by Jolie Mathis
Was that man Ugbert, himself? She could not tell from this distance. What she did observe, however, were gloved hands raised—
In greeting.
Clasped in alliance.
Understanding thundered inside the confines of her mind. Thorleksson and her uncle.
Allies against Ranulf. Allies in betrayal.
Chapter 17
Kol rode alongside Devon, son of Ugbert. "Your men may encamp along the north side of the burh."
"Very good." Devon smiled. A squat, robust man, he sat much lower in his saddle than Kol. His eyes roved over the earthen walls, and the timber keep beyond. "You did well, Thorleksson. Not a timber out of place. I trust your rewards were pleasing?"
"My men are satisfied."
"Aye, our Saxon women accommodate, do they not? I hope you have enjoyed more than one during your stay. Take several with you when you go, with my warmest wishes."
Kol did not answer, for Isabel appeared. The princess walked along the rampart as he and Devon rode beneath the gate. Not once did she look at Kol. Instead, her eyes tracked her cousin. She descended the stairs like a beautiful, dark peafowl, her mantle fanning out behind.
"What of Ranulf?" Devon queried, oblivious to the daggers being lodged into the side of his head. "I see no severed head upon a pike."
"He lives."
Devon's congeniality fell away. "He is supposed to be dead so my claim will go unchallenged. My father will not be pleased."
Kol's attention remained on the princess. "Your father's pleasure or displeasure does not concern me."
Devon's fat, shining lips parted in dismay. But then, just as quickly, his face smoothed into a smile. "Ranulf's a cunning goat. Not an easy foe to capture. I do believe I shall enjoy hunting him."
Kol's gaze slid over the toad of a man who rode beside him. Did the mail conceal a robust stature, or rather, the corpulence of an overindulgent swine? If there was a neck within the stacked, thick jowls, Kol saw no evidence of it.
"Neither you nor your father made mention of Aldrith's daughters."
"Daughters." He frowned. "Ah, yes. Two, I believe? The youngest got herself with child by some heathen some seasons back. Ranulf couldn't seem to marry her off after that." He smirked at Kol. "Tried your luck? She may have a liking for your kind. Is that not the Norse ideal? Treasure, acclaim, and the hand of a foreign princess?"
Kol frowned at Devon, wishing he'd fall off his horse and land on his head. Isabel awaited them upon the keep's stairs. There, Rowena dismounted with the assistance of one of her warrior escorts. She ascended the stairs to stand, without word or greeting, beside Isabel. Kol swung down from his saddle. Devon did the same and started up the stairs.
The sight of Isabel apparently froze his joints in their sockets. He glanced at Kol, then back to Isabel. "Cousin?"
She nodded, almost imperceptibly. Her eyes never strayed from his face.
The Isabel who stood upon the stairs was not the same
Isabel who had warmed Kol's bed the night before, soft and pleasing. This woman's eyes glittered, hard as jewels, and glinted their displeasure at Devon.
The fool laughed and extended his arms, climbing the next several steps, as if to embrace her. Isabel stiffened, her face an unmistakable reflection of her fury.
A spectacle on the steps of the keep would serve no useful purpose. Kol interceded, in a low, cautioning voice. "My lady, please show your cousin to the great hall and see that he is made comfortable."
She laughed, a bitter sound that echoed off the limestone steps. "Forgive me, sir, but I believe you mistake me for the lady of the keep." She glanced to Kol. "I am naught but a prisoner here."
Devon tilted his head, and smiled upon her as if he were a doting parent. "Now, now. Things have not been so bad, have they? You look well, and now that I am here—"
"I shall welcome no traitor into my brother's home."
Devon's conciliatory attitude vanished instantly. "I regret hearing such words from your lips, cousin, when my good favor determines each aspect of your future." He smiled. "As well as that of whatever bastards you have managed to bear."
Isabel's glance toward Kol was sharp, yet fleeting. Rowena brushed past Isabel to collapse into her cousin's arms. "Cousin. Thank our Lord you have arrived."
Isabel shot a glare of incredulity on the back of her sister's fair head, and stormed up the stairs into the keep. Kol caught her just inside the doors. She spun around when his hand touched her arm.
