Heart of Winter (The Drake Chronicles Book 1)

by Lauren Gilley

  Erik’s lips compressed, his brows lowered, and his answer was a slow exhale that radiated irritation.

  “Do remember I included my brother,” Revna said, “in my list of foolish men that I’m forced to endure because I love them quite against my better judgement.” Before Erik could reply, she patted Tessa’s hand and extricated her from Birger. “Here, let’s sit down, dear.” She towed her first to the table of food, where a stack of plates waited, and Oliver fell in at the back of the line that formed in the women’s wake.

  Magnus was, apparently, going to dine with them, a breach of royal guard protocol that would have never been allowed down South. He turned around while they waited, and said, “In case you couldn’t tell, Lady Revna usually has the last say.”

  Behind him, Bjorn turned around, and, over Magnus’s shoulder, said, “And don’t you forget it.”

  Magnus winced, but offered Oliver another wink.

  Plates were filled, wine was poured into unpretentious pewter cups, and the party took their seats.

  Oliver found himself down near the end, between Tessa and Magnus, and across from Rune.

  Erik sat at the head of the table, his sister on one side, Bjorn on the other, unmistakably kingly despite the casual black leathers he wore. Framed by two tall, narrow windows on the wall behind him, the sky beyond black with night, the mullions piled with snow, candlelight picked out the silver beads braided into his hair, and the small silver studs along the shoulders of his jerkin. Glinted off the jewels set in his rings.

  Oliver forced his gaze away, only to have it collide with Bjorn’s, who was eyeing him sharply.

  He reached for his wine and took a hasty sip.

  “Where’ve you two been after dark?” Revna asked her brother, and the spell of momentary quiet was broken; conversation bubbled up organically.

  “To the harbor,” Erik said. “A message arrived just before dark, and–”

  “We could teach you.”

  Oliver lifted his head and found Rune studying him. “Sorry?”

  “We could teach you,” Rune repeated, gesturing to his brother with a hunk of bread. “To fight.”

  Leif rolled his eyes. “Maybe Oliver doesn’t want to learn to fight.”

  “Who wouldn’t want to?” Rune asked, appalled. To Oliver: “You do want to, right?”

  “Well…”

  “Oliver’s here in a political capacity, Rune,” Birger said, with gentle censure. “He has lots of important business to discuss in the short time he’s here.” He sent Oliver an understanding look that had Oliver silently thanking him.

  “Yes, that’s right,” he said, seizing on the excuse. “I won’t be here long – I have to sail before the harbor closes for winter – and there’s quite a lot to work out between our duchy and your kingdom.”

  Rune looked crestfallen, which surprised Oliver.

  “It’s a very generous offer, though,” he added, earning a flicker of a smile. “But I’m afraid I’d only be a disappointment. Arms like raw bread dough.” He tapped one slim bicep for emphasis.

  “Yes, but you could learn. You could get stronger,” Rune insisted.

  “Do you enjoy instructing?” Tessa asked, and Rune’s face lit up as his gaze shifted to her.

  “Yes! Or, well…” He blushed. “I think I would. I haven’t exactly…um…”

  “Rune’s the youngest of the lads in Aeres. For the most part,” Leif acquiesced when his brother shot him a glare. “The youngest of us and our friends. He was always the one being taught.” He patted him on top of the head and then laughed when Rune shoved his hand away.

  “I’d be a great teacher.”

  “Keep telling yourself that, little brother.”

  Seventeen and twenty-two, Oliver reminded himself. He wondered if he’d ever been so young.

  “Leif’s better with a sword,” Magnus chimed in, “but your brother’s got you beat with a bow.”

  Rune grinned. “Ha!”

  Leif pinched off a bit of bread and bounced it off his brother’s nose, who only laughed harder – and then picked up a much larger hunk of bread.

  “My sister and I are very different,” Tessa spoke up, and both boys froze, and looked toward her. Bjorn and Birger as well. “Amelia is wildly fond of horses – she’s a better rider than most of the boys back home. She had her first pony before she could even walk properly.” She smiled, and the princes leaned forward, unconscious, enraptured. “She has a horse named Shadow – a stallion, if you can believe. He doesn’t even want the grooms to touch him, but he’s gentle as an old plow horse for Lia.”

