his weapon!

  He held his tongue. Clearly, now was not the time for chastisement.

  Shallow, quavering breaths left her lips. Condensation misted the air between them.

  He asked, "How did I come to be here?"

  "That chunk of ice fell on your head." She pointed to a glistening mound near the entrance. "After that, your horse was of great assistance."

  Hoof marks dented the earth. He saw the impression where he'd been dragged across the floor. He glared at Morke. Cursed animal. After all the battles they'd survived together. Betrayed for a woman with a soft voice and a persuasive way. She'd not even had an apple to offer as a favor.

  A wide plank lay nearby, one she'd likely used to roll him onto the low bed where he now lay.

  He spoke in a low voice. "You are ill at ease, which makes me ill at ease. What do you intend?"

  Ignoring him, she lifted a dagger, one that had previously been sheathed on his calf. The narrow blade glimmered in the firelight. Slender fingers gripped the hilt, tested its weight. 'Twas not the first time he'd seen her with a blade in her hand, but this time, leather bound his arms and legs, and he found the effect not so beguiling.

  He would not remain silent while she decided which part of him to carve.

  "Isabel."

  He tried to sit, but his bonds held him too closely to the rack and left him no better than a turtle, flipped on its back.

  More strongly he urged, "Look at me."

  She shook her head. Avoided his eyes. "Please be silent. I shall not listen to you anymore."

  Outside, the winter wind wailed and moaned like a lamenting widow. Isabel leaned toward him, across his midriff. She tugged the furs down his chest.

  Cold air touched his bare skin. His scalp shrank upon his skull. She had managed to strip him of not only his mail shirt, but his jerkin and tunic.

  All about, the shadows danced and whispered, rubbing their palms together in glee. Soon to be forgotten.
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br />   "Let us begin." Isabel's voice rang shrill. He saw the rapid blink of her lashes, her deep swallow. "No need to draw this out."

  "I bid you, look me in the eye and tell me what you intend."

  "You no longer issue the commands. I do." Still, she did not meet his eyes. "And I command you to be silent."

  "I did not take your innocence, Isabel." He fisted his hands around his bonds. "I swear to you, Godric is not my son."

  Now she did look to him. Her eyes glittered, two vivid jewels of color in an otherwise alabaster face. "Why do you persist in the belief I do not know what you did that afternoon beside the river. I may not remember, but there is proof enough." The hollowness of her tone did not reduce its force.

  "Proof?"

  "He looks just like you," she snapped.

  "Look at yourself. Clearly he takes after you, his mother. Jesu! Your hair is as dark as mine own."

  Kol's hands grew icy cold. No longer did he feel the bite of leather into his skin. How could he make her believe the truth?

  "Prithee, look at me." He tried to gentle his tone, but 'twas difficult, given the precariousness of the moment. If only she would meet his gaze. With or without her full attention, he would say what he had to say.

  "I pulled you from the river and took you to the burh.

  There I was captured and you and I both were taken into the keep. That is all. Naught else occurred between us."

  Clearly his words meant nothing, for she leaned forward and, with another yank, cast the fur off his body. The pelt dangled from the tip of his boot. She drew back, and as she did so, her hair trailed across his chest, teasing him with its scent—something he found seductive even amidst his perilous circumstance. He fought a sudden stab of desire.

  Like him, Isabel loved and hated fiercely, and found very little middling ground. What would it be like to have the devotion of such a woman?

  "Saved my life," she muttered. This time when she met his gaze, tears rimmed her lashes. "Only to ruin it." She wiped her eyes. "Not that Godric ruined my life. He is my greatest joy, but that does not absolve what you did to me."

  "Another man did this to you. Not me."

  Again, she leaned forward, but this time to glare into his eyes. Her breath feathered against his lips. "No, you did. You took my honor, my maidenhood. My choice."

  She waved the dagger in his face, so close he could taste its metallic tang. "There hath been no other man."

  "There must have been."

  "I shall listen to no more of your lies. You, of all people, understand the importance of retribution. Now I shall have mine."

  Isabel grasped the dagger. Despite the cold, her palms grew damp against the ivory.

  Between gritted teeth, the Dane spoke. "Godric cannot be my son. Would that he were, for he is the finest boy I have ever seen, but he is not."

  Isabel's nostrils flared, impatient to be done with the unpleasant task. "Waste not your breath. Now is not the time for flattery."

  "You do not understand." The fine line of his teeth clenched together, tight as a huntsman's snare. "I would... consider it God's blessing if he were my son, not by force... but—" Breath escaped his nose in heavy gusts. He muttered, "Blessed Lord, give me the words."

  With both hands she gripped the dagger. " 'Tis difficult to lie to a woman intent on your execution, is it not?"

  "I tell no lies!" The words grated from deep within his chest.

  Frowning again, Isabel shook her head. Why did she feel so sickened each time she looked in his eyes? Surely the earnestness she believed she saw, deep within that blue gaze, was feigned. How much more evidence of his skill with allurement and deceit did she require?

  She would not waste this chance. With trembling hand she reached out and touched his chest, in the exact place where she knew she had to plunge the dagger. His heart beat wildly beneath her palm. She snatched her hand away.

  How could she take anyone's life? Even his? She swallowed her fear, and licked away the perspiration that dappled her upper lip.

