He fought the numbing anger that bubbled inside him, stemming from his chest, and curling out over his body like a wicked poison. Brant knew that if he was to take Della into private chambers to punish her, he would more than likely end up beating her for her public insults. It was bad enough she yelled, but to call him a girl in front of his men. It was a most unforgivable insult to his manhood—for who to better judge his prowess as a man than his wife?
Della backed away from her husband, her mouth working in horror as she shook her head. No sound escaped her lips as she struggled for words.
“This time you have gone too far, lady wife.” The dark sound of Brant’s words fell ominously over them. A few of the soldiers whispered fervently and a servant dropped a pitcher of mead. The crash on stone created a foreboding resonance and hushed the men to silence.
Grabbing a fistful of her dress, Della looked to the hall for help. None of the men moved, not even those who had been loyal to her in the time of her father. She knew she’d made a grave mistake. She came up hard against the dining table, knocking over a pitcher of ale. The dark liquid flowed over her hand onto her gown. Ignoring the mess, she held out her clean hand to stop her husband’s advance. “M’lord, I—”
“I would put my wife in the stocks for a sennight for such a thing. A man who cannot control his wife—” Lester said.
“A man should not have to put up with your continuous insults,” Brant interrupted. She leaned farther back over the table trying to escape him. His expression hardened as he looked at her. “Leave my table.” Grabbing her extended arm by the wrist before she could pull it back, he jerked her away him, urging her down the stone steps of the raised platform toward the cold stone floor.
Della’s body pitched forward and her feet caught awkwardly as she descended. He didn’t throw her so hard as to do her great harm, but her foot caught on a stone and she tripped. Her limbs flailed as she stumbled. Reaching out, she grasped at the air for support, but could not stop her fall.
The straw rushes inefficiently padded her landing and her face bumped against the stone. Pain radiated throughout her body. For a long moment of breathless silence, she laid there until feeling came back to her limbs. Her palms throbbed angrily as she pushed to kneeling. When finally she turned to look at him, Brant stood high above her on the platform. Shock at her fall shone in his eyes. For the briefest of moments, he looked as if he might come to her aid.
“Well played, m’lord!” Lester decreed, stopping Brant’s hand mid-action. “You cannot let her insolence go unchecked or else the whole country would think you weak and lacking in your manhood. I daresay the king would then regret giving you this title and land.”
Brant blinked heavily, drawing his gaze away from her to look over the gathered crowd. His hands fisted in a tight ball, even as a blank mask covered his expression as if to challenge any to dispute his honor. None so dared.
Giving her a blistering glare, Lester said to Della, “By my authority of the king, you will eat there on the floor, lady, like a mongrel dog. Only feeding on the scraps your husband throws you until he decides how best to punish you.”
Brant took his seat at the head table amongst his peers, keeping his eyes on those around him. Very quietly, he said, “So be it.”
Never in her adult life had she been treated so callously. She touched her throbbing cheek where her face hit the stone. When she pulled her hand back, her fingertips were lightly dotted with blood. With a deep breath, she moved to stand, hoping to plead her case.
Brant saw her. The emotion hadn’t died from his eyes.
“Do you dare to disobey the king’s authority so quickly?” Lester challenged.
Della quickly sat back down and fought for composure. Her limbs shook and her insides crumbled with the sense of defeat. She had never seen him this angry before, not even when she was denying him his husband rights. Well aware of the soldiers watching her every move, she brushed the loose straw off her hair and gown in an attempt to save a bit of her dignity. Drawing her knees to her chest, she hugged them with her arms.
Brant saw what had happened to Della’s face and despite his frustration, he was sorry for it. She lightly fingered the wound and winced in pain. Then, catching his eyes on her, she jerked her hand away and stared defiantly forward. Her words echoed in his mind and he wished she would just recant so he could forgive her.
