The Sea King

by Jolie Mathis

  Isabel gasped, his weight crushing her.

  "So he had your maid put herbs in your drink to make you sleep at night. I know, you see, for I mixed the herbs myself. I must confess, I've found a knowledge of herbs— and poisons, for that matter—to be quite useful. Nightshade worked very well on your father."

  Isabel gasped, her hate burgeoning tenfold.

  "But you... you were so pretty, in your bed. I just wanted to look, but your skin was so perfect, so soft—"

  "You disgust me!" Isabel hissed. "I was defenseless."

  "But always intended for me."

  He leaned down, as if to kiss her. Isabel wrenched an arm free and tried to claw his eyes, but he held her.

  From behind him came a scream. "I shall kill you myself!"

  Rowena brought down a large pot on Stancliff's head. At what point had she entered the room? In the moment Stancliff fell, Isabel scrambled away and returned to the window.

  "Isabel!" shouted Stancliff.

  "Foul traitor," Rowena shrieked. "Murderer!" Clonk.

  Isabel knew not what occurred between Rowena and her faithless betrothed after that, so focused was her attention on the field below. For a moment she saw nothing but a blur of movement. So many warriors, clustering. Where was Ranulf?

  Her heart stopped beating.

  Where was Kol?

  The throng parted. Vekell knelt, and just beside him— "No!" she screamed. "No!"

  She tore at her hair, and shut her eyes, but saw nothing but the image of Kol's body, lifeless upon the field, his warriors kneeling around him in abject grief. Her anguish too great, she collapsed.

  Her husband was dead.

  Stancliff chuckled, looking out the window. His footsteps moved past her and he crossed the room to where a large table stood. Upon it sat a flask of wine and several goblets. Isabel heard the sounds of the liquid, splashing into a goblet. She heard his swallow, and his sigh of contentment.

  From beneath her tousled curtain of hair, she watched him with all the hatred that burned within her. Just a short distance away, Rowena rolled to her side and moaned. Though Isabel wished to hasten to her sister's side, caution held her where she lay.

  Through narrowed eyes, she watched as Ranulf grabbed up a cushion and tossed it to land near her sister. He laughed.

  He took a vial from the leather pouch at his waist. He tapped the vessel at the edge of a flask of wine. He had just returned the empty ampule to his pouch when the door flew open.

  Ranulf staggered inside. Blood stained his torso, drenched his braies. His eyes fixed upon Isabel, glassy and flat. "He is dead."

  Isabel buried her face against her knees, wishing she could burn the memory of this moment from her mind.

  "What hath happened to Rowena," Ranulf inquired.

  "Delicate girl," chuckled Stancliff. "She watched from the window and fainted from the excitement of seeing you vanquish the Dane. I have placed a pillow beneath her head and expect her to revive shortly."

  Rowena moaned.

  "Ah, I see. And Isabel?"

  "Sadly, I found it necessary to subdue her."

  "Hmmmm," came her brother's simple answer.

  "Let us drink to our victory." Stancliff lifted a goblet and poured it full of the tainted drink. He extended it toward Ranulf.

  Isabel sobbed. She should let Ranulf die. He had murdered Kol. She would have him hear her judgment before he descended to Hell.

  "Coward!" she shouted, pointing a finger at him. She trembled.

  Ranulf trembled, too.

  "Coward?" Suddenly, he lurched toward her. She screamed as he fell upon her, a forced embrace. He smelled of blood and sweat.

  She struggled, hating him, until he whispered in her ear. "Trust me."

  She stilled. What was he saying?

  "Just this once. Trust." His lips pressed against her ear.

  He withdrew from her with a whisper. "Redemption."

  Stancliff stood rigid and watchful, straining to hear any words spoken. The polished goblet glowed mellowly in his hand.

  Ranulf moved toward him, using chairs and tables as a means of support. He groaned softly with the effort. Stan-cliff's teeth shone like pearls behind his wide-mouthed smile.

  Isabel watched, knowing not what to do, as Ranulf took the goblet from Stancliff's hands. Ranulf turned. His dark eyes gleamed with sure intent as he stared at Isabel.

  Somehow he knew the wine was poisoned.

  She shook her head no. He gave her a small smile, but lifted the cup to his lips and drank.

  Stancliff leered. "You are the champion. Our true king."

  Ranulf swayed, and dropped his sword. The clatter echoed off the walls of the room, an ugly sound. He sighed softly and lowered the goblet to the table.

  Stancliff stared at him as if waiting. Curse him, she saw the smile twitch upon his lips.

  "My lord?" His query rustled from his throat, as smooth as velvet. "Are you well?"

  Ranulf coughed. "Aye. I am well." Below his boot, blood puddled in a dark footprint. "My sword. Would you give it to me, friend?"

  " 'Tis my honor," Stancliff gushed genially. He bent to grasp the sword by the hilt.

