“M’lady.” Alston waved hurriedly before turning back to his work.
“How is your throat?” She gestured with her hands to illustrate what she asked. “Have you been taking the honey?”
The old man nodded and waved to her with a smile.
She turned back to Gunther. “Poor Alston had a bad throat and could not talk for a fortnight. Finally, the midwife said to make him take two spoonfuls of honey a day until his voice came back. I don’t know if it helped, but his voice did eventually start to come back.” She again walked. “Oh, that man there, the one with the absurd covering on his head. That’s Boothe. He’s in charge of the stables and fancies himself an inventor of clothing, thus the headdress. The man he is talking to is Lamar. Lamar is the groundskeeper. Lamar’s twin brother, Lamont, works in the kitchen with Isa. Lamar and Isa are married.”
Gunther stopped, a look of widespread amusement on his face.
“What?” She put her fists defensively on her hips.
“It’s remarkable how you know everyone and how they are connected. I know some ladies who do not even know the names of the servants who wake them in the morning.”
“I have no respect for those women. I love the people who work here and would die for any one of them.” She refused to be embarrassed by her convictions. “And, methinks, they would die for me.”
“And Rab?”
“Yea, and Rab. While he is a foundling, it doesn’t mean his life is less important than a child who has parents.” She sighed in frustration, realizing she was getting agitated.
Gunther only smiled and continued to walk beside her in silence. He offered her his arm and she took it politely. Nodding to a few people, she inquired about their health and their families. Suddenly, she stopped and turned to him. “Why does Lord Blackwell lighten his hair? Is it a custom of his?”
“What?” He tried not to laugh and failed.
“His hair. Why does he lighten that red streak into the side of it?” She bit her lip. “Is his hair blond or red? And does the dyeing take him long to do? It seems a shame to waste much time on it, for there is naught to be done for him.”
Gunther only laughed harder. Patting the hand that rested on his arm, he ignored her pointed attack on Brant’s attractiveness. “That is not bleach, but how his hair grows. His mother named him Brant, meaning ‘one of fire’ because of it. They say he came from her belly in a blaze and has gone fiery to many women since.”
“I see.” Her jaw tightened as she got his meaning. Appalled, she thought, Wretched, lecherous barbarian!
Gunther cleared his throat, evidently having forgotten for a moment that he spoke to a lady. He had the decency to look embarrassed and started walking again, forcing her to continue on. “Would m’lady be so kind as to show me the work being done to the bailey walls?”
“Most certainly,” Della answered stiffly, her good mood dampened. She wondered at the burning sensation in her chest as she thought of Brant with other women. Then, with a decided shake of her head, she determined that it most assuredly could not be jealousy.
* * * * *
Della spent most of the day with Gunther. Considering he was a loyal subject to Lord Blackwell, he was a pleasant enough companion. He’d been surprised at her knowledge of the fortifications. When she’d shown him the additional plans she’d designed for the castle, he seemed almost unable to accept that she, and not Lord Strathfeld, had designed most of the keep.
What is it with men? Why do they think they are the only ones with brains? And most of them with skulls so thick you could not even use their heads for carrying water.
Brant and Lord Strathfeld had been gone since the morning. She was glad they were away chasing raiders. It meant she didn’t have to face her intended. She didn’t think she could control herself quite yet. Invariably when she thought of his willful embrace, her body would grow hot again and she’d be plagued with unfamiliar sensations.
Damned pagan curse!
Judging from the information she’d gotten out of Rab, there was a terrible fire in one of the cotters. An elderly couple had been killed in the flames. Della was saddened by the news. She knew well the location of the fire and could deduce that her father and her intended would be returning shortly. Not wishing to be around when that happened, she hid in her room.
Ebba’s loud knock sounded again on the door. Della had been ignoring it in hopes that the servant would think she slept and leave her alone, but the knock was persistent. Trying to hide her ire at being interrupted, Della stood and slid on a tunic to conceal her nightclothes.