  Her expression dimmed. “She would love it here – going on an adventure to the Northern Waste. She’s the brave one, not me.”

  The brothers absorbed what she’d said for a beat, and then Rune sucked in a breath and said, “That can’t be true.”

  Tessa’s brows lifted.

  “About her being brave and you not. You’re here, aren’t you? That’s brave.” He grinned. “And you’re willing to wed Uncle, and that’s really brave.”

  “Rune,” Erik chastised.

  The prince bit his lip, mock-sheepish, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

  Leif offered Tessa a wink, and, in a stage whisper, said, “Don’t worry. You won’t have to marry him.”

  Erik sighed. “Boys.”

  Both immediately sobered in response to his tone. In fact, the entire table fell quiet, all side conversations cutting off. Oliver felt a prickling up the back of his neck. Just before Erik said, in that same commanding voice, “Mr. Meacham. You’re here for an alliance, yes? Let’s discuss it.” The invitation sounded more like a threat.

  Oliver met the king’s implacable gaze and fought to keep from shrinking down into his coat collar. He couldn’t be shy and uncertain here; had to be strong for Tessa’s sake.

  He squared his shoulders, lifted his chin, and said, “We have come for an alliance, yes. I suppose there’s no sense trying to flatter you and pretend that Tessa was a great long-distance admirer of yours.”

  He heard a low chuckle that he thought belonged to Birger, but didn’t break eye contact with the king, who stared at him in stony silence.

  A hand touched his arm. “Ollie,” Tessa whispered.

  Oliver took a deep breath and continued. “I’d wager you know more about the war with the Sels than I do, at this point, but what I do know is that the crown prince of Aquitainia is dead, and a number of great lords have fallen. A child of eight now holds the title of Duke of Aberforth.” He couldn’t stop the jump of his brows, the same way they’d jumped months ago when he’d first heard the news of that unfortunate turn of events.

  “My uncle, father, and cousin fell in battle this summer,” he pressed on, striving not to linger on thought of them, on John’s ready smile, and strong hand always ready to clasp Oliver’s shoulder in friendship. Holding the king’s gaze made it easier, somehow; it was difficult to allow emotion to intrude when locked in place by that glacial stare. “Lady Katherine holds her own well, because she is a fierce woman, but the duke is dead, and his only heir with him. I’m a bastard, and cannot inherit. My cousins – the girls…” How could a man look so implacable? So…cold and closed off? It stoked at the dormant, carefully-kept anger in Oliver’s chest. Stirred up an honesty better left unsaid. “One of them should be duchess,” he blurted. “They should. Amelia should take the mantle from her father. But she can’t. It isn’t fair, but that’s our society isn’t it? Not fair in any way.”

  “Ollie,” Tessa whispered again, more urgently.

  “When the ceasefire ends, because surely it will end, the king’s forces cannot hold the Sels at bay for any great length, our enemy will sweep across the plains of Aquitania like the breeze flowing down a valley. We are already allied with the other duchies; a marriage alliance will not save us, everyone is already stretched too thin.

  “Winter is upon us and we will not survive it if we can’t hold Drakewell. It was a bountiful harvest year,
and our stores are laid up, but we can’t protect ourselves, not this time. The king can’t protect us either. So Lady Katherine sent us to you.”

  “With her daughter as offering,” Erik said, voice low, tone unreadable.

  “A daughter whose hand would make you not just King of Aeretoll, but Duke of Drakewell as well.”

  Low murmurs of surprise from the rest of the table.

  “All of Drakewell’s farms, and fields, all its wealth, would be yours.” The last stung his throat, painful to say.

  Bjorn started to speak – but Erik stayed him with a single raised hand, gaze never moving from Oliver’s. He tilted his head a fraction, so that, for a moment, the blue of his eyes flickered gold in the candlelight. “And why would I be singled out for this honor?”

  Oliver thought he sounded mocking. “Because you have a reputation for prowess in battle. For ruthlessness,” Oliver said, with some satisfaction; it felt good to lay insults at the king’s feet…though he probably thought them to be compliments. “Because you’re the sort of man who wouldn’t turn away a free offer of wealth and a pretty maiden. And because you were allies with my uncle, once. You shook hands with him in a battlefield tent, a pledge to remain allies in the future.”

