The Sea King

by Jolie Mathis

  From the bed she lifted a fur and pulled it over her shoulders.

  "I insist you rest," he commanded cooly. "You suffer a bruised rib. Not a serious injury, but one which should not be worsened."

  "I wish to leave." She turned to search the wall. He knew she searched for the hidden portal. Simple as that, the seduction had failed and so now she sought to leave his company.

  "You may wish for anything you like, but you will remain here." He wanted to be cruel, to inflict the same torment she inflicted upon him

  "Do not bother with the doorway. After your visit last night, and your display of pretty knives, I had it sealed."

  She whirled, her eyes flat with hatred. "I want away from you."

  His eyes slid over her. " 'Tis clear you cannot be trusted, and must be watched. So the answer is no, you may not leave. You will remain here, in these chambers, until I decide otherwise. Your rooms will be given to my marshal for his use."

  "I must remain in these chambers?" Horror whitened her features. "With you?"

  "Princess," he chided. "From your actions just moments ago, I truly believed you cared for me."

  The princess screamed and reached for an empty trencher.

  Kol slammed the door behind him, just in time to hear the vessel crash against the other side.

  The laughter which welled up from his chest felt good. Very good indeed.

  Later that night, in the keep's great hall, his warriors ceased their storytelling and put their games away. Long after his final companion had settled down onto a bench, Kol sat beside the fire. All around him slept his warriors, and a few scattered Saxons. Although weariness had long ago settled into his bones, he knew he would not be able to sleep.

  He could not stop thinking about Isabel. He both resented and wanted her. What sort of logic was that? Because of the animosity which coursed between them, he despised each moment they spent together. And yet here he sat, sleepless for a second night, trying to contrive a reason to return to her chamber.

  A tug at his sleeve startled him. From over the arm of the chair, two large, dark eyes peered up at him.

  'Twas Isabel's boy.

  "Seepy?"

  Kol did not answer. Instead he turned and searched the darkness of the room. The child's maid, the woman called Berthilde, snored upon her pallet. Vekell slept on a bench near her feet. He looked back to the child.

  "Seepy?" the youngling asked again.

  Kol delighted in children... in an uneasy sort of way. He'd simply never had the opportunity to interact with one, not without the mother or father hovering about, fearful he would consider their offspring a nuisance and... and what? Squash them?

  He supposed the child was entitled to an answer. "Nei, I am not sleepy. Why do you ask?"

  The boy shrugged. He spoke softly, a sound that reminded Kol of a chirping bird. "Me not seepy. Want play?" From beneath the cuff of his tunic he produced two small wooden warriors. He held them to the light. One had clearly been fashioned to resemble Ranulf.

  "Only if I get that one." Kol pointed to the other, a warrior with dark hair and a red tunic.

  Godric extended the toy, and Kol took it. When the child gripped his thumb, he allowed himself to be led from the chair, toward the boy's pallet. Kol's wolfhounds stood and whined, then padded along behind.

  Godric plopped down and glanced over his shoulder at Berthilde. He lifted a finger to his lips. "Shhh."

  Kol nodded, finding unexpected pleasure in this moment of conspiracy. They both lay down on their sides, facing one another. The dogs sidled in betwixt those who slept on either side, and stretched out, Hugin on one side, and Munin on the other. The boy's eyes met Kol's. Silently they moved their warriors into battle positions.

  'Twas not long before Godric's eyelids drooped. Soon he dozed, his dimpled fingers clasping the wooden image of his uncle. When he was sure the boy slept, Kol tugged the toy free and eased the dark-haired warrior into its place. He sat upright and twisted toward the hearth. He threw the toy. The tiny missile flew in an arc over the bodies of three slumbering men, and produced a shower of sparks as it struck the logs.

  Kol returned to the pallet. Beside him Godric slept, his skin smooth and ruddy in the firelight. His small chest lifted and fell with each breath. Kol stared at him for a long time, wishing he could forget the things he and Isabel had said to one another. The things they had done to hurt one another.

