“I can’t believe I’m going to say it,” Lord Ingvar said, “but I agree with Askr on this.”
Erik sat leaned back in his chair, contemplative, toying absently with the bead at the end of the braid that lay against his chest.
“If we go by the specifics of the Old Treaty,” Lord Heski put in, “then they’ve been the first to violate it. They’re only growing bolder in their raids along the borderlands.”
“You’ve said it before yourself, Uncle,” Leif said. “That an enemy left unchecked is akin to all but handing them the weapon yourself and allowing them to take a swing.”
“I have said so,” Erik conceded, tone heavy with thought. “But I don’t want to allow my bias against the Beserkirs to sway my decision, not when lives and alliances are at stake.”
“Lives!” Askr said. “The only lives they have are the ones they take – like your own brother-in-law’s, for gods’ sakes!”
Erik sent him a flat look, while Leif huffed an angry breath. “I’m well aware of the lives they’ve taken, Askr,” Erik said, coldly.
“With all due respect, my lords,” Birger spoke up, “it isn’t as simple as doing away with them. No matter how little we like it, the Beserkirs are one of the Waste Clans, and there are other names on that treaty besides our own.”
“The Úlfheðnar won’t take much convincing,” Lord Heski said. “They’ve no love for the savages.”
“But wiping out an entire clan is no small thing,” Erik said. “It could very well be seen as an act of war and expansion, and our peace with the other clans is, at best, tenuous. It’s bad enough there’s war boiling to our south; we don’t need another full-scale war in the Waste.”
Grumbled assent.
“We need to bring it to the others at the festival,” Birger said. “A full clan council, like in the old days.”
Nods and agreements.
But then Askr pinned a narrow look on Oliver. “Speaking of war to our south.”
Oliver hadn’t spoken in some time, save to offer a hello after his introduction. He gave himself a mental shake, now, and sat up straighter in his chair.
“Are you marching on Aquitainia, Erik?” Askr continued. “Joining their war effort?”
Curious murmurs rippled up and down the table.
Erik gathered himself visibly, his tone becoming officious. “By now, most, if not all of you will have met Tessa. She’s been helping Revna with her hospitality efforts, and she’s Leif’s betrothed.”
“Soon to be betrothed,” Leif added, in an undertone.
Erik tipped his head to the point. Then continued: “Duke William of Drakewell, and both his heirs fell on the front lines in their efforts to force the Sels out of the Crownlands.” He glanced toward Oliver – wanting him to confirm it, Oliver realized with a start, and, when he kept silent, wanting Oliver to pick up the narrative and carry it forward.
A heavy responsibility, beneath the weight of so many noble, Northern eyes.
He took a breath and said, “With all three of the Drake men dead, the duchy of Drakewell will now automatically come under the power of the husband of whichever daughter marries first. Doubtless, by this point, the lower nobles will be squabbling amongst themselves for the honor, all of them only counts and barons, and without any great strength of arms. My cousin Tessa is the younger of the two girls, but, being more agreeable in nature was thought to be the best candidate for a marriage alliance by my aunt, the Lady Katherine. That is why Tessa and I are here – so that she may marry Leif and make him the new Duke of Drakewell.”
Elderly Lord Lothar cleared his throat and said, “So he can defend it with Northmen, you mean.”
“It stands to reason that a duke would defend his land, does it not?”
“And get embroiled with an endless, unwinnable war with the Sels,” Askr said with a snort. “That’s not much of a bargain if you ask me.”
“My lord,” Oliver said, “with Aeretoll’s help, the last Great War was won. I remember it from my boyhood – an alliance forged in a campaign tent, between King Erik and my Uncle William. If the Sels attacked Aquitainia again, the agreement was that Aeretoll would stand alongside us. By offering Tessa’s hand, and the duchy itself, I’d like to think I’ve only enhanced an existing union.”
He’d potentially overstepped, and he knew it – agreements could be broken, and rarely lasted for all time. But a darted glance toward Erik proved that he was listening, watching his lords, and he didn’t breathe a word of contradiction.
Lord Ingvar said, “I thought the Sels had halted their march inland?”
