The Sea King Read online

  He glared at the floor, where the two knives lay. "No trade." Bending, he retrieved them and placed them on the mantel.

  He heard her intake of breath. Turning, he saw the horror clear on her face. His scars. She had seen them. His oath split the silence as he yanked a tunic over his head.

  The princess sat up, the dark mantle of her hair falling over one shoulder. Upon her cheek there were small abrasions, where, in his passion, his beard had marred her skin. Beast. She thought him a beast.

  He was a beast. Scarred, inside and out.

  Though only his ears could hear them, the shades, cowering in their shadows, dared to laugh their disdain.

  Unworthy. Unwanted. Soon to be forgotten.

  Kol shut his eyes, not wanting to see the curve of her body, nor the bruised, vulnerable loveliness that had so destroyed his ability to reason. Even if she were willing, 'twould be senseless to give into such a temptation. Revenge and death could be his only mistresses.

  In a low voice she asked, "Why would my father summon you?"

  Kol stared at her. Would she believe the truth? Or did she already know why her father had sent his missive? Perhaps she merely feigned lack of knowledge to test his understanding of the intrigues of the Norsexian court.

  He worded his response with caution. "At times, my army provides military services for pay."

  "You are a mercenary." She made no move to leave his bed. By that, he assumed her invitation to barter for possession of her son remained in place, despite her knowledge of his deformity.

  He tore his attention from her thin gown, and the alluring shadow of dusky peaks beneath. "Your father retained me thusly."

  The princess's gaze dropped. A frown thinned her lips and she shook her head. Though her lips parted, he spoke before she could offer her denouncement.

  "Do not think to accuse me of lies." Already, the old anger swelled his chest. The anger of being wrongfully accused.

  Color darkened her cheeks. "But what you claim cannot be true. I would have known of any threat to my father's sovereignty, from within or without."

  " 'Tis only fair you hear my account."

  Stone-faced, she sat. Kol waited until she nodded. Only then did he proceed.

  "At your father's written invitation, my army sailed from Frankia, where we had spent most of the winter. But upon our arrival in Norsex, I found him already buried and Ranulf sitting upon his throne, waiting, with some expectation, to raze my existence from the face of this earth."

  Confusion scored her brow. "None of what you say makes sense. If my father had extended an invitation to you and your men—which I altogether doubt—my brother would not rescind the summons, through violence, without provocation."

  "Unless he was the source of the threat your father sought to quell through the retainment of my mercenary services."

  She blurted, "That is ridiculous. My father adored Ranulf as a son, and honored him as his heir."

  "Then who threatened Aldrith's throne?"

  Isabel drew her knees up against her chest. "We have fended off the Northumbrians and Mercians for an age."

  "Your father would not have felt so compelled to keep those foes a secret in his missives. The threat lay closer. Within his own ranks."

  She refrained from meeting his gaze. "You offer no details which might render your accusations true."

  "Why, Princess," he answered sharply. "You have given me little opportunity."

  "I need hear no more." She shook her head. "Ranulf had every reason to seek your death and it had naught to do with my father or any supposed need for mercenary assistance."

  Fists clenched against his temples, Kol turned toward the fire. Why had he even attempted to gain her understanding? He and the Saxon princess were nothing to one another, nothing but strangers, and foes. It mattered naught what she knew or believed about his intentions, or the truth behind them. This parlay of words had been a descent into stupidity on his part and he would end the fall now.

  He would confine her to her chambers until Ranulf was dead, and then he would depart this place forever. There need not be any further discourse between them.

  He turned toward the bed. Only rumpled bedclothes lay there.

  He blinked, disbelieving. With a muttered oath, he walked the length of the room. He searched the shadows, even under the bed. No Isabel.

  Fury arose inside him. Clearly Isabel was not ready for the truth, if, at the first glimpse of it she ran like a deer from the hunter. And curse her, the woman moved too easily for his liking. First in her escape from the bower and now from this chamber. Had his guards drunk too much of the sweet, Saxon mead? Were they, even now, asleep and senseless in the hallway outside his chamber? Furious, he strode to the door and yanked it open.