Brant didn’t know whether he was angrier at her outburst or at the idea that she would never grow fond of him. It was a very unhappy marriage he saw before them, just as she first warned him it would be. Taking a long drink of mead, he tried hard to swallow over the lump of despair in his throat. He wanted to go to her, but to do so would be to show weakness to his men and undercut his authority before the king’s ambassadors. Not to mention, Lord Lester’s decree in the name of the king that she should stay on the floor. To go to her now would mean to insult the royal name.
Brant motioned stiffly to the servants directing them to continue serving the meal. They had stumbled to a stop at Della’s outburst. Those gathered in the hall were unusually quiet as the maids carried in trays laden with hot food. The men waited patiently for the servants to place the meal on the table before moving to take what they wanted. They made no secret about watching to see what their lord and lady would do next.
Gayla came to the high table. The maid’s hands shook as she set a dish of roasted mutton before Lord Blackwell. She glanced to Gunther who motioned her away. The man-at-arm’s face pulled into a grim line.
“It’s wise to keep your lady wife in line, m’lord,” Lester said.
Brant hadn’t noticed that Lord Lester took the seat beside him. Now as he directed his attention to the man, he wondered how he could’ve been so distracted as to not smell the overwhelming stench. Brant ignored him and took a bite of lamb. Inside, his heart pounded wildly as he forced himself not to look at his wife. Already the look of her wounded face emblazoned on his mind.
“It would not do for her to play you false,” Lord Lester continued, leaning to block Brant’s view of Della. “I have no respect for wives who cuckold their husbands.”
Who said aught about cuckold? Brant bristled at the man’s smug tone. He didn’t like the offensive, gossiping noble commenting on his marriage.
Lord Lester chuckled, prompting some of the men to do the same, most of whom belonged to Lester and Sir Vladamir’s traveling party. The knights of Strathfeld stayed woodenly silent, eyes shining in disapproval, though which of the nobles they were disappointed in was not clear.
Feeling sorry for his wife, he glanced over at her trembling form as she bravely sat before him. Her amber eyes watched him warily through a lash-shaded gaze. He detected the tears she refused to let fall. His wife was a proud one, mayhap as proud as he was. A piece of his heart broke away with the agony of what he was allowing to happen, but his stubborn self-respect refused to forgive her. She insulted his manhood in front of his men, in front of the king’s men—men who were to ride all over the kingdom with little more to occupy their time than to spread the tale of this event to all who would listen. And for what? Because she was mad at him for desiring her? Would she even take his help if he offered it? Or would she scream at him again, insulting him more? Would the king regret giving him land and power if Brant allowed his Saxon bride to humiliate him so early in their marriage? With so much gained, he had even more to lose. It wasn’t as if he were a pauper in the king’s realm. With his new title, land, and pure Viking heritage, he was one of the most powerful men under Guthrum’s rule.
Lord Lester laughed harder and slapped his knee. The sound soon turned into a cough. The pockmark on his chin noticeably darkened and he took a drink of mead to calm himself.
Brant chose to disregard him, not caring what Lord Lester thought. He took another bite of the roasted mutton, but did not taste it. Hearing Gunther grunt in disapproval, Brant turned a questioning look to him. He could have sworn Gunther shook his head in displeasure. When had that h
appened? When had Gunther found a soft spot in his heart for any woman, let alone Brant’s shrew of a wife?
Brant ignored Gunther and the men, ignored the eerie silence which settled over the keep. Even the night air brought in no familiar sounds of insects or of animals in their pens. Brant forced himself to eat, trying to act as if nothing was amiss, willing the meal to end as quickly as possible. Secretly he prayed Della would find a way to redeem herself, though he had no idea what such a thing would be. He willed her to storm from the hall so he could chase her and end this in the privacy of their chambers. She did not move.
Roldan entered the hall from the side door, the smile of greeting dying on his face. Quickly, he took a seat next to one of his fellow knights. After a few whispers, the man frowned in Della’s direction with an unhappy shake of his head.
“Methinks the dog needs a drink, m’lord!” Lord Lester’s sudden words were abnormally loud.