  His lips pursed with the effort, Ranulf switched their goblets. Unaware of the exchange, Stancliff stood. He extended the sword to Ranulf.

  "Place it in my hand, please. I feel so weak. Another sip of wine would fortify me."

  Stancliff slid the cup closer to his lord. The metal made a low, grating sound against the trestle.

  Fumbling now, his movements slow, Ranulf grasped his goblet. "To my most faithful comrade in arms. My dearest friend." With clear effort, Ranulf lifted the cup in a toast. Had Stancliff sensed the anger in Ranulf's voice?

  Clearly not, for Stancliff smiled with all the confidence of a victor. His hand lowered, grasped the remaining goblet.

  He lifted it to his lips and drank.

  A look of satisfaction warmed Ranulf's face. He rasped, "And to my Isabel."

  Stancliff's eyes, too, settled upon her, openly hungry.

  She shivered in revulsion. Both lifted their goblets again. When they were finished, they set them on the table.

  The two men stared at one another. A slow smile spread across Ranulf's face. Perspiration glistened upon his upper lip. "I think I must sit down. The battle has tired me. How my head aches."

  "I will summon the medicus. Your wound requires attention."

  From her place on the floor, Rowena moaned again. Ranulf lifted a hand. "'Tis nothing. But perhaps Rowena—"

  "Aye." Stancliff smiled, but almost instantly, the smile turned bitter. With a low gasp, he lifted a hand to his throat.

  "Are you all right, friend?" Ranulf's eyes gleamed.

  "Yes, of course," Stancliff answered, his voice hollow. He coughed.

  Ranulf's expression grew hard as shale. "Are you ill? Odd, but I feel it, too, the burning in my throat."

  His laughter sent chills down Isabel's back, for it was the laughter of a man who faced death.

  "Mayhap when we broke our fast this morn the food was tainted?"

  Stancliff stared, stricken, into Ranulf's eyes. "Mayhap."

  "My innards feel"—Ranulf paused, and placed the flat of his palm over his stomach—"as if they boil, hot."

  "Yes," whispered Stancliff. His brows creased and his lips parted as if he found it difficult to breathe.

  Ranulf chuckled. "My mouth is dry, and I cannot seem to swallow."

  Stancliff lifted his eyes to Ranulf's in sudden realization.

  Ranulf leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes. "Damn you to Hell, Stancliff."

  Stancliff gaped at him, leaning heavily upon the table for support. Ranulf peered out from between slitted lids.

  "My only regret is that I shall die a scant moment before you." His hands trembled, gripped the hilt of his sword, where he held it between his legs.

  All at once his eyes widened. "Father." A faint smile curved his lips.

  "Ranulf!" Isabel screa
med, as his dying eyes turned to her.

  He said, "I truly loved you, Isabel. In an honorable sort of way." He coughed, a watery, sick sound. To Stancliff, he muttered, "And you. I will await you in Hell."

  Ranulf's head lolled back.

  Isabel cried out in grief. She had despised him in the end, for having killed their father, and for his cruel punishment of Kol. But he was Ranulf. Despite his sins, she had loved him as a brother for so very long. A vision of him, as a blond little boy, surfaced in her mind, the boy who had been her protector since her birth. Aye, he had loved her, despite the demons that had tormented his later life.

  Stancliff turned his eyes, full of realization, upon Isabel. "You told him. You betrayed me."

  "Where is my son?" she begged. "You must tell me."

  "I was the hero. I would have been king, and you my queen. I could have given you everything."

  Isabel took several steps toward the door. He lunged, blocking her escape. From his belt he pulled a long dagger. "I won't go. Not without you."

  His skin had gone pallid, but Isabel knew he had enough life remaining in him to kill her. He leapt up and charged toward her. She screamed.

  Behind Stancliff the door crashed open, against the wall.

  Above her, Stancliff raised the dagger— He slumped, staring down at her with his terrible, jealous eyes. A low death-sound burbled from his throat. She watched as he foundered to his knees, then fell, facedown, to the floor. The hilt of another weapon protruded from his back.

  Isabel looked up.

  Kol knelt upon the ground behind Stancliff. "Damned traitor."

  Their eyes met for just one moment, before a ragged sigh broke from his lips and he, too, collapsed to the ground.

  Kol refused to die at Caervon. Dying elsewhere would thwart the intentions of his enemies; enemies who, even now lay wrapped in linen, awaiting their own burials.

  Isabel walked alongside his litter. Though too weak to grasp her hand, she held his in between both of hers. As they made their way toward their encampment, he heard the voice of Rowena, and also Aiken, who had sworn his loyalty, along with many other Saxon warriors, to Kol. Every Saxon account concurred. There had been no attack upon the abbey. Godric remained unharmed.