"What have you done?" she hissed.
Kol ignored the stares of curious onlookers, and herded her into a corner for privacy. Isabel yanked her arm free. She pressed herself flat against the wall, and swept her garments close, as if she could not bear for him to touch even her hem.
Kol would change nothing he had done—other than perhaps not waste his time again on Ranulf s feckless traitor. Still, he wanted her to understand. "When I left Calldarington two winters ago, I swore vengeance upon your brother. What better vengeance than to turn a man's kin against him, and allow them claim to his kingdom?"
Isabel's cheeks flushed red. "Is that what you sought to do with me? Woo me, make love to me, and turn my loyalty against my brother?"
With the memory of their night in the cave so fresh in his mind, her words wounded. His heart, not his mind, reacted with a fierce—yet unexpected—confession. "I made love to you because I love you."
Kol went rigid, his reckless words ringing in his ears. Isabel, too, appeared shocked, as shown by her wordless lips and paling skin.
An immense creaking of wood and metal cleaved the moment, and the hall's great doors swung open. Devon marched in. The pale-haired princess walked beside him, smiling, her hand on his arm. They and their numerous attendants surged in a boisterous mass toward the hall.
Isabel hissed low, "If you loved me, you would not make me and my son chattel to a fool such as he."
She shoved his arm aside, and disappeared up the stairwell to the privacy of the upper hall. In her chamber, Isabel cast off her soiled garments. Cold air bathed her naked skin, subduing the waves of heat which rolled through her. Her legs trembled. Kol's hoarse confession resounded in her head.
Because I love you.
Liar. He did not love her. Love crossed all boundaries. Defeated all hatreds. How dare he say he loved her, moments after presenting her with such a betrayal? 'Twas only a matter of time before Kol revealed Ranulf's lack of birthright to Devon.
Another man's voice arose in her mind.
If I am defeated and slain, your son will not live to become a man.
On the stairs, Devon had alluded to her son's tenuous favor. Isabel grasped the clay pitcher from the table, and poured fresh water into a shallow basin.
Our enemies will come from all sides, to purge our blood from the earth.
Vehemently, she grasped up a length of linen, wet it, and began to scrub. The cold water shocked her skin, and cleared her mind.
Remember your noble line. Your duty.
She had a choice to make—but really, there was no choice at all. In her mind a plan took shape. She dressed quickly. On her bed, she spread a clean winter cloak. Upon this she placed mittens and woolen stockings, and rolled everything into a tight bundle. Without bothering to plait her hair, she crossed to the door—
Only to turn back again, and walk along the center wall. She pressed her hands across the timbers, her fingertips searching the mortar until she found it. The hole.
In a quiet voice, she whispered, "There had best be an explanation, Ranulf. And you had better live long enough to provide it to me."
Isabel left the room. Below, the hall thronged with warriors and their families. 'Twas easy for her to slip with her bundle, unnoticed, from the keep's side door.
A thin layer of snow dusted the back courtyard. She hurried toward the garden, sparse with winter offerings. There, she concealed her things. She would join her brother's forces tonight, but not before she set her plot into motion.
&nbs
p; Would her plan work? She could only pray it did. The outbuilding where the keep's meals were prepared each day lay just a stone's throw away, and she hastened toward it.
To her dismay, upon her entrance several faces turned toward her. Unfamiliar faces.
"Greetings," Isabel blurted.
It appeared that already, some of the Norse women had found their way to the kitchens. They opened baskets and sniffed jars, assessing the stocks. Isabel's gaze veered past one woman's skirts to focus on a low cabinet.
She did not seek to kill. Not like the fiend who had sought to take her child from this life. She sought only to inflict a dreadful level of discomfort. To lay her enemy low, and subject to capture and defeat.
There, pushed back against the wall, separate and apart from the other items of the kitchen, she saw the narrow clay vessels she sought.
"I have come to join you—" She forced a smile to her face. "In preparing a feast of friendship and welcome."
Kol paced the length of the stall. "You see, only when I spoke the words to the princess did I realize the truth of them."