  Two sentries straightened their stance, fully aware, their weapons lodged at their sides.

  He slammed the door.

  Of course. He had been so distracted by her appearance beside his bed he had not considered how she had come to be in his room in the first place.

  A secret doorway or passage. They riddled the keep. His men had sealed all which led inward. Apparently one had gone undetected.

  Because it joined two private rooms. The skin at the nape of his neck prickled in unease, in recollection of the peephole.

  What of Isabel's husband in all of this?

  Through narrowed eyes Kol surveyed the wall dividing their two chambers. Hands spread over the surface, he sought with touch what his eyes might not see, a portal large enough for a grown woman. Or a man.

  He felt the aberration as soon as he entered the shadows along the far side of the room, where sun or firelight would rarely fall no matter the time of day. A slight crack in the mortar between the timber planks. His fingers ran over the almost imperceptible groove.

  He could force his way inside, force her to hear the truth. But no, not while so many questions swarmed his mind. He glowered at the bed. He would find no rest this night, not in this fortress of breathing walls. He jerked his boots up his calves.

  If he could not have sleep, he would at least have answers.

  A short time later he strode into the great hall, tying the laces of his leather jerkin with impatient hands. All along the walls his warriors slept. Snores punctuated the silence. Near the fire lay the children from the forest. Several

  Saxon women lay among them, those he supposed had been secured by his warriors to tend them.

  He drew closer, searching for one child in particular. One with dark, shining curls and the face of an angel. He found the boy, nestled in the arms of a maiden. He drew closer, searching the boy's features. Long lashes lay against flushed, hearty cheeks. The boy would grow into a fine man.

  Beneath his regard, the young woman who held the boy awoke, and seeing him, startled—then smiled the sort of smile he knew well. She misunderstood his interest.

  Gently she moved the child from her arms, onto the fur beside her, and extended her arm in invitation to Kol. His eyes moved over her. She was comely, with large brown eyes, a small, pink mouth, and hair the color of honey. An ample bosom crowded the neckline of her tunic.

  He smiled, but just a mite. There were always women among the defeated who sought out their conqueror. Sometimes he accepted what they offered. Most times he did not. He shook his head, and drew away.

  Desire for another woman burned in his veins. A woman who likely hovered beside her hearth at this very moment, carving daggers from chicken bones or some such treachery, to further her next attempt on his life. Even so, a proxy would hold no true satisfaction. Kol left the woman and child.

  From a shadowed corner Vekell arose. "My lord, is something amiss?"

  Kol spoke quietly, so that none other could hear, in particular the women who lay nearby. "I wish to speak to the Saxon traitor. He has not yet departed?"

  "Nei, he suffered wounds in the battle. Your physician has treated him and he will leave us before the sun rises."

  A fire raged upon the huge s
tone hearth, but Kol did not need its ambient warmth. His blood remained kindled by his exchange with Isabel. Irritated, his hands fumbled with the broach at the shoulder of his cloak. The sharp prong of the emerald-eyed viper stabbed his palm and he cursed. Why was it things of beauty so often caused the most painful wounds?

  His Celt mother, like Isabel, had been beautiful. But instead of bestowing a mother's love upon him, she had wished for his death from the moment of his birth. As a boy, he'd insisted upon seeing for himself the woman who despised him so much as to abandon him, a helpless babe, to a cruel death. He would never forget the moment Vekell finally agreed, and pointed to the madwoman who lived alone at the edge of their settlement. She'd remained there, completely removed from his life, until one night when he was a boy of twelve summers. After he'd led a tattered group of warriors and soundly avenged his father's murder, she had dragged him away from a feast to hiss a maelstrom of incantations above his head. He'd been accepted as a hero by his village, and yet she'd cursed him for being the son of a man who had, years before, forced his lusts upon her, a helpless slave. She had cursed Kol to die young, and without children to beget the jarl, Thorlek's, name.

  At this very moment, he felt another woman's curses at work upon him. He glanced at the crossbeam ceiling. With, a growl he pulled on his gloves, working the fitted leather over his fingers.

