by Jolie Mathis
Vekell grasped Kol's shoulder. "If what we believe is true, you bore punishment for another man."
"Ranulf would have executed me regardless of Isabel's deception." Ranulf had been waiting for him. Ranulf had known he would come.
Vekell's lips twisted and he shook his head. "Still, something does not sit well with me in all this. May we not delay our judgment of the princess until we know for certain her motivation for telling such lies?"
"How quickly you fall under her spell," Kol teased, but an underlying sharpness abided in his tone. "Her actions are betrayal enough."
Vekell's gaze skipped away. "She is not your mother. Do not assume she—"
Kol balked at any discussion of his past, especially when it had to do with women. "Our ships," he interjected. "Have they been duly unloaded?"
Vekell sighed, then nodded. "The furs have been laid out. The ivory and all the rest will be brought out in ample time."
"Good. Spread word amongst the citizenry of Calldarington, the harbor will open for commerce in a sennight."
"Aye, my lord."
Side by side he and Vekell walked beneath the wooden gate which led into the settlement. From all about came the greetings of men who worked to repair the damage of the previous day's conflict. Mostly Danes, but there were also Slavs, Arabs, and Franks among them, warriors of all lands who had, for whatever reasons of their own, joined his legions. Outside the stables, a contingent of his men prepared to ride, upon his orders, in search of Ranulf and any surviving North Saxon forces.
Kol suspected the king remained near in hopes the Danes would do as most Norse scavengers did, and simply leave once the burh had been divested of its riches.
Kol nodded toward the stables. "Be sure to choose a mount. Few of the Saxon animals remain, and our livestock will not arrive for another day, perhaps two. After noon you will ride with me to assess the available land. I do believe there is plenty for settling."
Vekell looked to him sharply. "I protest. You cannot mean—"
Kol lifted a hand. "I believe, with some care, the Saxons will become amenable to a foreign settlement."
Vekell glared at Kol's hand, and then at his lord. "And so, I suppose one morn we will awaken to find holes gouged in the hulls of our ships and you gone, alone, under cover of night so we may not follow?"
Kol smiled, despite the ache he felt in his chest. "I would make no coward's farewell."
"You cannot simply leave us here. You are the only jarl these men recognize. Every man here has sworn fealty to you, and would stand by that vow until the end of his days."
"Verily, my friend, I fear that would be a short time. You know as well as I, my destiny draws near. The omens appear more often in recent days. The men talk of dreams. I hear the whispers. I see the way they look at me. As if I am a dead man already."
"Nei, lord. You will be with us for countless days."
Kol wished that were true, but knew the truth of his fate. 'Twas time to begin preparations. '"Tis not as if we have a homeland to which we may return. We must make a place for them here."
Vekell insisted, "I will hear no more talk of this."
Kol spread his hand on Vekell's shoulder. "You can accompany me only so far on this journey, my friend. The rest I must confront alone. And so, until then, I must consider your future and the future of these men."
With a shake of his shaggy head, Vekell stopped, ankle-deep in mud. Gray with gloom, his gaze scaled the high front wall of Ranulf's keep.
After a moment of silence, he asked, "What do you intend to do with the princess?"
"Mama!"
As instructed by Kol's lone berserker, Ragi, Isabel did not enter the great hall, but stood at the entrance, and looked inward. Though she had not seen Kol this morn, she felt his presence everywhere. In the foreign men thronging about her. In the very air.
"Mama!" Godric wiggled like an unruly worm on Berthilde's lap. Wiggle wiggle little bug. Isabel flushed, remembering how the Danish lord's lips had formed those words the night before.
She could not help herself. She moved toward her son, over ancient mosaic tiles which proclaimed Legio IX Severus, the name of the Roman commander who had claimed the promontory now known as Calldarington, so very long ago. Already the strewing herbs, which lay amidst the floor rushes, grew brittle and stale. The room smelled of men.
Ragi also moved close. He shook his head. "No, no, no. My lord hath ordered it so. You do not touch the child."
"Have I touched him?" Isabel demanded in her most cutting voice.
His bushy eyebrows crept up like twin caterpillars.
"Nei, lady princess."
She hissed, "Then stand off."
With jaw squared, the man stepped back, but remained close enough to observe any defiance of his lord's command.
Berthilde peered over the top of Godric's head. Bruises still purpled her cheek, but her hair and clothing appeared as tidy as ever. "My lady, I was told by young Wynflaed that our Godric passed the night well. She said the Dane's wolfhounds seemed to offer him distraction."
