Heart of Winter (The Drake Chronicles Book 1)

by Lauren Gilley

  “I very much do not want to go to bed alone,” he whispered. “If there’s a better offer on the table.”

  Erik’s brow smoothed; a smile dawned, slow, mischievous, positively boyish. “I think that can be arranged.”

  Footfalls sounded on the dais steps, and Oliver bit back another groan when he saw that it was Ragnar approaching.

  He glanced between them, smirking. “I hate to interrupt–”

  “What is it, Ragnar?” Erik asked.

  “I want a word with you, if I can, before you retire.” He cocked his head and his expression went serious. “In private.”

  Erik sighed, but nodded. “Fine.” He turned to Oliver with an apology in his eyes.

  Oliver stood. “I’ll be off, then.” He offered a tight smile. “Pleasure to meet you, Ragnar.”

  The smirk returned. “It could be, if this one fails to satisfy.” He jerked a thumb toward Erik.

  Who scowled and waved his cousin back. “Go on. We’ll go to the dining room. Bjorn?”

  The big man turned away from a conversation down on the floor, brows lifted in inquiry.

  “See that Mr. Meacham returns safely to his rooms.”

  Oliver didn’t sigh, and kept his face carefully neutral. But when Ragnar caught his gaze, the wolf-shirt winked at him.

  22

  In general, Erik had no great resentment for his role as king. He liked to keep busy – to be useful – and, despite his initial misgivings when he’d first been crowned, he’d found that he had a head for all the many numbers and organizational minutiae that came with running a nation.

  But sometimes, he just wanted a bit of peace. A moment of privacy.

  A night to lock his door against kingship and slowly undress a pretty, copper-haired Southern boy.

  He plucked a candlestick up off a table as he passed and led Ragnar out of the great hall, down the corridor, and into the private family dining room. It was shut up for the night, the hearth cold, tapestries drawn over the window glass. Erik used the candle he held to light the candelabrum on the table, and on tall iron stands on either side of the fireplace.

  As the soft glow swelled and filled the room with the scent of beeswax, he set the candlestick on the table and turned to face his cousin, who stood leaning back against the closed door, arms folded, seemingly at his leisure.

  The sight of him struck Erik as an obstacle. Ragnar was the thing keeping him from Oliver right now – physically barring the way out, holding him here in the cold room, away from his warm bed and the wine-warm skin of his would-be lover.

  As if he knew this – and of course he did, with all his smirks, and winks, and touching Oliver’s hair; Erik had seen that, and only Birger’s murmured “steady now, lad” had kept him in his chair and away from throttling his cousin on the spot – Ragnar grinned. “Wishing you were elsewhere, cousin?”

  “If you have business to discuss, then discuss, it,” Erik growled. “Otherwise, you can go get drunk with everyone else.”

  Ragnar’s grin lingered a moment longer, then fell away as if it hadn’t been there at all. His grin, Erik had always thought, was more dangerous than most people even knew – when it dropped, it revealed just how shrewd and calculating his pale gaze was; offered a window into a mind far sharper than he was ever given credit for.

  He pushed off the door and took a few aimless steps forward, expression thoughtful. “You really like this one.”

  “You act like I’m some sort of whoremaster.”

  The grin returned, less flashy this time. “Quite the contrary. I didn’t think you had any room for affection in that cold heart. It’s nothing but serving, and ruling, and brooding for you. Loving is a foreign concept – but then.” His head titled. “So is he. Fitting, I suppose.”

  “Ragnar,” Erik warned, hands curling into fists at his sides.

  “Fine, fine, I won’t keep you. But.” He grew serious – truly serious this time, and sat down on the edge of the table, one booted foot swinging. “The Beserkirs are getting restless, Erik.”

  Erik’s impatience evaporated at once. “That’s what I gathered from the one cooling his heels in my dungeon.”

  Ragnar’s brows shot up. “You have one here? As prisoner?”

  “Caught him picking the lock on the north gate. He seems to think I’m in league with Aquitainia, and that I want to march on the mountains and claim their lands as my own. They know about Tessa and Oliver,” he said, arching a brow. “That they’re here, and that Tessa is to marry Leif. My question is: how could they know such a thing?”