Since it was still early in the eve, she hadn’t yet tried to sleep. Della hardly ever slept at night, or at all for that matter. It had been that way since childhood. Presently she’d been staring into the small fireplace, bemoaning her future in self-pity. If it were up to her, she would have continued to do so undisturbed. Ebba knocked again, louder and more insistent.
With a heavy sigh, she unlocked her bedchamber door. Her stomach was tied up in nerves. She’d locked the heavy oak to keep Brant out, lest he get it into his mind to keep his word and try to make her plead for his favors before the nuptials. Although, a nagging part of her doubted a mere lock would keep the barbarian out if he wanted to come in.
“Yea, Ebba?” Della was aggravated as she pulled open the door and looked out into the hall. She froze, seeing the white face of the young maid. “Ebba, what is it? What has happened? Is it my father?”
“M’lady, I’m sorry,” Ebba said quietly.
Alarmed, Della looked behind the woman. A few torches lit the dim hall to reveal a small gathering of people. Amidst the throng was her father. She sighed with relief to see him. But then her eyes drifted to the grim countenances of Lord Blackwell and the few servants who stood behind him, and finally she detected the midwife, Serilda. The woman smiled at her. Della didn’t care for the woman and took the smile with a sense of foreboding.
“Begone, Ebba,” Della hissed. When the maid scurried from her sight, she put her hands to her hips and turned her cold, proud gaze to her father. “What is the meaning of this deception? Why send Ebba to bring me from my chambers? I would have answered your knock as readily as hers.”
Lord Strathfeld scowled as he pushed his way into her bedchamber. He didn’t answer her outburst. Brant followed the ealdorman inside. Della fumed, watching them in disbelief. Her mouth fell open as her father halfheartedly searched the bedchamber, as if looking for someone.
“What is the meaning of this deception?” Her virtue had never been in question as far as her father was concerned. Not even after he spent months away from the keep, leaving her to manage the household alone.
“Della,” Lord Strathfeld’s voice was strained. He refused to meet her eyes. “It is whispered that you are with child.”
Blessed Saints! Blackwell thinks I carry Stuart’s bastard. Is he so dimwitted to not understand a scheme when he hears one?
“I…” Her words trailed off. She glared accusingly at Lord Blackwell who stood with his arms crossed blocking the door. Not taking her eyes off him, she answered, “I am not.”
So you thought to fill my father’s head with nonsense today while you were out. Della gritted her teeth. She should have insisted on going with them.
“Tell the truth now and you will be spared the brunt of my wrath, tell me false and you will be punished.” Lord Strathfeld shook and she knew he was holding back his anger. “It’s a very serious matter, Della, so I will ask again. Do you carry a child?”
His words washed over her to form a pair of cold clamps over her heart.
“Nay!” She ignored Brant and turned to her father, grabbing his arm. “Nay, father. You know I don’t lie. I’m not with child.”
“I know for a fact that your honesty is undeniably in question,” Brant said from behind her.
“Father, I do admit to telling one falsehood. I told Lord Blackwell that I carried Stuart’s babe.” She heard Brant’s angry breathing and imagined h
is eyes piercing like daggers into the back of her skull. He shut the door, keeping her words from reaching the gossiping servants. Della didn’t care who heard her. She was desperate. “It was foolish of me to do so, but you have to believe I did what methought I had to do for the sake of my future happiness. Nay, for the sake of my future sanity. I would that you reconsider your choice in husband for me. Why not let me marry Stuart? He is blood. He is the rightful heir to your title. King Guthrum has no reason to question our loyalty.”
Having stated her argument, she dropped her hand from his arm. She didn’t need to turn around to feel the fierce sting of Brant’s presence smoldering her with his anger, as she purposefully continued to ignore him. The Viking king did have reason to question her loyalty to them as a race, but not that of Strathfeld’s people or her father’s, or Stuart’s for that matter.
“It’s a grave thing you have said, my daughter,” the ealdorman stated when the couple refused to speak to each other. He looked at Brant and then at his daughter before sadly shaking his head. Walking to the bed, he sat.