  The king’s brows lifted an unimpressed fraction. “This is what your aunt told you?”

  “This is what I saw. I was there, that day. I remember the way the glow of the brazier caught on your rings.”

  Surprise blanked the king’s expression a moment. He sat back in his chair, blinking. And then he scowled. “You were there? How old were you?”

  “Seven. And believe me, it was my stupid father’s idea. Uncle wasn’t happy about it.”

  Alfred had ridden back to Drakewell for more troops, and in an impulsive moment lifted Oliver up to sit in front of him in the saddle, wanting to take him to the treaty-signing, so he could start learning to be a man. William had nearly struck his brother, he’d been so angry.

  Oliver remembered hiding in the back of the tent, peeping between men’s legs, and around the corners of trestles. Remembered the young Aeretollean king, resplendent in furs and jewels, his long, wild tangle of back hair, silver gleaming in his many braids. He remembered how he’d stood taller than Uncle, how his hands had been bigger, his wrists cased in engraved leather braces, his knuckles adorned with spiked silver rings. He’d seemed a wild thing, an animal on its hind legs come out of the forest, breath steaming in the chill air of the tent, eyes so vividly sky blue when they shifted toward the faint noise and scurried movements of a boy hiding in the back of the tent.

  Oliver watched Erik remember it. Watched the way his jaw tightened, and his throat moved as he swallowed; the way his eyes grew faraway with memory, a moment.

  He ran absent fingers down the length of the braid tucked behind his ear, played with the fat bead at its end. “I was newly crowned, then,” he said, gruffly, then cleared his throat, sat up straighter, and smoothed his features. “If you remember that so well, Mr. Meacham,” he said, all of sternness again, “then you’ll know that we agreed to be allies and friends, but I never agreed to marry any of the man’s daughters – and I won’t.”

  Revna sighed.

  Beside Oliver, Magnus hummed a low, sympathetic sound.

  Birger made a soothing gesture toward the king. “Now, Erik–”

  “No.” He locked gazes with his advisor, and some silent communication passed between them that had Birger nodding and sighing. “It’s as I said before: if Leif wishes, he and the girl may marry, and Leif can receive the title of Duke of Drakewell.”

  “Tessa,” Oliver said through clenched teeth. When Erik glanced back at him in question, he said, “She is not the girl. Her name is Tessa, Tessa Drake, and she’s sitting right here.”

  Erik held his gaze a moment, then nodded – then caught Tessa’s eye. “Lady Tessa, would you rather marry me, or my handsome nephew?”

  Under different circumstances, Oliver would have laughed at the way Leif choked on his wine and had to be slapped on the back by his brother.

  Tessa – who’d long since given up all pretense of eating – knotted her hands together in her lap and said, “I – I don’t…” She held the king’s gaze, but pressed her lips together, face so white Oliver feared she’d swoon.

  He covered her hands with his own, stilling their nervous movement.

  “Maybe they should decide that for themselves,” he said.

  Erik’s black brows gave another little jump of acknowledgement. “Agreed. Get to know one another.” He gestured between the two young people with an imperious sweep of his hand. He didn’t sound encouraging. “If you agree to it, we’ll have a spring wedding.”

  “Spring?” Oliver asked. “But it’s as I’ve told you: Drakewell – the whole of Aquitainia – will be conquered before then!”

  Erik met him with only the mildest interest. “And so I’m to do what? Raise an army in the middle of the night? Send them harrying off to invade Aquitania for you?”

  Oliver bit his lip, hard. “We can’t–”

  “You asked me to honor an old alliance, Mr. Meacham, and I’m prepared to do so. But of the two of us, I’m the one with the greater understanding of how these sorts of things work.” With a ringing note of finality: “I will decide when – and if – Aeretoll marches to war.” He reached for his cup, and the conversation was done.

  5

  The rest of the meal passed uneventfully. Revna, Birger, Magnus, and the princes kept up a lively conversation about the mundane goings on of Aeres, even managing to draw Tessa into the discussion, inspiring a quiet laugh or two from her.

  King Erik sat back in his chair and brooded.

  Oliver hated him.