No hounds lazed at the hearth now. They must have accompanied their lord elsewhere. Isabel knelt beside her son and the maid, exerting every ounce of her will to keep her hands at her sides.
"My lady," warned Ragi, as she edged closer.
Isabel ignored the hoary old warrior. Godric smiled, golden-skinned and sweet.
Isabel lifted her hand to her maid's face. "Berthilde, your cheek. Doth it pain you greatly?"
Berthilde flushed. "Nay, one of the Danes—indeed, the very warrior who caused me the injury, applied a dressing last eventide. Tis much improved."
'Twas difficult to imagine one of these warriors doing anything so benevolent. "Indeed?"
Berthilde nodded. Beneath the bruise, her blush deepened.
Isabel bit her lip. "What of Rowena? Have you seen my sister?" She both dreaded and craved her half sister's company, yet she had not seen her this morn, and feared for her well-being.
"Aye." Berthilde shrugged. When Godric reached for Isabel, the maid bounced him on her knee so that he clutched her leg and laughed. "She keeps to the bower with her women."
"Mama, see me ride horse." Godric giggled.
"Good boy." Isabel smiled, hoping he did not perceive her gloom. "But Rowena is well?"
"As well as that one can be, under our present circumstance." The maidservant rolled her gaze in the direction of the bower. "I hear her wails from time to time, but from what I have seen, the Danes have let her be." Berthilde sucked in her cheeks, as if she held back further comment.
Softly, Isabel chided. "Be kind."
Berthilde's brown eyes flashed. "She treats you with constant discourtesy."
Even now, the small wounds beneath Isabel's sleeve throbbed. "She hath been through much. Stancliff is dead."
" 'Tis a tragedy." Berthilde shifted upon the stool, and drew Godric closer. "Still, you forgive too much."
"Berthilde, do not forget yourself."
"How can I, when always, you play my conscience?" Humor replaced the ire in her maid's eye, and from beneath the bruises, emerged the lively woman who, over time, had become Isabel's closest friend.
Isabel placed a hand upon Berthilde's knee. "Your smile always heartens me, and gives me hope."
Berthilde leaned toward her. "Hold that hope close, for all this will pass in due time."
"Mama, hold me." Godric strained toward Isabel. Her heart caved inward. She lifted her arms to him, only to have them forced down by Ragi's hands.
She pushed up from the floor, anguish fueling her fury. "How does separating me from my child serve your lord? I know not where my king hath gone, nor whether he lives."
The old man's lips parted, but he gave her no answer.
Through tears, Isabel comforted her son. "Beloved, I will hold you very soon. Until then, Berthilde will give you a thousand sweet kisses." She smiled, if only to assure the boy, then departed the hall, for she could not bear being so close to him wi
thout holding him in her arms.
Even if she did know where Ranulf had gone, did Thorleksson truly believe she would betray her king to satisfy her own maternal longings? She would not, for no matter how strong her instincts, no matter how much agony she felt at being torn from her child, Ranulf's survival and continued sovereignty had to be preserved.
Aside from the fond familial attachment she felt toward her brother, she could not forget that without him, there would be no protection for her son, no favor. Indeed, by Ranulf's mere absence, Godric's life might be in danger. Though a fatherless child, he bore the blood of kings in his veins, and that alone made him a threat to anyone who would seek to claim the rich kingdom of Norsex for their own. Children had been assassinated for less.
With those thoughts clouding her mind, she passed beneath the arched doorway, but a chest as broad as a ship hull barred her path. The giant called Vekell stood there.
The night before his eyes had glown with male interest and good nature, but his eyes held no warmth now. She gathered Kol must have informed the man of her attack on his life the night before. This warrior, like the others, seemed to look upon Thorleksson as some sort of god or king, and any offense against him would be construed as a strike against his legion as well.
Silently, he stepped back. With extended arm, he encouraged her to proceed. Though unnerved by his mute regard, she did so. She crossed into the outer passage, his footsteps sounding behind, heavy and long of pace. Along either wall, soldiers oiled swords and mended shields. Gazes lifted to consider her as she moved past.
She heard them speak her name, in heavily accented syllables.
Curse their pagan souls, how many mercenaries had Thorleksson brought with him to kill her brother? Not one made any move to engage her, but their stares were invasive. She hurried through the narrow passage. Their very presence reminded her all too clearly of the devastating change in her life, and the very real threat to her child's future.
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, a
s 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.