He bent to peer down the center aisle, to ensure no one had entered the stables. Satisfied his privacy remained intact, he rounded back toward his confessor.
"When I set my revenge into motion, I did not know she was Aldrith's daughter. Devon, the oaf, suited my purposes perfectly. I took great pleasure knowing Ranulf's kingdom would fall into the hands of such a fool. But now... now the lives of Isabel and her child are at stake."
Kol nodded, rubbing his thumb along his lower lip. "I know what question you ask: how can I simply sail away after all that has occurred? After all, I have lived with this hatred for so long, it is more like blood than emotion."
Morke offered only sympathetic silence and brown eyes.
Kol scowled. "I have gone mad. What sort of fool finds counsel in his horse?" He shoved the gate open so hard its peg dug a clean furrow into the earth.
Vekell stood in the center of the aisle, his expression damningly innocent. "My lord."
Kol scowled in mortification. "What."
For once, Vekell's eyes did not shimmer with mirth. They reflected something far more complex. "That night, when I discovered a helpless babe in the snow, I preserved his life with the intention that he would live."
Stiffly, Kol answered, "I do live."
"Nei, you breathe. Yet do you live?"
Silence spread like an ocean between them.
Kol looked to the rafters. "I think 'tis easier for me to speak to the horse."
"You have remained ever constant in your leadership, Thorleksson." Vekell backed away, toward the stable entrance. "The men will follow you, no matter what your decision."
Isabel stepped away from the kitchen entrance, her insides churning with excitement. Berry juice stained her hands, visible proof of her clandestine undertaking. She rubbed her palms against her skirt, but the stains remained. She felt a coward's satisfaction: pride for what she had accomplished, but relief she would not be present to see the terrible results. Shivering, she hurried into the garden. "Princess."
Her heart lurched. Vekell trotted down a shallow garden furrow, his long braids swinging at either side of his face.
Arriving at her side, he looked to the sky. " 'Tis nearly nightfall."
Though he did not smile, his tone seemed gentle enough. Isabel avoided meeting his eyes. She did not wish to feel regret for what she had done.
"Aye," she answered cooly. " 'Tis."
"My lord requests your attendance in the hall this eventide."
Anger flared, taking the edge off the cold evening air. She felt instantly reassured she had done the right thing. "I will not welcome Devon of Wyfordon into my brother's hall. He is naught but a traitor to me."
Vekell shrugged, and stamped the earth, shifting from one booted foot to the other. "Perhaps my lord hath something else in mind?"
Something besides welcome? Curiosity compelled her to ask, "Prithee, tell me what that might be."
"Even I do not know with certainty what my stallari will say before he says it."
Her bundle lay just a stone's throw away. Isabel fixed her attention on the spot to remind herself of her duty. "I do not see why my presence is necessary. Whatever announcement your lord intends, I am sure it will portend only misery for myself and my son."
"Why not hear for yourself?"
Isabel pretended to consider his invitation for a moment. If only he would leave, so she could make her escape!
"Truly, I am weary from the previous days' journey. Please tell your stallari I prefer to pass the eve alone in my chamber."
Shoulders proudly squared, she crossed to the next furrow, intending to return to the kitchen where she suspected he would be too cowardly to follow. As soon as he left the garden, she would return and claim her things.
Vekell's gloved hand closed firmly, yet gently, upon her forearm.
"I see." She glared through narrowed eyes. "This invitation to attend the feast was no invitation at all."
Kol lifted his goblet.
"More mead, my lord?" Rowena ascended the platform, wine pitcher in hand. She appeared pleased to have been returned to her place as lady of the hall. As custom dictated, she had welcomed her cousin and each of his Saxon warriors, symbolically filling each man's cup. Now she hastened to fill Kol's.
"Mead, Isabel?" he asked of the silent beauty on the bench beside him.
Isabel vocalized no answer, but the cutting gleam of her eyes told him he ought to shove his goblet up his nose. She sat rigidly, her hands crossed in her lap, as if she could not bear the slightest touch of either of her neighbors on the feasting bench; Kol on the one side, Devon on the other.