  But of the two of us, I’m the one with the greater understanding of how these sorts of things work. The words burned through his mind, a continuous loop. They’d been an insult, a sharp slap meant to put him back in his place. I’m the warrior king, and you’re just the frightened little boy in the back of the tent. Oliver found his hands clenching to fists over and over, and had to force them open again each time; fought not to grind his teeth.

  When servants came to clear away the plates, a round-faced, motherly woman in an apron with many pockets came for Tessa. Tessa’s usual maid, Hannah, had stayed behind with Amelia, too frightened by the prospect of “Northern barbarians” to risk the journey. Revna introduced the two, and Tessa was swept off to her room in Hilda’s very capable-looking hands.

  Tessa glanced back over her shoulder before she went, checking on Oliver. He forced a smile for her and waved her on, intent on returning to his own chambers and stewing angrily until the exhaustion of the day’s travel finally dragged him down to sleep.

  A hand landed on his shoulder, though, and he turned to find Magnus offering him a cup. “Here, then. I’m off the clock, and some of us are having a nightcap.”

  “Oh, no, that’s very kind–”

  The cup was thrust into his hands; some of the amber liquid inside slopped over the edge and onto his hand, the scent of it nose-searing in a way the dinner wine hadn’t been.

  “I really ought–”

  “Come on, then!” Magnus threw a heavy arm around his shoulders, and he found himself steered out of the room, down the hallway, and into a smaller, cozier room with timbered ceilings, a roaring fire, and swirling wreaths of pipe smoke. Benches lined the wall, and chairs were scattered in a loose semi-circle around the hearth, padded leather seats and furs and lap blankets thrown over the backs, but all of the furniture clean and simple, and well-worn, nothing like the ornate, carved pieces he’d seen so far. An entire wall was dedicated to racks of weaponry: axes, swords, pikes, halberds.

  This was a lounge area for the off-duty guards, Oliver realized, as he was pressed down into a chair close to the fire and Magnus dropped down beside him.

  “Brother!” Magnus crowed, as a guard dragged off his helmet and joined them, his black beard, and hair, and the shape of his face highlight
ing a stark family resemblance.

  “Lars,” Magnus said, “this is our visiting Southern lordling, Oliver. Oliver, this is my good-for-nothing brother, Lars.”

  “Sod off,” Lars said, peaceably, and fixed Oliver with a bold scrutiny. “And what are you doing dragging lordlings in with the help?”

  “Aye, well, he’s not a lordling per se….” The hand he slapped down between Oliver’s shoulder blades felt supportive, even if it nearly caused him to choke on the mouthful of frightfully strong spirits he’d just sipped.

  He coughed, wiped his mouth, and offered, “I’m a bastard.” Because the whole day was so absurd, why stand on pretension at this point?

  “Oh. Well.” Lars visibly relaxed, slumping back in his chair. “In that case.” He nodded. “Pleased to meet you.” Then he cocked his head. “You’re not the one that came with her ladyship?”

  “Just so,” Magnus said. “They’re cousins. Can’t you tell by the hair?” He chuckled, and tousled Oliver’s auburn curls as if he were a child.

  Oliver sighed and took another swallow.

  Lars made a face. “I hate to say it, lad, but you’ll be taking her back home empty-handed. Erik isn’t one for marrying.”

  “Why not?” Oliver asked, wildly curious at this point. He glanced down at his drink. How strong was this stuff?

  Magnus and Lars shared an unreadable look.

  “Oh, I suppose he has his reasons,” Magnus said, easily, sipping from his own cup. “But see this, brother,” he said to Lars, leaning forward in his chair. “Leif’s going to marry the lovely young lady.”

  “He is?”

  “Maybe,” Oliver stressed. “If he and Tessa both agree. I don’t believe in forcing two young people to do anything until they’ve gotten to know one another and developed an affection.”

  He felt bold, rather than drunk, but thought he was probably well on the way toward the latter, given the looseness of his tongue. He took another sip anyway.

  Magnus laughed. “Oh, marriage or not, we should keep you, Master Oliver.”

  A few more guards joined them, and after introductions, they settled into a serious discussion about sleigh racing, or deer hunting, or something manly of the sort. Oliver sipped his drink, warm and growing warmer, the tension slowly unspooling from his body, content to merely sit and let the flow of hearty, good-natured conversation flow over him. There hadn’t been much of that in Drakewell since the war started. And even when there had, he’d rarely been a part of it.