Breakfast was already well under way in the great hall; he could hear the clatter and murmur of it as he crossed the gallery, and the scent of fresh bread wafted up over the rail. A glance proved the trestles were laid out, occupied by an assortment of men and women, sitting in cliques. Some in fine velvets and furs, their hair braided elaborately. Lords, ladies, perhaps merchants, Oliver thought. But other tables held working men and women in plainer, sturdier clothes, and there was even the odd guardsman or two, sitting together and smoking pipes while they ate. The children had congregated together at one table, a flurry of waving arms, and crumbs, and bright, excited voices. Oliver spotted the redhead and the blond he’d seen in the library yesterday; the redhead climbed half across the table to pelt another boy with biscuit crumbs, and the blond tugged him back down to the bench with a reproach.
Oliver found a long side-table heaped with platters and cloth-covered baskets, a stack of pewter dishes, and helped himself to bread, butter, strawberry jam, and some bacon. And a very tall mug of what smelled like very strong tea, no sugar.
Then, already-sour stomach twisting, he had to figure out where to sit. It was an anxiety with which he was well-familiar: sitting beside the wrong person could be social suicide in Drakewell. For instance, while he’d always had a place with one of his cousins, sitting beside anyone else titled would have earned him the cut direct. No one had seemed to care that he was a bastard last night, nor this morning, if the servants’ warm greetings were anything to go by. Still, he noted some of the men in finer clothes eyeing him skeptically. Was it because he was a bastard? Or so clearly foreign?
It was tempting to set his plate back on the serving table, and flee, hangover be damned.
But then a voice called, “Oliver! Over here!”
Rune stood up from his seat and waved, his young face split in a wide grin. Birger sat beside him, his expression fondly amused as he regarded the prince.
Oliver hesitated. Heads were turning toward the prince, and toward him. Rune waved more exaggeratedly, and said, “Sit with me!”
There were some head shakes, some murmurs.
Here was a prince asking a visiting bastard to come have breakfast with him. Oliver couldn’t decide which would be more damning in the Aeretolleans’ eyes: refusing, and sitting off by himself, or joining their prince.
Rune made a pleading face. “Come on. Birger’s boring me to death. I’m dying – literally dying.”
Birger huffed.
Oliver took a deep breath, and crossed the room to settle on the bench opposite Rune, keenly aware of the eyes that followed his progress. “You do look peaky,” he deadpanned, and earned a scandalized face from Rune – a false one, it quickly melted into a laugh – and an approving grin from Birger. “Good morning to you both.”
“How’s the head?” Birger asked, knowingly.
Oliver lifted his mug and made a face. “Hopefully the tea will help.” It was probably his imagination, but he thought the first few swallows eased the band of tension wrapped around his temples. “What’s so boring?” he asked Rune.
Rune grimaced. “Trade negotiations.”
With the air of a man who’d said it hundreds of times, Birger said, “Every prince worth his salt knows who his strongest, and weakest trade partners are.”
Rune rolled his eyes theatrically and crammed bacon in his mouth.
Birger sent Oliver an imploring look.
Oliver swallowed a mouthful of buttered bread and said, “That’s true. There’s a big difference between an ally, and someone looking to ally against you because they think you cheated them on grain.”
Birger hid a smirk in his own mug.
Rune scoffed. “We don’t cheat anyone on grain.”
“I’m not saying you do. But trade isn’t just about getting what you need, and selling what you don’t. There’s politics at play. If someone gives one of your allies a better deal, they might think of shifting alliances. Trade is just like marriage: it’s all a power play.”
Birger nodded approvingly.
Rune said, “You sound like Birger.”
“And could sound like you if you’d pay better attention,” Birger said.
Rune began ripping a piece of bread to bits, knee bouncing under the table hard enough to rattle their plates. “I don’t need to know about any of that. That’ll be Leif’s problem. He’ll be king, and I’ll be his right hand. It’s more important that I understand battle statistics. I’m the spare, and spares are always warriors.”
Oliver would have been the spare, the warrior, had he been legitimate. And had his health been better.