  Vekell moved toward the entrance. "Come, my lord. I will take you to him."

  Kol scabbarded his vikingsword into its leather baldric and, accompanied by his hounds, followed Vekell across the outer courtyard. The scent of the sea washed over him, cleansing him. He welcomed the utter darkness of the night and the shock of cold.

  As he emerged from beneath the raised wooden gate, Svartkell appeared and fell behind to protect his flank as they walked across the shallow ditch toward a small hut on the outskirts of the burh. Outside stood several guards warming their hands above a fire, but with Kol's appearance they straightened and offered due greeting to their lord.

  The animal-pelt door stretched cool and smooth beneath Kol's palm. "I wish to confer with him alone."

  Kol opened the door and moved inside, leaving the men and his whining hounds behind. For a moment he perceived only peat-scented haze. Upon the earthen floor smoldered a fire, a small, burning pupil in the otherwise pitch-darkness of the room.

  Something moved in the far corner. Kol rested his hand upon the pommel of his sword.

  In Saxon, a man's voice demanded, "Who enters?"

  "'Tis I," Kol responded with cool assurance. "Thorleksson."

  With an oath, the man stood. "I had wondered if we would ever meet, or if I was worthy enough only for your seconds."

  "Your wounds pain you. I bid you, please sit." Though his words were gracious, Kol did not bother to keep the edge from his voice. He took exception to the man's insolence.

  Ranulf's traitor limped toward him. "Nay. I will stand in the presence of Kol, Son of Thorlek. The Banished One. King of the Sea."

  The man wore his battle gear. Dim light quivered over a mail shirt still stained with blood. Sweat had dried his long hair into snakish strands.

  Eye to eye they stood, staring at one another. Two wolves, each assessing the other's prowess.

  Wolves hunted together. But sometimes turned on one another.

  "Your injuries," Kol began, his gaze descending to a linen-wrapped thigh. "Are they grievous?"

  "Nay, my Danish brethren." A slow smile curled the spy's lips. "My wounds were salved by the satisfaction of our great victory today. That and the skill of your talented physician."

  Kol trusted no traitor. However, the Saxon's hatred worked to his current benefit. He murmured, "I have been told you did not accept your reward."

  The Saxon shook his head, his upper lip twitching into a sneer. "Gold is not the reward I seek."

  This answer did not surprise Kol. Rarely did men turn traitor for greed's sake alone.

  Still, a curious suspicion compelled him to ask, "Saxon, tell me then, what reward do you seek?"

  The man turned from him, and retreated into the darkest shadows. "Ranulf's death will be reward enough." Kol heard the rattle of a scabbard being fastened, a sword finding its berth.

  "Then go carefully. My captain will see you to the perimeter. In a fortnight we will meet at Leswick."

  The man came forth. The stiffness of the wound must have eased, for now he barely limped. "Aye. I will be there, unless Death claims me first."

  "Remember," Kol instructed evenly. "Ranulf is mine."

  Kol watched the spy's lips tighten as he bent to remove the linen bindings from his legs. Beneath, dark stains marred the man's braies.

  The Saxon straightened, and cast the linen onto the fire. "Though I crave the honor, I shall remember the oath I have made." The acrid scent of burned blood pressed into Kol's nostrils.

  "I have one additional request."

  Behind the man, white peat smoke arose from the fire, and streamed upward through the hut's smoke hole.

  "What would please you, my lord?"

  Reluctant to reveal the extent of his interest, Kol trained his gaze on the upward spiral of smoke. "Learn what you can of the Princess Isabel's husband."

  "Her husband?" A low, dry laugh filled the hut.

  Unaccustomed to being a source of mirth to anyone, Kol silently tucked the grudge away for later retribution.

  "Yes." He met gleaming eyes. "Her husband. Confirm whether he fell this morn or whether he has joined Ranulf s surviving forces."

  The man hesitated, as if savoring a flavorful tidbit. "I am afraid our princess is but a songless bird, caged in the splendor of the fortress on the hill."