Before Brant knew what the man was about, Lester stood and lifted his cup of mead into the air, throwing the drink onto Della. Amber liquid flew from the goblet. A burst of surprised laughter sounded as Lester’s men pounded their fists.
Della knew Lord Lester’s intent long before he tossed the liquid at her. Daring him with her eyes, she waited for him to stand. Part of her hoped Brant would stop his attack, but he sat watching in moody silence. As the liquid came toward her, she refused to move except to turn her head proudly away. She shut her eyes as mead doused her hair and trickled down the front of her dress. It soaked her face with its warm stickiness, burning the raw scrape of her wound. As the last of the contents soaked into her gown, she rubbed her eyes clean with her sleeve before redirecting her gaze to the table.
Brant didn’t move, didn’t stop Lester’s evil laugh. She heard the soldiers’ merriment—mocking her, disrespecting her, all except Gunther, who looked about in open disgust at the whole scene.
What had happened in the short time since she had been married? In just over a sennight, the men’s loyalty had been won by Lord Blackwell. She’d fought for many years to earn their respect and in a few short weeks it was all gone—taken away by her barbarian husband. And there was nothing she could do about it. Suddenly she stood, having taken the humiliation long enough.
The liquor dried on her flesh, pasting thin strands of her blonde hair to her neck in misshapen trails. Her thin shoulders shook with anguish. Anguish at the betrayal of her manor. Anguish at the disrespect she was forced to endure.
Her voice was clear and sure as she announced, “I have had enough! Now, you will let me explain myself. After I have spoken my peace, you may judge as you see fit.”
The hall went quiet amid a myriad of hushes. The onlookers craned their necks to get a good view of the front, wanting to see what Lord Blackwell would do next to his unruly wife. Brant tilted his head, stiffly giving her leave to speak. Her chin jutted defiantly in the air and she gripped the material at her waist to keep her hands from trembling. The braided gold cord tangled in her fingers.
“Methought you were that detestable piece of refuse, Lord Lester.” She shot Lester a nasty scowl. The man had the audacity to look offended. Brant watched her through veiled eyes, stroking his bottom lip, but said nothing.
“A moment before, over there.” Della flung her arm behind her, her chest heaving with gasps of air. Inside, she shook with the effort it took to face her menacing husband. Outside, she did her best to remain calm. “A moment before you came in, he dared to touch me and say that I was to spend this night with him. He said he would talk seductively to me, implying you didn’t know how to treat me in the marriage bed. It was him methought I was shouting at, not you.”
A tear slipped from her eye and she bit her lip as the salty moisture stung her raw cheek. No one dared to speak so she turned to Lord Lester and continued, “You, Lord Lester, are a lewd, foul-smelling pig. Get you quick to a bath lest my nose rots off from the offensive lingerings of your smell. Yea, and before I have to burn aught else you touch.”
The soldiers suddenly slapped their fists on the table, shouting encouragement to her words. She turned a hard look on them until they quieted. Bitterly she frowned at them, shaking her head slowly. Not one of them had come to her defense before. A few in the front looked sheepishly away from her icy gaze.
“I would not say those things of you, my lord husband.” Della’s voice quieted. Brant had every right to be angry, though it was a misunderstanding. “I could not, for you are more man than this hall combined. I would fight to the death anyone who claims otherwise. I am sorry I yelled.” Della sniffed. Her words trailed off into a mere whisper. “I beg your forgiveness.”
She’d meant only to say the words to assuage his anger and restore some of his pride. But, as she spoke, she found part of her believed the words. She kept her head high and proud, though she’d humbled herself greatly.
Brant said nothing, his eyes searching her, looking her up and down, as if he weighed her words. Could she really blame him if he didn’t believe her? Didn’t trust her? Theirs wasn’t a marriage built on trust. Slowly, his face reddened. His fist tightened in front of his mouth into a hard ball.
Believing his continued wrath was her doing, she knew she’d better take the chance to make it up to him. His reputation had been threatened. For a moment, she closed her eyes to the pain her words were going to cause her. A memory, brief and potent, of her mother came to her. She opened her eyes with determination.