Birger heaved a deep, put-upon sigh. “Lad,” he said to Rune. “You have room in your head for battle statistics and politics. Do you not think you’d be a better help to your brother if you studied both?”
Rune sniffed and began eating the bread pieces.
“And do you know why there’s a spare?” Birger pressed. “Hm? Your uncle never thought he’d be king, either, not when he was your age.”
Rune froze a moment, dark eyes widening. He swallowed, and his gaze dropped to his plate, his hands very still. Contrite. “No,” he mumbled.
Birger patted his arm. “We’ll leave it for now. But this is important.”
Rune nodded. Ate bread in silence for a few moments, then lifted his gaze to Oliver and the sparkle returned to it. “I’m training today. Going to put Lord Belgard’s boys on their asses.”
Birger shook his head, but chuckled.
Rune said, “Want to come watch?”
“Me?”
“I won’t make you spar,” Rune assured, then tipped his head. “Unless you want to…?”
“Watching’s plenty exciting for me, thanks.”
If it was possible, the boy brightened further. “You’ll come?”
“Sure.”
“Ha! Wait here. I have to go and get my things.” He bolted up from the table, leaving his dirty plate behind, and went sprinting for the staircase.”
Birger said, “Oh, to be that young again. The energy of them at that age.”
“I never had that much energy at his age,” Oliver said.
Birger snorted. “More brains, though, I’d wager.”
Oliver shrugged, uncertain of the praise; he wasn’t used to it. “King Erik is a second son, then?” He knew that he was, but he’d only read it in a book passage, a few throwaway lines about Prince Arne falling in battle beside his father, the aging King Frode.
Birger looked at him like he suspected Oliver wasn’t ignorant of the fact, but answered readily enough. “Aye. Third, actually. Herleif died when they were only children.” His expression grew somber. “Terrible thing. Unexpected. The queen was disconsolate. Arne became heir, and he took to it gamely. Erik was wild back then. Like Rune, only – less happy.” He shook his head. “Losing his father and brother, so soon after the queen fell to illness, it broke something inside him. Something weakened by Herleif’s death.” His gaze shifted to sternness. “I tell you this so that you might think better of him, not to go spreading his personal family history about.”
Oliver paused, mug halfway to his mouth. “I understand,” he said, hoping to convey just how much so.
Birger held his gaze a moment longer, then nodded, and stood. “If the young ones do decide to marry, I suspect you and I will have much to discuss in the coming weeks. We’ll talk soon.” He smiled and ambled off.
Oliver picked at his bread crust, and wondered what Erik’s blue eyes would look like young and full of vigor – almost as much as he wondered what they’d look like full of happiness.
7
Tessa had known her entire life that she would marry, and marry a lord of some kind at that. She’d been thirteen before she’d finally started feeling a faint kindling of heat in her belly when she looked at a pretty boy. A flush in her cheeks, a fluttering in her chest, a sense of running out of air, and terrible nerves; she’d worked hard to break the habit of knotting her fingers together, t
hough she’d fallen back into it only last night.
Her mother had talked about the need to make a smart match. But Father – Father: if she let him slip into her thoughts now, pain knifed through her, leaving her reeling and sick – had said he’d find her a good match, and the softness of his smile had told her that smart and good were very different things.
A year ago, the heir of Hope Hall, the trim and tidy, handsome, golden-haired Lord Reginald had accepted her favor at the May Day tourney; had bowed his bright head in thanks, his straight, confident smile leaving her insides like jelly. So much had changed in a year.
Everything had changed.
Lord Reginald was off to war, and here she was in Aeres, pacing beside a prince instead, as they walked through a quiet, snow-mantled garden filled only with the tittering of birds, and the sigh of the breeze in the dormant fruit tree branches.
Tessa had never loved Lord Reginald, not even from afar; for her, love seemed to require something beyond distant glimpses and vivid imaginings. Her friends had all professed their undying love to young lords they’d never met, but Tessa had only ever loved her family, and her favorite dog, and she thought there must be something wrong with her not to feel such aching tenderness as the other girls described.