  He wished he knew who the boy's father was, and why Isabel had chosen to lie about the circumstance of his birth. He wished with his entire being, he was a different man.

  Chapter 8

  Boy-warrior,

  Fostered by men.

  By sword and by cunning,

  Avenged his father-jarl's death

  Leader of men! No child, he.

  Let the skalds forever proclaim.

  Kol the Shining!

  Remember him,

  In rune, in song.

  Isabel stood just outside the entrance to the great hall. Her hand rested upon the carved archway, which had been fashioned by her brother's craftsman to depict entwined vines, a flock of sparrows, and one carefully placed serpent.

  Kol had commanded her presence at the evening feast, and she had complied in hopes of reuniting with her son. But as she approached the threshold she'd heard the voice of the Danish skald, imbued with such earnestness she could not bring herself to interrupt.

  Witch, honorless mother.

  Love never swelled

  Within her breast.

  Her vengeance she swore

  On an blameless son

  For his father's deeds.

  Her curses sprang.

  Death to our bravest lord!

  Death, whilst life's valor

  still seeks to be spent.

  Men still followed him,

  the Accursed One, heljar-karl.

  Voices shout: Leader of warriors!

  Leader of men!

  In the darker mists, the shadows,

  Half brother coveted,

  His ruler-chair not enough.

  Our Fairest warrior condemned.

  Unjustly banished.

  Isabel leaned against the wall. Why did her heart ache at hearing this dark history? A witch-mother who had cursed him when he was but a boy? And a half brother who had banished him? Wrongfully, if the account were true.

  We follow this King of the Sea.

  Mother, dost thou not protect thine son?

  Net. He meets his Death alone,

  Sword raised. Eyes open.

  Oh, ye bards, remember.

  He shall live forever,

  In the hearts of warriors.

  Forever in rune,

  Forever in memory.

  The hall exuded silence. Perhaps the feast had not begun, and the skald sat alone in preparation for his evening performance. She stepped forward to see for herself, but a hand gripped her arm and turned her until she felt the wall against her back.

  She stared into his eyes. The Sea King. The man whom these mercenaries looked to as their ruler upon the earth. The same man she'd vowed to hate, and avenge herself upon.

  But, as much as it shamed her, in this moment she felt no enmity or revulsion, only fascination. Had his wicked touch last eventide bespelled her in some way?

  "Come," he said. If any emotion dwelled within him, his expression revealed none of it.

  He escorted her beneath the archway, his hand beneath her elbow. To her astonishment, warriors lined the walls, and the rows between the trestles. All stood, she realized, in expectation of their lord. Neither Godric nor Rowena was anywhere to be seen. Nay, no Saxons stood among them.

  Through the weald of men he guided her. Isabel could not keep her eyes from him. Not from his rigid jaw, nor the shadowed hollow beneath his cheek. How cold and distant he appeared. Was he furious with her for the seduction she had attempted the night before? In truth, she was furious with herself for the same reason, but she had been so desperate to regain possession of he
r son. Had Thorleksson summoned her to the hall to punish her before the gathered ranks of his men?

  Vekell stood on the dais, his back to the shield-wall. She did not miss the look of displeasure Kol leveled on the man. Perhaps his anger was not directed toward her, after all. Kol assisted her up the steps, but remained behind to speak to one of the oegns who lined the edges of the platform.

  Vekell pulled the bench from the table and helped her to her seat. She leaned toward him. "He is angry?"

  He echoed her low pitch. "He disapproves of the song." For one moment, 'twas as if she and the Dane were coconspirators. She rejected him instantly, drawing back to end the alliance. In the far corner of the hall, the skald stood, with arms crossed at his chest and his eyes tightly shut, clearly anguished by his lord's disapproval.