  Kol did not meet Isabel's eyes, nor did he look at the faces of his men. Despite her own injury, when they arrived at his tent she insisted on tending the wound on his thigh herself. Afterward, she spread furs over his body to keep him warm.

  "Isabel, bring Father Janus."

  "I will not." She lowered herself to kneel beside the bed, and laid her cheek against his chest. "My prayers will reach God. There has been too much death this day, and I will not allow Him to take you from me." Her tears spilled onto his linens, but her tears alone could not wash Ranulf's poison from his veins.

  "Love, bring the priest."

  Epilogue

  "Mmmmm. Very well done for a dead man."

  "Are you certain? Aught we do it again to be sure?"

  Kol lay beside Isabel. Both were naked, their limbs twisted into the bedclothes. Lovemaking had never brought him such bliss. With Isabel, he felt completed, on so many levels.

  Isabel rolled onto her side, and planted a kiss on his mouth. Mischief sharpened her gaze. "Are you well enough?"

  "Certainly I have proven myself."

  "Beyond question," Isabel purred.

  "I have only Ranulf to thank." His smile changed, grew more pensive. "He is the reason I live today. If he had not wiped most of the poison from his blade, I would have died upon the field."

  "Then in doing so, he saved both our lives." Isabel clasped the bedclothes at her chest. "I suppose in some way, he achieved the redemption he sought. He held terrible secrets, but was not a wholly wicked man. I wish you could have known him as a boy."

  Kol did not answer, but tucked a single, wild curl behind Isabel's ear.

  After an extended silence, Isabel asked, "Would you think me wicked, for holding a secret of my own?"

  Kol's heart stopped. He pushed her flat onto her back, and crouched above her, and glared down into her wide, violet eyes. "No secrets between us. I've had enough of that for a lifetime. Tell me what you meant by 'secret.'"

  To his surprise, Isabel's eyes glowed with excitement. "Careful how you seek to pry the truth from my lips."

  Kol's brow arched in question. "What dost thou mean?"

  Isabel considered him from beneath lowered lashes. "What I mean is... you wouldn't want to hurt our child."

  Kol froze above her. A thousand thoughts crashed through his mind, garbled and confused. "Our child?"

  "Aye, beloved," Isabel whispered, her eyes agleam with sudden tears. "Your babe wilt be born before winter returns. Godric will have a brother or sister."

  Kol's heart nearly fell from his chest.

  "Isabel." He clasped her face in his hands, and kissed her lips, her cheeks, her eyelids. Even her nose. An energy he could not contain charged his limbs. He leapt from the bed.

  Isabel clasped the linens to her breast and sat up, her hair spilling over her shoulders. "Husband?"

  He shoved open the shutters. Outside, Calldarington slept beneath a blanket of stars. Not for long. All would share in these good tidings.

  He bellowed, "I will be a father. A father!"

  From the ramparts came the sound of cheers and the posts of spears thumped against the wooden walkways.

  The last remnants of his mother's curses—whether real or imagined—fell away. The few demons who had lingered to taunt him that this bliss would never last, shriveled into dust.

  He turned to Isabel. "How can I be worthy of a gift such as this?"

  "Thou art worthy, Kol." She smiled, clearly content with her world. "Thou art worthy, and wanted, and never to be forgotten."

  About the Author

  Jolie Mathis lives in Texas with her husband, two small children, some spoiled animals, and a houseful of books. She loves history, flea markets, reading, and cooking.

  Visit her website at www.joliemathis.com, or e-mail her at jolie@joliemathis.com.

  Acknowledgments

  First and foremost, I would like to extend my thanks to my agent, Kim Lionetti, and my Berkley editor, Gina Bernal. They saw the magic in The Sea King, and without their expert guidance, the story would not have become a reality. Because of them, I will forever recall the publication of my first novel as a truly wonderful experience.

  Heartfelt acknowledgment also goes to my parents, Lewis and Ella Dawn, who raised me to believe I was capable of achieving anything I put my mind to. And to my brother, Army Maj. Kelly Eiland, who is an amazing writer in his own right.

  To my fantastic critique partners and writer pals who supported me from the start: Kim Starrett, Julia Templeton, Sydney Miles, Pam Litton, Amy Loos, and all the ladies at Romancing History.

  Much appreciation to the experts at the Northvegr Foundation, the Icelandic Language Institute, and to the Da Engliscan Gesipas. It was very important for me to do justice to this early time and place, and I would not have been able to do so without the resources, education, and assistance offered by their staffs. Also, much gratitude goes to Stephen Pollington, whose wonderful books on pre-Conquest England rarely, if ever, left my desk during the writing of this novel.

  And finally, to those masters of the quill who continue to inspire me: Laura Kinsale, Judith Ivory, Kathleen Woodiwiss, Anita Gordon, Katie MacAlister, Susan Squires, JoAnn Ross, and the late Christine Monson.