It was only ever a physical warmth for her, pleasant, but fleeting, and not enough to build a life upon. She would marry when it was required of her, for her family’s sake, but she didn’t dare hope for love.
Admiration, though…
Lord Reginald’s most striking feature had been his gleaming golden hair, cropped in short curls in the Southern fashion.
Leif’s hair was gold, too – though not a single shade. Instead a bright spill of honey, and amber, and straw, and pure, spun gold, a rare ocher strand visible in the small braids he wore behind his ears. Silver beads and brilliant sapphires winked within its mass, decorating his braids; a heavy silver barrette held it back from his face, and the rest tumbled down across his shoulders.
Broad shoulders, made broader by leather and fur. He was much bigger than Reginald; she could see the way his arms bunched and flexed, testing his sleeves in a way that reminded her of the strong, bare arms of their blacksmith back home. He’d been young, their blacksmith, fresh from an apprenticeship, always with a smile, always whistling, arms gleaming with sweat. She’d always liked watching him work, when she could sneak a glimpse; had felt the flushed face and fluttery chest that should have been reserved only for handsome young lords.
Leif wasn’t built a thing like the lords back home, with his confident walk, and his large hands, and his big boots, and his short beard, a shade darker than his brilliant hair. But he was still handsome, she thought; very much so.
And his eyes, when he paused beside the frozen fountain, and turned to regard her, were the blue of the cloud-brushed sky over his shoulder.
The fluttering behind her breastbone intensified – tripled, when he rubbed at the back of his neck, and said, cheeks pink with self-consciousness, “It’s much prettier in the summer, when there’s flowers. Now there’s just…” He flapped a hand. “Snow.” He shrugged, and, despite his size and visually obvious toughness, looked a bit helpless.
Tessa found herself smiling. It was terribly endearing, his awkwardness. The young lords of Aquitania all spoke in droll, practiced riddles. Seemingly benign comments that were undercut with sly, sideways glances. Virgin she might be, but she knew a predator’s gaze when she saw one, and she did not see that in Leif now – only the uncertainty of an overgrown boy unsure how to go about all of this.
It was a great comfort.
“I’m sure it’s lovely,” she said. “Are those apple trees?”
“What? Oh, oh yes!” he said with relief. “And pears, too. Some cherries over there. Mum’s mad about the blooms in spring; she ordered them special from Aberforth.” He grinned, warming to the topic, and pointed to the nearest one. “Rune fell out of that one when he was three and broke his arm. He didn’t even cry – just bit his tongue until it bled, even when they reset the bone.”
She chuckled, envisioning it. “Poor thing!”
Leif was grinning wide now, nerves forgotten, and leaned in close, voice going conspiratorial. “Mum said he must have cracked his head, then, too, the way he turned out.”
Tessa laughed. “She did not.”
He shrugged. “You met her. She likes honesty.” His eyes crinkled at the corners when his smile widened, and she could see that when he was a little older he’d have generous laugh lines there. He also had dimples, she noted, just visible beneath his beard.
Hilda cleared her throat behind them, and Leif pulled back, eyes popping comically wide.
“Where to next, my prince?” Hilda asked. “Perhaps the training yard? It sounds like something’s happening over there.”
“Oh. Oh, right. Yes.” He gestured. “Shall we?”
“Yes.”
She fell into step beside him as they proceeded up the path, but didn’t reach to take his arm on her own, nor did he offer, not as Birger had last night, nor as the lords back home would have. She didn’t think it cold of him; rather, she thought he was afraid of frightening her. Everything about him, except for rare moments, like the glimpse of his dimpled smile, spoke of caution and restraint.
She appreciated that.
The garden path led through an arched stone arbor with an open iron gate, and from there opened to a broader, more heavily-traveled path across the palace grounds, the flagstones crusted with a rime of snow that had been compacted and smoothed by the passage of many feet. Lady Revna had loaned her a pair of Northern ladies’ boots, too, and Tessa was grateful for their sturdiness now.
