The Sea King

by Jolie Mathis

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. "H
e 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.

  Father Janus traversed the far side of the clearing. He met Kol's eyes and nodded, before disappearing down a darkened trail.

  Perched on a branch of an oak, a single raven cawed and lifted its wings. Kol narrowed his gaze. "Cursed bird."

  The animal tilted its head and regarded Kol with dispassionate black eyes. The same raven had flitted alongside the trail, alighting upon trees, and swooping overhead, as Kol and his assembled forces had traveled to Caervon. He had heard the whispers of his warriors.

  He would die on the morrow.

  Kol lowered into a crouch before Isabel. She looked up. Tears glazed her eyes, as if she knew their time together grew short.

  "Come with me."

  In silence, Isabel folded his tunic, and accepted his hand. He led her from the clearing, down a narrow trail which ended against a cluster of oaks.

  Father Janus awaited them there, cloaked in his vestments. "Your husband hath reminded me of the untimely interruption of your wedding."

  Emotion tightened his chest. "Father Janus assures me we are married, but still, I wanted—"

  "Yes," Isabel whispered. "I want the same."

  Father Janus lifted his hands. "Then please, cross the threshold into God's church." He indicated the bowed arches overhead. Kol and Isabel followed the priest to where he had spread a cloth on the grass. Together they knelt upon it. The warmth in Isabel's eyes almost made Kol forget the blood and soot on her wedding garments, and the raven, which even now, perched in the tree above.

  Father Janus led them in Mass and Communion. When they finished, the first stars glimmered in the heavens.

  "Now you may bestow upon your bride the Kiss of Peace."

  Kol bent and pressed his lips to Isabel's. Against his mouth, he felt her smile. "Husband."

  "Wife."

  To Father Janus, Kol said, "You will forgive us for not lingering?"

  Father Janus appeared only mildly shocked. "Of course."

  Kol rested her hand on the crook of his arm, and led her toward the encampment, to a tent which stood larger, and apart from the rest. Dragon heads perched at the crossed timbers, their lips drawn to reveal their fangs.

  His men kept their distance. Some smiled. Others shouted encouragements. Kol pushed open the flap, and Isabel went inside. Warmth curled around him in teasing, seductive coils. A light haze filled the room, a product of the small fire in the center of the earthen floor.

  A bed stood partially hidden behind a heavy curtain, its beams carved into flourishes and ravens. His armor hung nearby. His weaponry glinted in the firelight, polished and laid out in an orderly row.

  Bliss and despair washed over him, all at once. He had but one night to impart to Isabel a love which would last beyond death.

  She drew him to the chair beside the fire, and lowered to her knees. Upward, over the leather of his boots, she ran her palms. With a gentle tug, she loosened the laces, and the boots, and slid them off.

  "What a fine wife you are," he whispered. When she looked up, he saw her anguish.

  'Twas clear she, too, believed tonight would be their last together.

  "Only for you, my lord."

  He reached for, and touched her hair. Her eyes glowed. "Do you see the small case, there beside the bed? Bring it to me."

  Isabel stood, and retrieved the narrow box. When she returned to him, he pulled her into his lap. He pulled her close against his shoulder, never wanting to forget her softness, the smell of her skin. He would take those memories with him to Caervon at daybreak, and they would be his strength. Even in death.

  From the case he produced an ivory comb. "Your hair hath always intrigued me."

  "Truly?"

  "Aye." He lifted a silken lock and drew the comb through. "Your hair, and your scarlet slippers."

  Isabel rested her head against him, and lifted her feet. She still wore his wedding gift. "Do you know what intrigued me about you?"

  "I am afraid to know."

  "Everything." She laughed, not without sadness.

  He pressed a finger alongside her chin, and brought her around for a kiss. A brief, chaste sort of kiss, yet inside he smoldered.

  "Let us go to bed. I will hold you."

  She sat up straight. "You wish to sleep?"

  He let out a low breath. "No, I do not wish to sleep." He set the comb aside. "But I know your heart is with your son, as it should be. I would not wish to—"

  She pressed her fingertips to his mouth.

  From his lap she stood, and turned, her back to the fire.

  "My heart is also here, with you." Her voice wavered on the last word. "I became a bride yesterday, and I cho
ose to make love to my husband this night, so that he will face tomorrow with my love as his shield and strength." Slowly she unfastened the closure of her gunna, and allowed it to fall to the floor.

  He stood, but did not move toward her.

  Isabel dropped her kirtle and tunic, and stood naked before him. Her eyes gleamed so darkly he no longer saw the color in them.

  She reached. "Come, husband."

  "Isabel—" His voice caught.

  She whispered, "You asked that I trust you. Now I ask you do the same."

  Chapter 23

  Isabel awoke to darkness, and a frantic realization. Blessed Lord, she had fallen asleep. Had she missed her chance to slip away?

  Nearby, the fire turned to ash. She turned toward Kol, but found only an empty pillow. Voices came from outside the tent. Naked, she crept from the bed to listen.

  A voice, Vekell's, said, "You will best him. I have no doubt you will prevail."

  For a long time, there was only silence. Kol finally said, "If I die—"

  Vekell laughed, an uneasy sound. "The Norse have abandoned Ranulf. His forces dwindle to nothing."

  "My destiny awaits me, there on that field. You sense that truth as well as I. We must discuss settlements for the men and their families."

  Vekell laughed no more. In a quiet voice, he answered, "What would you have me do?"

  Isabel backed away. She would hear no more talk of what would occur when Kol was dead. The time for her departure had come.

  In haste, she donned Kol's woolen tunic. After pulling on his too large boots, Isabel shuffled to where Kol's mail shirt and helm perched on their stand.

  Neither Kol nor his men would allow her to leave the camp, yet no one would question the movements of their lord. Even if her ploy gave her only a moment's lead, she could outrun them and surrender herself to Ranulf, and by doing so, spare the lives of everyone she loved.

  She paused only long enough to kiss her scarlet slippers and place them side by side upon Kol's pillow.

  Though she struggled beneath the weight, she donned his armor. From his weaponry, she selected a sharp, long-bladed knife. Into the rear panel of the tent, she thrust its tip, and dragged it down through the sturdy fabric. Heart pounding, she entered the shelter where Morke stood awaiting his master's command.