“A stalemate only, my lord, and one stretched to the breaking point. The Sels occupy all of the Crownlands, and they’ve cut off the shipping lanes on the western coast. Trade was interrupted at the peak of the harvest. If they’re to survive the winter, they’ll need more provisions than those that lie in the storerooms of Aquitaine. They’ll march on Drakewell.”
“And then it will be Drakewell’s problem,” Askr said with a dismissive wave. “What do I care if the South falls?”
“Because,” Erik finally spoke up, voice low and dangerous, “then the Sels will be right at our borders. They’ll take over all our trade with the South – necessary trade, unless you’ve forgotten. You drink enough Neden wine for the whole bloody country.”
Askr puffed up, his face reddening near to match his beard.
“What happens,” Erik pressed, “when they take all of Aquitainia? Do you think they’ll stop there? Since when has anything but violence and superior strength of arms halted the Sels?
“Drakewell is a valuable duchy. Possession of it will give us a massive trade advantage, and avenues for expansion in the South – eventually,” he added, with a quick, quelling glance toward Oliver. “I would not marshal and army to march on Aquitainia for my own ambition, but this is an offer made in earnest. I made a promise to Duke William many years ago, and, my lords permitting, I want to keep it. I’m not suggesting full out war with the Sels, but I will defend Drakewell from them, if Leif is installed as duke.”
“I will defend it myself,” Leif said, head lifted to a proud angle. “I will establish a force of my own in the South. It will be my duchy to protect, and I will not drag the lords of Aeretoll into a foreign war.”
Considering glances passed amongst the council. Men leaned in to whisper to one another, some nodding, some shaking their heads.
Lord Lothar fixed Erik with a look that was still sharp, despite his white hair and clawed hands. “I suppose we can’t prevent you from marrying them, can we?” he asked, tone wry.
A fleeting smile touched Erik’s mouth. “Not in as much, no.”
Lothar nodded. “It’s been too many generations since the great half-blood lords of the North had a toehold in Aquitainia. I say go for it, with my blessing.”
The others all slowly agreed, one by one. A few even looked excited.
Askr folded his arms and looked sullen. “Do what you will, your majesty.”
“Thank you, Askr,” Erik said, dryly, “I was planning to.”
With a scattering of chuckles, the tension in the room eased.
Oliver made the mistake of relaxing too soon, because a moment later, Askr’s shrewd gaze snapped to him and fixed there. The line of his smirk was more than unsettling. “And what of you, Lord Bastard? You can’t inherit. Will you go home and be the wise owl perched on Duke Leif’s shoulder?” He said the title mockingly. “Or will you be gracing us with your dainty Southern presence on a more permanent basis?”
Laugher sounded down the table, but there was nothing amused about Askr’s smirk – he was calculating, even threatening.
“Mr. Meacham is free to do as he wishes,” Erik said, lightly. But his expression, gone hard and cold as carved stone, warned Askr to drop the matter.
It gave Oliver the courage to shrug and say, “That’s the advantage of being a bastard: I can go where the wind takes me, and there’s nothing to tie me down.”
&
nbsp; ~*~
The council meeting ambled its way along for some hours more. Lunch arrived, along with trays of cold ham rolls and salads studded with cranberries and soft cheese, and they all ate at their places, sipping the strong, hot tea the kitchen boys poured for them. The lords all agreed, finally, that the marriage was a positive thing for Aeretoll, that Leif would make a fine duke and carry forward Northern culture admirably in the South. They also agreed that serious talks must be had at the Midwinter Festival, and a decision made there, with the consent of the clans, about what to do with the Beserkirs.
Then talk turned to reindeer and sheep herds, and petty land disputes, and Oliver’s eyes began to glaze over.
Finally, when the shadows lay long across the table, and the bracing effect of the tea had begun to wear off, Erik slapped a palm down on the table and said, “That’s it, then.”
“Thank you,” Leif muttered quietly, and Oliver felt his mouth hitch up into a tired grin.
He shook his head, and passed a hand down his face; its muscles felt still from lack of use – along with the rest of him.
Lords stood, complaining of sore backs and knees. Chairs scraped back across the stones, and talk turned to the feast that awaited.