They skirted the stables, and the reindeer barns, and Leif pointed out the mews where the hunting hawks and messenger falcons were kept, promising to introduce her to his favorite birds later. They approached a small building of notched logs with a steep, snow-mounded roof, and she heard the sounds of metal clanging, and men grunting and swearing with effort.
“This is where we keep the practice swords and axes,” Leif explained, and they stepped around the building and found the training yard.
It was larger than she expected, much larger than the one at Drake Hold. A long rectangle bordered by low walls, and overlooked by an upper and lower gallery on the side of the palace itself. Benches and weapon racks lined the inner walls; barrels in the corners held water, or sand, or sawdust, she suspected. Sword and tilting dummies were arranged at the far end, and at the near end, she saw three men sparring with blunted practice swords, the ring and clang and shriek of the steel loud enough to have her wincing.
She spotted two pale heads and one dark. Rune was fighting two opponents at once, both other boys bulkier than him.
“Oh,” she said, and, before she’d realized it, clutched at Leif’s sleeve. “He’s outnumbered.”
Leif snorted – but shifted a step closer so her hand rested on his arm beneath the thick wool and leather of his sleeve. “Numbers don’t count when you’re dealing with those two. Rune can handle himself fine.”
Yesterday, Rune had said he was better with a bow than with a blade, and if that was true, he must be a fierce archer, she surmised, because he was…ferocious with a sword.
In only boots, breeches, and a long leather jerkin over a tunic with the sleeves pushed up, he struck, and swirled, and ducked, and struck again, fluid and graceful as a dancer. His dark hair fanned out around him, the silver beads at the ends of his braids slapping at his back and shoulders. His dark eyes were fairly sparkling, and he laughed as he drove one brother back and then whirled to kick the other square in the stomach.
If Leif was handsome, Rune was pretty, the cut of his cheekbones, nose, and jaw sharper, more refined. He wore his beard shaved down to the grain, only a shadow along the harsh edge of his jaw, and though as tall as his brother, he moved more lightly, more quickly.
The first opponent rallied, and Rune met his strike with one, two, three coun
terstrikes of his own. On the last, he flicked his wrist, slid his blade down the length of the others’ caught it by the crossbeam, and disarmed his opponent in a blink. The sword sailed away, a flash of brightness in the sunlight, and landed on the snow.
In the next breath, Rune spun and brought his sword down in a high arc, as his opponent went low, jumped the swipe of the other boy’s sword, and clapped him in the shoulder with the flat of his own blade.
The boy bellowed, his hand went limp, and the sword fell.
Rune thrust his own sword skyward, crowing his victory, while his opponents rubbed their hurts and scowled at him. When he turned and found them standing there, watching, he was grinning wide, and white, and dazzling, eyes creasing in the same way that his brother’s did, their warm, chocolate brown alight with joy.
Tessa found herself grinning back, and that was before Rune lowered his sword, tilted his head – dark, sweaty hair clinging to his neck, beads clicking together – and winked at her. “Did you come to watch, too, my lady?”
Her chest fluttered anew.
“Come to watch you showing off?” Leif asked.
Tessa said, “Too?”
Rune pointed behind him with his sword. “I dragged your cousin along. In a minute, I’m gonna put a sword in his hand, just watch.”
Against the far wall, sitting on a bench, furred cloak pulled tight around him, Oliver shook his head, eyes going wide. “No, no, he’s not. I’m only watching, Rune.” It sounded like he’d said that more than once while he’d been out here.
“Aw, but that’s no fun,” Rune complained.
Oliver, cheeks and the tip of his nose pink with cold, shook his head again, more firmly. “Not going to happen. No. Nope.”
“Oh,” Tessa said again, more quietly, as Rune turned and pleaded his case in earnest, holding out his own sword in offering. Oliver lifted a hand in protest, tried to look stern, but a smile cracked through. He’d smiled so seldom, lately, and the flash of teeth and the brightening of his eyes made him look his age, thirty, and smoothed the tension of premature stress lines from his brow.
Heart of Winter (The Drake Chronicles Book 1) Page 6