  Ragnar shook his head, bewildered. “Your guess is as good as mine. They’re crafty; they could have spies implanted.”

  “Amongst my guardsmen? Or my kitchen staff?” Erik asked, mocking. “I have interviewed most of them, and all of them have been with us for years, or are the children of well-respected Aeres residents.”

  Ragnar shrugged. “Can never be too careful. In any event: they’re rumbling about you. And they’re rumbling about everything. They’re feeling left out – they want to be important.”

  “Then maybe they should stop raiding caravans like common highwaymen and act like civilized human beings,” Erik said, noting the savage note in his voice.

  A pause.

  Then: “Just out of curiosity,” Ragnar drawled, glancing up from beneath golden brows. “What are your plans with the South?”

  None of your fucking business, Erik thought. But if he was to try to sanction the Beserkirs in front of the entire Northern Council, then he would need the Úlfheðnar on his side.

  He took a breath and said, “Leif is going to wed the Drakewell girl. It’s a marriage contract between North and South, the same as my parents had, the same as my great-grandparents had.”

  “Isn’t the Duke of Drakewell dead?”

  Erik wanted to know how he knew that, but Ragnar was wily, and he always had his sources. Gossip here tonight at the feast, if nothing else. He nodded.

  “And no heirs? That would make Leif the duke, then.”

  “I applaud your deductive skills.”

  “Ass,” Ragnar said, without malice. “Would he serve there, in Drakewell, as an absentee king of Aretoll? When you inevitably die of stubbornness? Or will little Rune sit the throne here?”

  “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Rune isn’t so little anymore.”

  “I did notice. I noticed when he was cold-cocking one of my best men.”

  “Your best. That was your best.”

  “Fuck you, Erik. What’s to become of Aeretoll?”

  “It will endure as it always has,” Erik said, firmly. “Under my leadership, until I am old and feeble and don’t know my own mind anymore. Or until I fall in battle” – that got an eyebrow quirk; Aeretoll hadn’t been a part of anything like a true battle in years – “And then Leif will sit the throne here, a true king of my line, and an agent will represent his interests in Drakewell. It is an acquisition of valuable property, nothing more. Don’t tell me you would turn away from such a prize if it fell into your lap.”

  Ragnar’s smile was chagrined. “An opportunist like me? Not a chance.” He sobered. “Still.” Stood. Met Erik’s gaze head-on. “Come to the Midwinter Festival ready to persuade and to soothe. You’ll have to assure the clans that you aren’t going to go Southern on us.”

  Erik nodded, though the words chafed at him. Aeretoll’s business was its own, and no one else’s. Who was Ragnar to caution him about foreign dealings? To suggest he come meekly to the negotiation table with the kind of disordered rabble who’d murdered his brother-in-law? Who hated him for what he had, but who scorned the means by which he held onto it?

  “Oh,” Ragnar added, “you should bring your new plaything, too.”

  An image of Oliver as he’d looked tonight popped into Erik’s mind: his pale face a little pink from the heat of the room, and the strength of the wine; the candle flames catching on the gleaming russet of his hair, even brighter than the sapphires winking al
ong the little braids that Erik had plaited with his own fingers. He’d been resplendent in blue, fine-featured, and beautiful enough to put everyone else in the hall to shame. Erik had sat next to him and ached, wanting to touch, wanting to enfold him and keep him away from all the prying, judgmental eyes, though Oliver didn’t need that protection, his chin lifted, and his gazes slanted and cautious. He was well versed in protecting himself – though Erik wished he hadn’t had to be.

  He thought of him, and he looked at Ragnar’s smug smile, and a growl built in his throat. “My what?”

  Ragnar’s smile only widened. “It’s very charming how besotted you are.”

  “I will–”

  “But I’m being serious.” The smile fell away. “If the Beserkirs are sowing doubts about your loyalty, then you have to prove that the pretty Southern boy occupying your bed isn’t also filling your head with anti-North rhetoric.”

  “If you say one more word–”

  “You can snarl at me all you want, but you know I’m right. You taking a consort was bound to cause a stir anyway.”

  “He isn’t my consort.”