  Kol seated himself beside her but his attention remained elsewhere, as if her presence remained below his notice or care. He smelled of wood-smoke and spice, scents which addled Isabel's mind. Tonight he wore a tunic of the darkest blue. Two bold stripes, accented by gold-threaded embroidery, ascended the garment from hem to neck, and slashed over his shoulders to descend his back. The exotic decoration only emphasized his powerful build. A well-traveled merchant had once presented Ranulf with a similar choice, but her brother had rejected the Byzantine style. She had found such garments fascinating. They offered a glimpse of faraway worlds, worlds she had yearned to see with her own eyes—before her life had changed.

  Since then she had seen nothing but the inside of the keep, and whatever else she could experience from her window.

  Serving maids brought form trenchers heaped with bread and boiled meat. Pitchers of wine and mead were set upon the tables. The gathered multitude spoke amongst themselves in lowered tones.

  Isabel did not at all mind Kol's lack of interest. Indeed, she worried if he turned to her, he would see the havoc written upon her face. After their encounter the night before, she had dressed in one of his tunics, for that was all she could find to cover her nakedness. She had returned to sit before the hearth to await his return. How she had feared his return! But truth be told, anticipation had consorted with that fear.

  Last eventide he had desired her. She had sensed that clearly. But he had scorned her attempt at seduction. If he were the feral beast of her shadowed past, why did he not act upon his desire and feast rampant upon that which she had offered? Why did her motives disturb him, when a defiler of women would react instantly on whatever dark impulse resided within?

  She had been given plenty of time to ponder those questions, for Kol had never returned. She had been left alone, though under guard, the entire day until his summons had come, along with a large trunk of her clothing.

  Now, as she sat here beside him, her confusion over his nature grew tenfold. With no small amount of dismay, she had come to realize the dreams of a girl still resided within her heart. Dreams of a hero. Of a savior.

  She had believed in him so steadfastly, once before.

  But if he were not Godric's father, who was? At this question, a dark infinity opened up inside her mind.

  Someone she trusted.

  At the same time, she could not imagine anyone within her brother's werod daring to commit such a crime against her.

  Even if Kol was not the attacker who left her with child two winters ago, his conflict with Ranulf had gone too far to be resolved peacefully.

  Or had it?

  Before such a judgment could be made, she had to learn the truth. Had her father summoned the Danish mercenary to Norsex, and if so, why?

  Kol had claimed Ranulf waited for his arrival. Waited to kill him. Could this be true? She would not know until she spoke to Ranulf.

  "You are well?" Kol's voice cut into her thoughts.

  A maid leaned forward to fill his claw beaker with wine. Beneath the table, his thigh brushed hers.

  "Aye." Awareness heated her blood. Unsettled by his intense regard, she lifted her hand to her bruised temple. How difficult it was to forget, for even a moment, how intimately he had touched her the night before. She remembered, too clearly, the friction of his warm, weapon-calloused hands against her skin. She swallowed hard, for her memories went much further than that, to his mouth on her breast, and his arousal, hard against her body. Despite the child she'd birthed, she had only the experience of a virgin to call upon, so each kiss, each touch, remained emblazoned in her memory.

  "The pain in your side has lessened?"

  "Aye, almost completely." Her tongue felt as if it were spun of wool.

  "Good." He nodded. Though his expression remained cool, he reached for the trencher and, using an ivory-handled knife, apportioned her a goodly share of meat. "You must eat."

  Isabel considered her plate. 'Twas true. She had not eaten since the day of the battle. Food had been brought to her this morn, but she had been too anxious over all that had passed to eat.

  After swallowing the first bite, she asked the question which lay foremost in her mind."Should I be prepared to ride in the morning?"

  For a moment, he kept silent. "Nei. I have reconsidered. You shall remain here, with Vekell to guard your safety."

  She had little time to react to his announcement, for at that moment Berthilde approached the dais with Godric in her arms.

  Isabel stood. At Kol's nod, Berthilde placed the boy upon the platform. His small face crinkled with a smile. "Mama!"

  But he did not run into her arms. Instead he reached for Kol. "Em-eer. Hold me."

  "Greetings, little one." Kol swung the boy onto his lap.

  Isabel frowned. "What did he call you?"

  "Ymir." For the first time that evening, a smile twitched to his lips. "Aye, Godric? Ymir, the frost giant, borne of melting ice and hot steam."