For the first time, Della noticed how tired her father looked. He appeared old and battle-worn. His taut skin was drawn and gray against his once-virile face. It was as if he’d been ailing for some time and she’d just now noticed. Chewing on her bottom lip, she fought the sudden onslaught of tears as she realized how fragile her father had become. She’d been too self-absorbed in her own troubles with Lord Blackwell to notice.
Lord Strathfeld cleared his throat, appearing uncomfortable under his daughter’s scrutiny. “And it’s a grave thing to go against the wishes of your sire, but soon you will no longer have to answer to me. You will answer to your husband and I will gladly relinquish the control to him, for you are a willful child, Della. You always have been.”
“Father, please—”
Lord Strathfeld held up his hand and shook his head. “Nay, daughter. This is something you need to hear. Your cousin is not an honorable man. Why you so foolishly throw him your affections is beyond my understanding. I have warned Lord Blackwell of Stuart’s designs and he is willing to honor my wishes in that your cousin will not set a foot inside this keep while I still live. It will be up to your husband if you are to ever talk to or accept Stuart as a guest after I am gone.”
Della looked at her father in astonishment. He never before had cause to attack her character or that of her cousin. It had to be the barbarian’s influence.
“Mayhap your willful ways are of my doing. You were not raised with the gentle hand of a mother. Mayhap I should have remarried for you to have an example to live by, but that is all in the past. It is too late to change.” The ealdorman turned somberly to Brant. “Perchance you will remember that in the future when she acts out of hand. For it is not all her fault.”
“Father?” Della had never seen him act like this. His words carried a surreal finality to them.
“Nay, Della.” Lord Strathfeld stood. He refused to look at her, instead choosing to stare at the closed chamber door. “It’s a grave thing you have done, trying to convince Lord Blackwell to renounce the betrothment. You will have to live with the consequences of your actions.”
“Father?” She backed away from the two men. The fire grew hotter behind her and she stopped. Not daring to look at her intended, she whispered, “What do you mean to do?”
Lord Strathfeld looked wearily to Brant. “That is not for me to decide.”
“What are you going to do to me?” she asked Brant, not bothering to hide her fear. Looking up at him through the sweep of her long lashes, she waited. He watched her intently, his face red with irritation. Her gaze moved to the firm set of his mouth. “Would you consummate the marriage now? In front of witnesses no less?”
“Nay,” Brant answered. Relief flooded her, but she hid it quickly beneath an icy mask. The frown between his eyes deepened.
“Would you not marry me?” She was unable to keep the hopefulness from her voice.
“Nay, should you prove to be a maiden, we will be wed. If not…” Brant took a step toward her, his fists clenching and unclenching in an unmistakable effort to control his anger. “If not, we will discuss it at that time. But, make no mistake, we will still be wed.”
Della nodded, well aware that he was letting her off easy. Legally, he could kill her for her insults to his reputation and no one would think less of him. He would only have to pay her father her worth as compensation and women really weren’t worth much in the eyes of the law. Or he could marry her first and then kill her. He would owe nothing and he would still be Ealdorman of Strathfeld. Della paled at the thought. There were many ways for a husband to rid himself of an unwanted wife.
Brant turned to Lord Strathfeld and nodded. The ealdorman frowned, but didn’t naysay the silent gesture. Della wondered what they were up to.
“So we are to wait then? To prove I’m not pregnant?” A calm relief came over her at the idea. It would be well over a fortnight before her woman’s time happened again. It meant she had more time to prepare herself for the tragedy that was to be her life. With more time another out would present itself.
“Nay, the wedding goes on as planned providing the outcome of your checking is satisfactory.” Brant’s expression shone with determination.
The relief drained slowly from her limbs to be replaced by first dread, then repulsion, and finally outrage. “You would not dare.”
“Della!” her father warned.