“M’lord.” Della took a step toward Brant and held out her hand. The men in the back shushed to better hear her. Resolute, she continued in an even tone, “I am sorry. The words were not meant for you and to prove it, I announce to all that I will lie with you this night and every night after, as you so please, for there is not a man in my eyes greater than you are. You shall have me until you tire of me.”
Brant eyed her in astonishment, unsuccessfully hiding the beginning of a smile behind his fist. The men gaped at each other in wonderment, the Saxon men especially having a hard time believing their ears.
Della dropped her shaking hand when he didn’t take it. She turned amidst the disbelief, feeling so very alone. “I will be in our chamber waiting for you.”
None of the people of Strathfeld had seen their mistress so openly humbled. In stunned epiphany, they all turned eyes of great respect to their overlord. Some even looked at him as if he were immortal.
Della lifted her chin haughtily into the air. Her thin shoulders stiffened bravely in mock confidence. For once, the men had no crude comments to make. There were no words of encouragement for their lord, most even looked away when she met their eyes with her regal calm.
Della made her way with as much dignity as she could muster to the stairwell. When she ducked around the corner, she heard the hall explode with conversation. Her heart pounded. Hurrying abovestairs, she was careful that her footfalls would not be heard. And, as she reached the top of the stairwell, she ran the rest of the way to her bedchamber, sobbing in wretched disbelief.
Brant watched his wife leave, not heeding the commotion below him. It was not lost on him how her words affected the people of Strathfeld. Her public acceptance of him would do much in securing his role as lord. That was if any still had doubts to his claim. He also knew how much of her precious control she’d just relinquished in her open acknowledgment of his authority. Though the men would never have admitted to it, they valued her opinion. In accepting him, she had taken some of the power away from herself and turned it over to him. He knew how hard it had to have been for her. Strathfeld Castle was her entire life.
Suddenly, remembering her heated words, he turned his attention to Lord Lester. He read well the truth on his wife’s face. She would not have been able to humble herself otherwise.
At the ealdorman’s glare, Lester shot up in his chair and backed away from the high table. His complexion was flushed with outrage.
“M’lord, surely you do not take the word of a slanderous woman over an ambassador to
the king?” Lester puffed his chest in the air. “I’m certain she only makes those accusations to secure your pardon for her previous behavior. I will not stand for an attack on my character. I demand public satisfaction. She should be flogged.”
“That is not your decision to make.” Brant stood and took a step toward the reprehensible man. A well of satisfaction flowed in him as he stalked his new prey. He lowered his head, anticipating the hunt. A smile tugged his lips.
“Lady Blackwell’s word is not to be questioned,” one of the Saxon knights shouted from below, eliciting a round of agreement from the others.
“Yea,” came another. “You do not question the honor of our countess!”
“What do you think you are doing?” Lord Lester demanded with bravado, eyeing the shouting knights of Strathfeld.
Brant let the measured, cruel smile curve his lips until it shone mercilessly on his hardened face. He took another menacing step.
“I am an ambassador to the king. You would not dare to put a hand on me.” Lester looked about for help. “Vladamir, where are you, man?”
Sir Vladamir shook his head before taking another drink of his mead. His low, accented voice was quiet, as he answered, “Nay, I told you she did not want you. Now you must suffer the consequences. Lord Blackwell has every right to exact punishment.”
Brant reached forward, grabbed Lester by the cuff of his neck and dragged the stumbling, weaker man out into the bailey. The soldiers followed with loud jeers of encouragement. Sir Vladamir stayed quietly in the back, choosing not to interfere. He lifted his hand to stay the king’s knights, keeping them from starting a brawl.
“I demand you let me go,” Lord Lester yelled.
“My pleasure.” Brant threw him to the dirt, stalking him as the man crawled along the ground like an infant. Kicking his backside, he sent Lester skidding across the earth. The onlookers cheered at the attack.
Lord of Fire, Lady of Ice Page 15