  "Caged? Caged by whom?"

  "Ranulf. He hath disallowed her from having a husband." The words echoed like thunder inside Kol's head. Isabel had lied to him. Even as he vowed not to ask, he heard the question spring forth.

  "Then who is the father of her child?"

  "Christ's blood." The Norsexian traitor moved closer. Smoke danced in slender wisps around his face, obscuring his features. "You know naught?"

  "Speak your knowledge," snapped Kol, impatient with the game.

  The man tilted his head, his gaze as sharp as a sword. "Why, my lord, you are."

  Chapter 6

  "But why would the princess tell such a outrageous lie?" Vekell's gaze scorched outward to ensure no other stood close enough to hear.

  Morning's blush fell across the eastern side of the keep. Beneath such rosy light the Saxons who lined the ground at Kol's feet appeared almost alive. But each warrior remained just as dead as he had been the day before. Kol had no doubt of this, for he had lifted the shroud from each corpse, confirming once more, Ranulf did not lie among the battle-fallen.

  He nodded to a degn who stood nearby. "Allow the Saxons to claim their dead."

  The soldier nodded, and with his spear, beckoned to the multitude who hovered in a grim-faced mass along the edge of the field. Heels sinking heavily into the mud, Kol turned to depart. The crowd fragmented. Elbows jerked and arms shoved, as the conquered people of Calldarington hastened to remove themselves from his path.

  Kol muttered to Vekell. "You tell me why a woman lies about the identity of her child's father."

  His marshal shook his head. His breath, visible in the cold morning, puffed out to trail along behind them. "Fenrir's fangs! I would not have believed it of her."

  "Believe it." Since hearing the traitor's revelation, Kol's anger had burgeoned tenfold.

  Vekell mused, "She must have a reason to claim such a thing."

  They walked into the shadow of the burh's high earthen battlement. Arrow shafts jutted forth from the wall, remnants of the previous day's battle. Kol reached out and wrenched one free.

  "She hath accused me of rape. All of these people—" With the arrow he gestured at the small clusters of Saxons who skirted past. They hunkered into their dark, shapeless clothing, as if by doing so they could escape his notice. "By God, all of
Norsex believes me to be the father of her child by force."

  "It matters naught what they think." Only their footsteps sounded between them until Vekell murmured, "You and I both know what she claims is impossible."

  The arrow snapped in Kol's fist. He dropped the pine shaft to the ground. Vekell paused to retrieve it.

  Kol walked on. Why did it unseat him so severely to have one of his deepest desires so twisted? 'Twas true, there would be no sons or daughters for him. His mother's curses, contrived to end his father's line, had proven true. Only God knew how intensely he'd tested their power in his earlier years, fornicating his way across the earth with regretfully little consequence, none but a soul-deep emptiness no profusion of carnal pleasure could ever fill. In time he had accepted his fate. In more recent years he'd found contentment in spiritual exploration and an almost monastic way of life.

  When the path narrowed, Kol stopped. From this elevated place, just outside the burh's gate, he surveyed Calldarington's harbor. The dragon bows of his ships coiled upward through the morning fog like newly sprouted vines seeking the light.

  He had come to await his destiny with a certain amount of peace. But now that he had come to Norsex, the place where he'd fully anticipated his destiny to culminate, that hard-earned peace scattered. Beside him, Vekell twisted the arrow's head off the broken shaft.

  "The princess hath no husband, you say?" From his waist he withdrew a small pouch. Opening it, he dropped the head inside.

  "Aye, she is unwed. She hath always been unwed."

  Vekell tied the pouch at his waist. "Then she protects someone. A lover. One who is already married or below her in eminence. An unworthy liaison for a princess."

  Kol's feet, like his mind, moved forward. "I can think of no other explanation."

  Vekell matched pace with his lord. "Mayhap 'tis why she set you free from the pit, for if you remained in Calldarington alive—"

  "Aye." Kol's jaw tautened. He glanced at Isabel's window in the upper hall, visible just above the battlement. The shutters remained closed tight against the outside world. "She could not take the chance her lies would be revealed."