Lord of Fire, Lady of Ice
Michelle M. Pillow
Lord of Fire, Lady of Ice © Copyright 2013 Michelle M. Pillow
First Electronic Printing January 2013 The Raven Books
Cover art by Michelle M. Pillow © Copyright 2012 - 2013
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
All books copyrighted to the author and may not be resold or given away without written permission from the author, Michelle M. Pillow.
This novel is a work of fiction. Any and all characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or events, or places is merely coincidence.
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Lord of Fire, Lady of Ice
Michelle M. Pillow
Dedication
There are many people who contribute to the making of my books: editors, line editors, proofers, the fantastic street team, assistants, a best friend who listens to the endless plotting and re-plotting, cover artists, a wonderful (talented, smart, beautiful, creative, talented, smart, awesome…) child who doesn’t question mom’s choice of yoga pant attire during deadlines, formatters, the pizza delivery kid, distributors, the spreadsheet king who has been an invaluable help behind the scenes, reviewers, coffee bean growers, that other pizza delivery kid, cover artists, bookstore employees, the new The Raven Books marketing dude, convention workers, Rocky who is convinced my shoulder is a scratching post, Bella whose definition of work is to snore, Winston, Annabelle, the stray/feral cats who had babies in my yard (no, wait, they were a cute ‘n fluffy distraction so they didn’t help), and then finally you the wonderful readers. Without all of you, I would be lost. Thank you.
The end of this book contains two Complimentary Excerpts of Michelle M. Pillow’s other Historical Romances:
Maiden & the Monster
Emerald Knight
Author Note
Late in the 8th century, Vikings (also called Danes and Norsemen) raided and plundered the English coast. By the end of the 9th century, they were a powerful force that reigned over the Anglo-Saxons, settling and ruling much of England—including Northumbria, York, Mercia, and East Anglia. The Danish King Guthrum wanted Wessex—the only territory left to conquer. Though they fought, no side claimed victory and Wessex’s borders remained intact.
In 871, King Aethelred of Wessex was mortally wounded at the Battle of Martin only to be succeeded by his brother, King Alfred (known now as Alfred the Great). Even with a new Anglo-Saxon king, the Nordic army was vast and none could predict how young Alfred would fair against them. For those Anglo-Saxons living under Viking authority, it was a hard time. In a land torn by war, ruled over by fierce warriors, it wasn’t wise to change allegiances. Ealdormen (later to be called Earls) were the chief magistrates, leaders of armies, and the highest ranking nobles of the period below the king.
This period of time is commonly known as The Dark Ages. Though the events surrounding this story are based on the history of the time, the main settings, characters, and situations are purely fictional.
Chapter One
Strathfeld Castle, Northumbria, 871 A.D.
“Methinks my sire has lost his bloody mind! It would seem this man is truly a barbarian.”
Wrinkling her nose, Lady Della lifted her chin haughtily into the air, trying to hide her apprehension beneath a composed expression. Under the long skirts of her blue overtunic she tapped her foot, staring across the main hall to where her father spoke to their Nordic visitor. She took a calming breath and then another, doing her best not to let her aggravation show.
I am a lady, she thought with a feeling of resentment curling through her entire being. I am above him.
Her fingers worked against her waist in frustration, causing the fine linen of her gown to crumple beneath her hold. She concealed her scorn under an icy mask of indifference. It was an old habit, one she’d cultivated through years of practice. The dirty Viking glanced around the hall, paying her no mind. However, she watched him intently from the shadowed end of the stairwell, taking in his every gesture like a falcon waiting for a sign of weakness—something, anything she could use against him.
The warrior laughed, nodding in agreement at something the Ealdorman of Strathfeld said. Lord Strathfeld was her distinguished and honored father, though Della was hard pressed to think so highly of him this day. Her irritation deepened as the grating sound of the warrior’s merriment only continued.
Grumbling under her breath, she said, “We may have to show allegiance to the heathens, but this goes too far.”
“M’lady,” her faithful servant scolded. Della didn’t take offense to the light reprimand in Ebba’s tone. They had known each other for too long, though not exactly friends, they were as close as a maid and her lady could be. “It’s not yer place to question yer sire’s wishes. He has good reason fer this match or else he would ne’er make it.”
Della gave the maid a stiff smile. Feigning nonchalance, she stepped out of the shadows to edge closer to where the men talked. Though she strained her ears, she failed to make out a single word they said.
“Yea, he has his reasons. He thinks by making me wed this barbarian, it will ensure an alliance with King Guthrum in case there is to be another war. With Aethelred so recently in his grave and his brother, Alfred, just named his successor, times are uncertain, especially with Wessex so close to falling under Viking rule.”
The entire time she spoke, Della kept her eyes coolly on the warrior, taking in every detail of his figure. She found herself unimpressed with him, having expected more of the legendary man—Brant. Lord Blackwell. Brant the Gladiator. Brant the Vigorous. Brant the Flame. Brant the Viking Hero.
Della snorted in unladylike disgust. More like, Brant the Thorn in my Arse!
“M’lady?” Ebba tilted her head in confusion, causing her short, black curls to bob as she moved. She imitated her mistress by pulling at her own clean, white apron.
“Yea, he has his reasons.” Della glanced wearily at the maid, who really had no understanding of politics. The noblewoman didn’t know why she bothered to explain them as she turned her eyes forward once again to her intended.
The Norseman was dressed as if he’d just come from battle, still wearing his shirt of chainmail. Della was surprised he hadn’t rushed boldly into the hall, brandishing his bloodied sword, calling out Nordic curses to his pagan gods. She couldn’t help but wonder how many Anglo-Saxons the barbarian had killed. By reputation, it was many.