  “Not yet,” Ragnar said with a snort. “He will be. You think you’re so cold and smooth – with your lover’s beads and your lingering looks. He’ll be yours, and then what? What happens when he’s accused of being a spy sent to turn the king against his own people?”

  Erik opened his mouth to argue – but found he couldn’t. That was exactly what people would think.

  He said, “Oliver isn’t a spy.”

  Ragnar shrugged. “I believe you. But you’ll have to get the North to believe you, too. Scratch that – Oliver will have to get them to. He has to prove himself to your people, and you know it.

  “If he belonged to the Úlfheðnar, he could slay a bear and kill a man in combat, and that would be the end of it. But down here in your kingdom” – he rolled his eyes – “it’s a lot more dull and complicated.”

  Erik’s fists tightened – fruitlessly. There was nothing he could do. Nothing but prove, over time, that Oliver was no threat to the North – that he was Erik’s partner, and not a political agent…if in fact he wanted to be his partner.

  He was getting much too far ahead of himself.

  “Bring him,” Ragnar pressed. “He might even enjoy himself. Let him watch, and learn, and show that he belongs.”

  Erik jerked a nod.

  Ragnar beamed. “You hate it when I’m right, don’t you?”

  Erik grunted. “Are we done?”

  “Well…” Ragnar laughed when he saw whatever Erik’s face did. He leaned forward to clap him on the shoulder. “Peace, cousin. Run off to your fire-drake, you joyless sod.”

  As Erik headed for the door, Ragnar called, “And don’t let me see you at breakfast without claw marks all down your neck.” His cackling laughter followed Erik out of the room.

  ~*~

  Bjorn was the last person Oliver wanted walking beside him.

  They moved along the gallery in silence – one Oliver felt compelled to break, but which he wasn’t sure how to. Bjorn hadn’t said anything unkind, but he’d been far less jovial ever since Oliver’s illness. He’d come to Oliver’s defense tonight with Ragnar, but Ragnar’s had laid out in bold words what must be plain to Bjorn by now: that Erik had amorous intentions toward him. And Bjorn being Erik’s oldest, closest friend…well, if Bjorn disapproved of him, Oliver didn’t really want to know about it.

  But this was so awkward.

  They hit the base of the spiral staircase, and Oliver cleared his throat. Too loud – the sound echoed off the stone walls around them.

  “Um,” he said, “I noticed you didn’t spar with anyone tonight. No one big enough to give you a good bit of sport?” he teased. Or attempted to. It fell horribly flat.

  “It’s mostly for the young ones,” Bjorn said as they climbed. “The ones with something still to prove.”

  “Ah.”

  Silence, again.

  Oliver said, “If you want to go back down to the hall, I’m fine on my own from here.”

  “Trying to get rid of me?”

  “Oh, no, I – not at all. But. There’s still a bit of party left, I think. And I can certainly find my way back to my own room…”

  Bjorn halted, right at the top of the stairs, and turned to face him. “Your room?” he asked, expression flat. “Is that where you want to go?”

  “I…”

  Bjorn tilted his head.

  “No,” Oliver said, half-strangled. “I suppose not.”

  Bjorn nodded, and set off again.

  They walked the rest of the way in silence, down to the royal apartments where a pair of guards nodded respectfully at their passage. The common room was empty, though a fire crackled merrily in the hearth.

  When Oliver hesitated, Bjorn motioned for him to follow, and led him down a hallway flanked by ornate tapestries. A single door stood at the end, two small cressets flickering to either side. Bjorn opened the door, pushed it wide, and stepped inside.

  Oliver crossed the threshold after him – and then froze.

  Even if he hadn’t already known, there would have been no mistaking the room for anything besides the king’s chamber.

  A vast space, with plenty of windows, tapestries tucked behind gold cords, waiting to be drawn across the glass. A variety of richly-patterned rugs covered the floor, layered over one another at the corners. There was a table large enough to seat four, and a writing desk and chair; a large, free-standing mirror, several bureaus, and big shipping trunks with leather straps on the lids. Shelves held books, and trinkets that gleamed faintly in the firelight that came from the hearth: a low, simmering fire that needed a log added to it. Bjorn crossed to do just that as Oliver paced slowly deeper into the room, gazing at everything.