“Yea, m’lady, I would dare much. It’s time you were put in your place. I will not tolerate a faithless wife, in words or deeds. Heed my warning now.” He stormed toward her and grabbed her by the arm. “If ever I catch you even thinking of playing me false, I will beat you repeatedly within an inch of your life.”
She glanced at her father for help, but he shook his head and moved to go. The sharp bite of Brant’s hand closed on her arm like a vise. Her father opened the door and waved the midwife and two servants inside the bedchamber to witness.
Father? Father, please don’t leave me with him. Father? Father!
Della watched with wide eyes as Lord Strathfeld turned his back on her and shut the door behind him. Glancing at the servants, she didn’t really see them. She wasn’t sure what torture Brant had planned for her, only that it couldn’t be good. Della turned her pleading gaze to the unyielding man at her arm. It would be useless to beg him and yet she tried. “Please. Don’t do this, m’lord. Give me a chance to make it right.”
Brant’s resolve slipped at Della’s soft plea. He read the innocent fear in her eyes and in that moment was completely certain she was pure. But she’d put herself into this predicament. He had to have her maiden status proven. For when it was, all would think her dishonorable words were a desperate defense by a bride nervous of the wedding night. Such a thing would be laughed at and forgiven. If he did nothing, everyone would think ill of her and his children’s legitimacy would always be wondered at—no matter if he claimed them for his own. And worse, they would think he was less of a man. Soldiers wouldn’t follow a man who couldn’t control a mere woman. They wouldn’t trust him to be a strong leader.
“I am ready, m’lord,” the midwife, Serilda, called from the bed.
He knew it was too late to stop the inspection. Without answering Della’s plea for mercy, he stiffly dragged her to the bed by her arm. “Della, lie still. It will be over quickly. If you move it will hurt more.”
She shook her head and tried to back away from him, but she couldn’t wrench her arm from the force of his grasp. Her lips trembled. Again her words were a soft plea that only he could hear. “Don’t do this. Please, don’t.”
“Turn yer backs,” Serilda instructed the two maids bearing witness. “M’lady, lie down on the bed.”
Brant waited until the maids complied, aware that his bride had no intention of moving. Her face had iced over with a look of foreboding. Her limbs stopped shaking and her eyes were eerily dry. He searched her cheeks for tears. Surely an alarmed woma
n would wail and cry out for mercy. There was nothing in her features, just a blank wall.
He led her to the bed by her unresisting arm and helped her to sit. Then he gently laid her on her back. Her behavior frightened him. Never had he thought his obstinate bride would become so docile, her breathing shallow and slow. She remained motionless as her eyes stared into the ceiling and then past it. The midwife lifted her dress.
Nay, Ice Princess, stay with me.
Brant couldn’t help himself. His eyes hungrily devoured her as Serilda lifted her gown to expose her ankles, the delicate curve of her calves, the creamy white skin of her inner thighs. She was beautifully formed—not too athletic, not too soft. He wondered what it would be like to have her legs wrapped about his waist as he thrust wildly into her. The thought instantly brought to mind the day before, when he had been very close to doing just that.
Brant sighed as he touched her arm. She didn’t respond, didn’t seem to notice him. His heartbeat quickened in panic. He poked her harder and still she didn’t move. Not even to flinch. When he lifted her arm slightly, it dropped once again to her side—lifeless.
The midwife kept Della’s nightgown over the tops of her thighs for the sake of modesty, though the rest of her legs were laid out for view. Her feet were as still as stone, her legs didn’t kick. She was like a corpse. Serilda took a small, white, square piece of linen and handed it over to him for inspection.
Brant sat on the bed and edged closer to his bride. He nodded, acknowledging the linen was unstained. Again he caressed Della’s arm in hopes of eliciting a response. He was disappointed.
The midwife took the cloth and wrapped it around two of her fingers. Spreading Della’s legs a bit, she shoved it unceremoniously inside the noblewoman’s still body. He frowned at the deliberate motion and unnecessary roughness, but there was nothing he could say. All words died in his throat.
Lord of Fire, Lady of Ice Page 5