  He bit his lower lip and, in playfulness, bore Godric's small head beneath his arm. "From his armpit sprang both man and maid. Which are you, little one?"

  Godric squealed and giggled. Isabel's displeasure burgeoned.

  "You have spent time with him." She dropped into her seat.

  Kol shrugged, his shoulders so broad they eclipsed any view of her child. From the trencher, he lifted a small wooden bowl. Inside glistened a chunk of bread, drizzled with honey. Godric's favorite.

  "Um!" Her son dragged the bowl close.

  Kol leaned so close to Isabel, his breath touched her ear. "A father should take an interest in his child, should he not?"

  Isabel's chest tightened.

  Did he claim the boy in truth? Was this an admission of his sin? Or had he heard the rumor of the child's paternity elsewhere, and now taunted her in his anger at being wrongfully accused?

  She could not bring herself to demand the truth of her violation now; not before this roomful of strangers. "You are cruel. 'Tis not right a child be taken from his mother when her care is all he has ever known."

  From beneath the dark shadow of his lashes, Kol's eyes gleamed. "What of your husband?" Anger tautened his jaw. "Hath he declined to accept my son as his own?"

  The lies soured upon Kol's lips. Your husband. My son.

  Against his chest the child nestled, a small bundle of warmth. Kol tried not to look. Not at the glossy curls peeking from beneath the woolen cap, nor the boy's curving cheek.

  How badly he wanted a child. Just like this one, if he could so choose. Why had God granted Isabel, a woman who spun deceit all around the boy, with such a blessing, when there were those such as himself who would give anything for such a divine gift? What father would deny a son so fine?

  "Dog!" Godric laughed. Beneath the table, Hugin and Munin nuzzled for scraps.

  Kol stared into the upturned face of the woman who continued to intrigue and attract him despite all the evidence against her. Hurting her had not proven as fulfilling as he'd expected. Perhaps honesty on his part was the only way to elicit the truth.

  " 'Tis not I who have been cruel, but you."

  Confusion clouded her gaze. "I do not understand your accusation."

 
; Though the room thronged with movement, in that moment it seemed the world held only the two of them.

  He spanned one hand over Godric's ear. "I didst not sire this child. Why have you allowed it to be so believed?"

  Tears sprang to her eyes, but she did not look away. "Do not seek to lie to me when there can be no other truth."

  "I am not his father." He read no deceit upon her face, which led him to a previously unconsidered possibility. Beneath the table, he grasped her wrist. "Do you have no memory of the event in which the boy was conceived?"

  She did not pull away. " 'Tis a blessing, for I do not believe I could survive such a cruel remembrance."

  "I did not attack you. Nothing of that sort occurred between us that day."

  Emotion thickened her voice. "Then tell me how I came to be with child, when I have been alone with no other man."

  Perplexed by her claim, Kol looked down at the crown of the boy's head.

  "Dog?" Godric called. "Dog, come here."

  "Ach!" Kol struck the bowl of bread from the boy's hand. With a loud rap, it bounced off the table, to the floor in front of the dais. Countless warriors sprang to their feet. Godric bellowed.

  Isabel gripped his arm. "Why did you do that?"

  Kol did not answer. There was no time. He pressed Godric into the crook of his arm, and gripped the boy's jaw.

  "Open your mouth." He squeezed until the child cried out.

  "My lord, what is amiss?" Vekell's shadow fell over them.

  "Move back, I cannot see."

  Isabel pulled his sleeve in an attempt to claim her child. "You are hurting him. Give my son to me!"

  "The hounds," Kol hissed through bared teeth. "The hounds ate the bread."

  Isabel bent to peer beneath the table. In the next breath, he heard her fear-strangled gasp, "Godric!"

  In his mind, the image of the wolfhounds superimposed over the face of the boy. White froth upon their mouths. Their eyes glazed in pain.

  In death.

  Godric sobbed against Kol's shoulder. "Hungry puppies. Feed puppies."