  The room’s dominant feature was the bed. Oliver stood at the foot of it, taking in its tall, draperied, four-poster extravagance. It sat high off the floor, and wide enough across for four people. A crimson and blue velvet coverlet embroidered with stags and wolves had been folded back to reveal snowy linens. The head was heaped with pillows, and the foot was piled with furs that had obviously come from several different animals. A small table to one side held a book with a quill marking a place in its center, and a cup, a tobacco pipe in a dish of ashes.

  The room smelled of pine, and book pages, and sharp soap.

  Like Erik. Because this was the place where he ended every evening, and began every morning. The pillows where his black and silver hair lay like silk streamers; the book that he was reading and the pipe that he smoked while he squinted at the pages by candlelight. The fireplace where he warmed his hands, and the mirror he stood in front of while he laced his shirts, and braided his hair.

  It felt more intimate than kissing, suddenly, being in his personal, private space like this. Oliver’s vision blurred at the edges, just a moment, and he gripped one of the bedposts.

  “All right,” Bjorn said, behind him, and Oliver turned, still clutching the bedpost, his pulse fluttering unsteadily. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” He moved toward the door.

  That was good. Oliver had no idea what he would do if Bjorn sat down in one of the armchairs by the fire and kept him company until Erik arrived. There was something horribly undignified about being hand-delivered to a would-be lover’s bedroom.

  So Oliver had no idea why he said, “Bjorn, wait,” when the big man was at the threshold.

  He paused, one hand braced on the doorframe, and twisted back around to face Oliver. His expression was inscrutable – guarded.

  Oliver said, “Thank you. For – for being–”

  Bjorn let out a deep breath, and the ghost of a smile touched his lips, softening the hard lines of his face. “What are you thanking me for, lad?” He sounded almost fond.

  “For. Um. Being understanding, I suppose.”

  Bjorn chuckled. “Things are that bad in Drakewell, eh?”

  “Oh. Well, it’s not–”
r />   “I like you. Birger does, and Revna. The boys. Erik does,” he said, rolling his eyes, definitely fond, now, “obviously. You’re not to my taste, mind–”

  “Gods, I hope not.”

  That earned a snort. “But I do like you.” He paused, and tilted his head. “Now.”

  Uh-oh.

  “But don’t think I won’t have something to say if you’re only just playing with Erik’s affections.”

  Oliver stared at him a moment, dumbstruck. And then a laugh bubbled up in his throat. “I’m sorry. Are you – are you telling me you’re going to – I don’t know, challenge me to a duel or something if I break his heart?”

  Bjorn frowned. “Well, when you put it like that…”

  Oliver laughed again, through the hand he pressed over his mouth in an effort to stem it. “You aren’t serious.”

  “And what if I am?”

  “You think I have the power to hurt him?” His laughter dimmed, though, when Bjorn only stared at him, brows drawn low.

  Gods, he was serious.

  “See that you don’t,” Bjorn finally said, and saw himself out. The door shut solidly behind him.

  Oliver stood a moment, gaping at the closed door. “That just happened,” he murmured to himself. And then, “Why not?” Because this whole evening was one crazy fever dream, and bound to get crazier.

  Pushing Bjorn from his thoughts, he decided to take advantage of being alone in Erik’s chambers by himself and have a closer look around.

  A tall wardrobe of pale wood, its doors carved with howling wolves, stood half-open, and proved to be full of hanging tunics and trousers and undershirts. Oliver ran his fingers down the length of a velvet sleeve, imagining the texture of the skin it had covered.

  Beside the wardrobe, he found a small, round-topped table of dark, polished wood inlaid with ivory. It struck him as a very Southern piece, its Veniscalli design obvious, and he remembered the wine, and thought this must be a table that had once belonged to Erik’s mother. It now held silver dishes of hair ornaments: beads of all shapes and sizes, some carved, some adorned with gems, and a few fat silver clips and hair cuffs. Oliver picked up a wide cuff carved with a large pair of reindeer antlers, smoothing his thumb across the cool surface, smiling to himself as he envisioned the tall and often-surly king carefully fixing his hair in front of the mirror.