Oliver stepped around behind his chair, knuckling the tightness from his lower back – and nearly ran into Erik. Standing this close, he had to tip his head back to meet the man’s gaze, which he found to be…nervous? But that couldn’t be right.
“Mr. Meacham,” Erik said, very formal, and Oliver guessed that was for the listening ears around them. “Once you are dressed for the feast, I would ask that you come to the royal solar so that you may accompany the family down to supper.”
“Oh. Um.” He wanted to shrink beneath the stares being thrown his way. But said, “Yes, all right. I’ll do that.”
Erik nodded, and turned to leave, Birger at his side, the two of them falling into conversation.
Oliver stood a moment, wondering what had just happened, feeling the morning’s nerves begin to creep back.
Leif clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry,” he said, a grin in his voice. “It’s a good thing.”
“I suppose I’ll have to trust you on that.”
~*~
Oliver turned this way and that in front of the mirror in his chamber, examining his feast outfit. It had been laid out neatly on his bed when he returned from the council meeting, and he’d stood a long moment – too long – running his hands down the feathery-soft velvet of the outer tunic, debating the wisdom of locking himself here in this room and missing the feast altogether.
But Erik was waiting for him, so he dressed.
The trousers were fawn, and fitted, a thick, comfortable wool set off well by the dark fur and leather of his new boots. Up top, he wore a cream shirt of very fine linen, laced loosely, in the Northern fashion, and over it a tunic of deep blue velvet that glowed in the candlelight as he rotated, the fabric gleaming like a bird’s wing in the sun. The cuffs and collar were all chased with silver stitching, and set with seed pearls and tiny diamonds that winked with every movement. Over this, his long, sleeveless overtunic was an even darker blue, almost black, crusted all over with beads and crystals that swirled in runic patterns he did not understand. The heavy fur mantle was a gift of one of the wolf pelts that Leif had acquired; it was clasped with a heavy length of silver cord, and cunningly fashioned so that the hood was in fact the cured wolf head, teeth and upper jaw still attached, bits of jet fashioned in the eye sockets. Oliver pulled it up over his head, laughed at how ridiculous he looked – this was a hood for a grizzled, veteran warrior, not a soft-faced Southerner – and decided to wear the hood down, and out of sight.
It was a richly-appointed outfit that belonged on a Northern noble. He should have looked laughable, by all rights – but Oliver could see the care that had gone into tailoring it so that it suited his more slender frame. It highlighted the narrowness of his waist, rather than trying to bulk him out and disguise it, and all the colors complemented his complexion. He looked like a person of importance…
And for tonight, he decided that he would allow himself that fantasy.
He gave his mantle a final twitch, and went down the hall to the royal solar.
Magnus and Lars stood just outside the door, uniforms spotless, helmets polished and gleaming.
Magnus let out a whistle, and grinned. “Well, don’t you look fancy.”
Oliver made a face at him. “My presence was requested before supper, apparently.”
“Right you are.” Magnus opened the door for him, and winked as he passed. “Go easy on him,” he whispered, as Oliver passed. “He’s nervous, too.”
What? But there was no time to ask. Oliver was in the main chamber, Magnus was shutting the door, and there stood Erik.
He was at the hearth, backlit by the fire, and Oliver ground to a halt, staring.
Comparatively, Oliver’s clothes were downright plain. Erik’s crimson tunic and blue overcoat gleamed with beads, and gems; diamonds big as walnuts ringed the clasps of his coat. Silver and sapphire studs gleamed on his shoulders, beneath stark black wolf fur. His boots and trousers were black, too, tight-laced leather cuffed with black fur. His cloak was nothing but fur, floor-length, gleaming, clasped with a wolf-and-stag shaped brooch set with diamonds, sapphires, and rubies.
The same gems winked from the intricate braids set along the sides of his head, the tight plaits keeping the hair off his face so that it could spill in black and silver waves down his back. His face looked sharp, and hard-edged, beautifully so, and his eyes, when he glanced toward Oliver, gleamed brighter than any of the precious stones he wore.
He was resplendent.