He sighed, and nodded to Rowena, hoping the mead would take the edge from the coming moments. He would reveal his amended intentions to Devon—and lay his heart bare to Isabel. Would she accept or reject him?
Either way, he felt certain of the decision he had made. In the past he had always tried to do right. In the situation of Norsex, right had simply evolved from one set of possibilities into another. Yet there could be no guarantee how the parties involved would react. He remembered Isabel and her knives, crouched upon his bed. A certain amount of anger would not be so terrible, as long as her sweet surrender followed quickly thereafter.
In the far corner, upon his woven pallet, the skald sang Kol's praises. Kol the Fearless. Thorleksson the Brave.
Legs tensed, Kol prepared to stand, yet several kitchen maids appeared with large trenchers, piled high with berry tarts. He growled low in his throat, frustrated by the delay. Yet he would wait until there were no distractions.
Beside him, Isabel bent her head. "Might I return to my chamber?" Her hands twisted spasmodically in the skirt of her gunna.
"You have eaten nothing. Art thou ill?"
She whispered, "Mayhap."
He could not allow her to leave. A maid placed a trencher before them. The tarts' berried centers glistened dark and sweet. Isabel paled. Devon reached across, jostling her roughly, to grasp a tart in each of his pudgy-fingered hands. Both disappeared simultaneously between his plump, shining lips.
"Delicious," he pronounced. Purple juice streamed over his chin to disappear into the folds of his neck. "I shall have another."
The princess stared at her cousin with an expression very akin to horror. To Kol, she murmured, "Verily, I wish to leave."
She truly looked ill. Kol softened. "Perhaps thou art merely fatigued? Last eventide, thou hadst little sleep in the cave."
Isabel's cheeks flushed deeply.
"I intended no jibe, Isabel. Prithee, remain here beside me for a short while longer."
"I have no wish to hear your announcement, whatever it might be."
Kol breathed evenly. He would not allow her to undermine his confidence in what he intended to do. All around, the gathered Saxons and Danes enjoyed the tarts. Kol selected one for himself, and lifted it toward his lips. The skald plucked his harp and
sang of Kol, the Destroyer of the Wicked.
Beside him, Isabel grumbled, "I might suggest a few different verses. Why not Kol the Betrayer of Women and Children? Or better yet, Kol the Big Norse Louse."
Kol exhaled through his nose, and lowered the tart to the table. Lord, how she provoked him—in all the right ways. Rather than inciting his anger, her words—spoken low and from wine-red lips—enticed. His entire being buzzed with pride and pleasure simply because she sat at his side.
Now was as good a time as any, he supposed. He nodded to Vekell. The warrior set down his tart, and wiped his mouth. Standing, and with raised arms, he shouted, "Silence. Our lord wishes to speak."
Anticipation charged Kol's veins. He stood, knowing that in the coming moments, Isabel would know his heart, and he would know hers. He closed his eyes, and recalled their closeness in the cave the night before. Isabel's love would be a much sweeter and more meaningful gift than vengeance could ever be. Finally, he understood he displayed no weakness in accepting such a gift.
There came the sound of someone retching.
Kol's eyes flew open.
Devon groaned loudly.
Everywhere he looked, grown men and women began to rise from their benches. They doubled over and clasped their stomachs. Some ran from the hall, while others became ill where they stood. Beside him, Isabel pushed up from the bench. Something in her wide-eyed expression compelled him to take hold of her wrist. Her hands—the hands she had buried in her gunna, bore purple stains.
In that instant, he knew. The tarts.
Between clenched teeth, he ground out the words. "What did you put in them?"
Isabel's eyes narrowed. "Baneberries. Toadroot. Bug-bane. I know not the exact mix of things. I only know 'tis what the cooks used to use to warn the hounds away from the kitchens."
Incredulous, Kol looked out over the writhing multitude of the hall. A sour-sweet scent permeated the air. "You sought to poison them all?"
"Aye," she cried. "You, my cousin, and all who support you."
Fury torched his cheeks. Could she not have given him one chance? One chance to set things right, for all concerned? Did she believe so little in him?