  By killing Kol, she spared her people the tyranny of a foreign conqueror. She gained revenge for the deaths of their sons and fathers. Revenge for herself, and her king. Remember that. She lifted the blade.

  He thrashed in an effort to break free of his bindings. "I did not father your son. 'Tis not possible!" His abdomen flexed, a plane of smooth, highly formed muscle. The legs of the cot thudded against the earthen floor.

  Braving his fury, Isabel raised up on her knees and lifted the blade.

  "Will you not listen?" His voice broke. "Why must I say it? I am gelda."

  Isabel froze, hearing the word, but did not lower the dagger.

  "Gelda," she repeated.

  "I have never sired a child, and I never will." His lip curled with the effort of speaking the words. Not in dis- taste, she realized, but in abject shame. '"Tis my curse.

  'Tis my destiny."

  His eyes reflected fury, and to her shock, the sheen of tears. His skin darkened, as if what he spoke brought him great humiliation. He groaned, and lay back, his face averted.

  Something inside her foundered. She clenched the dagger, unwilling to relinquish its power.

  She whispered, "You would say anything to stop me."

  " 'Tis the truth," he murmured in a tight voice. "I am accursed, heljar-karl, one doomed to die. And I will die forgotten, with no sons to immortalize my name."

  Isabel remembered Vekell's revelation that his lord prayed for death. "In the great hall the skald sang of how your mother cursed you. Is this how you came to be... heljar-karl?"

  She barely heard his whisper. "Aye, 'tis."

  Isabel renewed her grip upon the dagger. "What a horrible soul you must be, to be cursed by your own mother."

  As if some half-healed wound had been torn open, he turned his head and glowered at her. His arms strained against his bonds. Isabel feared he would break free. She scrambled back to press against the stone wall.

  His muscular chest rose and fell with the effort of his breath. His voice bounded off the stone. "She cursed me for the simple act of being born."

  "Surely not."

  His eyes burned into hers. "She despised me because of who my father was, and what he did to her, a helpless slave, against her will."

  Isabel thought of her own Godric. She loved him, regardless of who his father was, or how his birth had come to be.

  The hilt of the dagger grew sweaty against her palm. "A child is not responsible for the actions of its father."

  "My mother believed otherwise. When I was born she bade the midwife cast me into the snow so I would die." His jaw twitched. "Vekell found me. He spared my life. From that moment on I lived in the warrior's longhouse."

  "She cursed you as a babe?" How could it be that she felt pity for him? Yet she did.

  "Nei, her death curses came later, when I had passed some twelve winters on the earth. Before that time, no matter how often our paths crossed, she never offered me so much as a simple greeting."

  "What happened, that she would curse you after so much time had passed?"

  He did not answer for a long moment. "As a boy I revered my sire. After his murder by a neighboring jarl, I led his warriors to avenge his death. The night our war-band returned to the village, my mother lured me with tender words, away from the feast... only to spew vile incantations over my head. She died the following summer, mad and alone. Yet through her curses, her evil lives on in me."

  Isabel sat silent.

  "Even so, I would never"—his lip curled as if speaking the words disgusted him—"force myself on any woman, for I have seen the misery it brings. I have lived it."

  Isabel pressed her fingertips against trembling lips. "How can I believe you? If you are not Godric's father—"

  Then who is?

  In that instant Kol's eyes crucified her. "Then force the blade through my heart. If I am guilty of what you accuse, I deserve no less." Slowly he turned his head to stare at the ceiling of the cavern.
"Do it and go. Let me die in peace."

  Isabel looked at him, and then at the dagger in her hands. She closed her eyes, and for the first time, tried to push past the walls that protected her from the horrible things that had occurred on that day. No memory revealed itself to her.

  There were only raindrops.

  His voice.

  Stúlka litla.

  And peace.

  Isabel's eyes flew open, and she stared, through tears, at the innocent man she had almost killed.

  In her room at Calldarington, she had a trunk. In the bottom of the trunk, covered by layers of blankets and clothing, she kept a small wooden box. A box which still held a single remnant of the tunic she had worn, stained by his blood.

  Her heart had proclaimed his innocence then. Her heart proclaimed it now.

  Blameless. He had been blameless from the start. His punishment in her brother's pit had been unwarranted. Her hatred of him, undeserved.

  Isabel's broken sigh reverberated through the cavern. She crawled forward. Kol turned his face to her. Confusion softened his features. With shaking hands she cut the bindings from his wrists. She sidled down to where his feet hung over the frame, and slashed the leather cord.

  Upon open and upturned palms, she offered the dagger to him. The frame creaked as he sat up. She bowed her head to await his wrath.

  Chapter 14

  Kol took the dagger from Isabel's hands. He rubbed the sore places on his wrists, and assessed the lump on his head. "Do not bow your head to me, Princess. 'Tis not in your nature. Look up and meet my eyes."

  "I cannot." She shook her head. Yet in the next moment, she did look up. The sight of her eyes, wide and unguarded, stole his breath.

  "I have wronged you. I almost killed you."

  "And yet, you did not." Kol took up the dagger's leather sheath from the earthen floor. He slid the blade inside, and secured it inside his boot. "Why?"

  Her face wavered between despair and relief. "For the same reason I freed you from the pit two winters ago. You did nothing wrong."

  Kol's heart thundered in his chest. At last, she realized the truth. Elation filled him. Yet Isabel appeared ill. Chills passed through her body. Cold illuminated her skin.