So much so that Oliver didn’t at first notice Revna. She bustled about the room, stopping to pick something up off a table. “Hello, Oliver,” she said, bright but hurried. “I’m off to make sure Tessa’s sorted.” She turned to her brother, and said, “Here.”
He blinked, drew his gaze from Oliver, and then offered his hand. Revna placed something shiny in it, then whisked off, her own crimson and blue and fur ensemble flaring around her as she moved. “You boys don’t be late,” she called over her shoulder, and then was out the door.
Oliver remembered to take a breath. “You look…”
“Ridiculous, I know.” Erik shrugged beneath the weight of his cloak, and swept a disparaging look across his own finery.
“That wasn’t the word I was going to use.”
Erik smirked. “Wait until you see the crown.” His expression shifted, then. Became almost pleading. In a much lower, and less steady voice, he said, “Come here, Oliver,” and offered his hand.
Oliver took an unsteady breath, and crossed the room. It was both the easiest and hardest thing he’d ever done, reaching to take the hand held out to him. Easy because it was Erik, and his own palm knew those calluses, and that warm skin, and because he wanted this, and so much more. Hard because, in this moment, the hand he took belonged to a king, and Oliver was about to go down to a feast at his side.
Erik’s fingers closed tightly around his own, and he used the grip to tow him in close, so they stood face-to-face. Close enough to smell the oils in Erik’s hair. Close enough to watch his eyes dilate, and to hear his breath catch, faintly, in his throat.
He’s nervous too, Magnus had said.
Erik opened his other hand, revealing silver and sapphire beads. It was expected – Revna had picked them out in front of him – but the sight of them in Erik’s hand ignited a sweet ache in Oliver’s chest.
Erik wet his lips, nerves plain on his face, and said, very formally, “You may refuse, of course, but it would please me greatly if you would wear these. If you would allow me to braid them into your hair.”
Fever-weak, acutely aware of the broad thumb sweeping little circles across the back of his hand, Oliver said, “Is my hair long enough for that?”
Erik studied him critically – heatedly. “Yes, I think so.”
Oliver nodded. “Then – yes. You may. I would like that.”
Erik’s grin in response was blinding. He released Oliver’s hand so that he could cup his face, thumb sweeping softly across his cheek, now. Oliver leaned into the touch before he could catch himself – and then realized that he didn’t need to. That it was okay. They were here alone, and Erik wanted to touch him as badly as he wanted to be touched. That he could, perhaps, touch in return.
He reached out, fingers trembling, and traced an intricate line of stitching down the front of Erik’s tunic; even through layers of cloth, he could feel the hardness of the muscles that lay beneath.
“Revna did well choosing for you,” Erik murmured, voice a low rumble. He thumbed at the corner of Oliver’s mouth. “You look…”
“Like I’m playing dress up?”
“Perfect.”
Oliver groaned and chuckled at once. “You shouldn’t flatter me, I’ll take it to heart.”
“Do so. Come. Sit here.”
There was a chair by the fire, and, in front of it, a low stool. Oliver sat, his back to the king, shivering a little in glad anticipation.
Erik started by combing his hair back with his fingers, learning the texture, following the spring of the curls. “Hm. Oil, I think. A little.”
“I’ll leave all the particulars up to you,” Oliver said. “I don’t know a thing about braiding.”
“Don’t worry, you’re in capable hands,” Erik said, with a soft chuckle.
“I never doubted it.”
The fingers retreated, and when they returned, Oliver felt the tickle of the oil against his scalp, and smelled the strong, pinewood aroma that he’d come to associate with Erik. A bit more combing, and then a not-unpleasant tightness against his scalp as a braid was begun just above his ear.
Oliver found that having his hair played with left him relaxed and faintly aroused. His eyelids fell to half-mast, and all the tension bled out of his muscles. He basked in the heat of the fire, and Erik’s sure touch. If asked, he would have said he didn’t like being fussed over, but that was because he never had been. The crackle of the fire, and Erik’s occasional, considering hum smoothed across him as a balm he hadn’t known he needed.
Heart of Winter (The Drake Chronicles Book 1) Page 25