Della was predominately of Saxon heritage, though not directly related to those in Wessex. Would Lord Blackwell’s anger toward the race be transferred onto her in their marriage? The only reason her father retained his title was because of a single drop of royal Viking blood in their ancestry, from when the heathens had first come to Briton. That and her father had proven himself a loyal and valuable man to his Viking overlords.
Briton had been ravished by wars for several hundred years, perhaps since the beginning of time itself. Wessex to the south raged against the Vikings to the north. Her Northumbrian home was in the middle of it all, firmly held by their Viking rulers. No matter how she secretly wished victory for the Wessex king, it wasn’t likely her traitorous prayers would be answered. In truth, Della wasn’t sure the Christian God could hear prayers said in a pagan land.
The world will always be at war so long as men are in it, regardless of my marriage to Brant the Thorn! Della fumed inwardly.
The barbarian lord nodded as her father pointed up into the high rafters of the main hall. Whatever it
was they talked about, it looked to be a serious conversation. Della turned back to her handmaid. “Times mayhap are uncertain, but my cousin, Sir Stuart of Grayson, could well man this keep. Methinks he would make a more likely choice in husband and father to my children.”
Ebba giggled and Della wondered at the knowing look in the girl’s eyes. “Yea, Sir Stuart is handsome. Would yer sire consider him?”
“Nay,” Della admitted with remorse. Nay, he thinks naught of Stuart. He is more interested in his political intrigues and an alliance with Stuart is not politically advantageous. He would rather see me married to a murdering, lecherous boor of a Viking than let me find true happiness with a man who would stay out of my way and let me run my keep!
“It’s a shame.” Ebba licked her bottom lip. “Perchance this Viking husband will not be so bad. It’s rumored he’s good with his sword, both in bed and out.”
Della suppressed a groan at the younger girl’s crudeness. It was no secret Ebba already had many lovers in her young life. She had never even been alone with a man, except for her cousin, Stuart. They’d been childhood friends, though she hadn’t seen him for many years. She didn’t love him as a woman loved a man, far from it, but he was safe.
The marriage bed terrified her and wasn’t a prospect she’d been looking forward to experiencing. Della knew if she would’ve been permitted to marry Stuart, he would’ve let her out of that particular marital duty. In turn, she would’ve let him keep as many mistresses as he desired so long as he was discreet and out of her way.
She determined it best to change the course of the conversation before her fear of the marriage bed was discovered. It was easier to be in charge of men and servants if she showed no weaknesses. Della knew what the men called her behind her back—“Della the Cold-Hearted” or, for short, “Della the Cold”. Long ago, she’d taught herself not to care so long as they showed no disrespect to her face and did as they were commanded.
“Do you think this Viking has even seen the inside of a keep? I heard it told they sleep outdoors on their ships. Mayhap right next to the cattle.” Della gave Ebba a pointed look.
“M’lady!” Ebba’s cheeks turned red and she grabbed a piece of her cropped black hair, twirling it around her fingers. She kicked the worn tip of her shoe into the herb-scented rushes that lined the floor. “Mayhap he was just at battle. Mayhap he rode through the night to get here on time.”
The maid gave a romantic sigh, no doubt believing the whispers of Lord Blackwell being a glorious war hero, a valiant knight-errant. It was said he was a man of distinguished valor on the field of battle and those war-hardened men who fought against him ran at the mere sight of him and his fiery sword. However, Della knew how the scribes liked to exaggerate. Eyeing the Norseman now, she frowned. He wasn’t so frightening.
Besides, Della thought ruefully, he might scare grown men but he would assuredly meet his match in a woman.
“Yea, and mayhap you should marry the nefarious barbarian and I could be your handmaid.” Della understood Ebba had no knowledge of the conspiring that ran her mistress’s life. All the servants could seem to understand was the work of their daily existence. Della tried to change that by teaching them the ways of the world, for she believed that everyone deserved to be enlightened. She found most of them didn’t want her lessons.
Ebba scrunched her face at the prospect of being a fine lady. “Nay, it’s too much to ask. Abovestairs he would break me with his very size.”
“More like he would stifle you with his odor,” Della noted wryly. Ebba giggled again. Though, the handmaiden had a point. Brant was indeed a big man, even for a Viking.
“Yea, it’s a sad truth. Lord Blackwell is not known for his cleanly ways.”
Della stiffened, as the soft words drifted from behind her. The sound curled the hairs on her neck to standing. She’d only changed the subject to keep Ebba from probing too much into her future husband’s carnal appetites. She hadn’t meant for anyone else to hear her barbs—especially not someone with a Nordic accent. Her heart fluttered and she felt sick at being caught, but she couldn’t let her anxiety show.
Proudly straightening her shoulders, she turned to the man behind her. Heat rose on her cheeks and she hoped he didn’t see it, as she eyed the man who dared to interrupt their conversation. Giving him a chilly stare, it was too late to back down from her viperous comments.
“Yea, it is.” Her hard tone crackled over them like breaking ice. No one would know it, but the more nervous she became the harder her voice was, the icier her expression.
“M’lady?” Ebba whispered. Della saw the maid from the corner of her eye, but refused to pull her gaze from the barbarian’s. The servant swayed back and forth, clearly wanting to be dismissed. Ebba gave a cautious glance to the large man and took a step back. “M’lady?”
“Yea, Ebba?” Della’s head was forced back to look up at the man. His light blue eyes held a rigid formality within their depths, though his words had carried some vast amusement. Della found herself suddenly grateful he wasn’t to be her intended. She thought her fiancé was big, but this one gave her reason to pause.
“M’lady?” Ebba insisted once more, tugging lightly on her mistress’s sleeve. The barbarian raised an eyebrow and Della’s frown deepened.
The noblewoman drew her gaze away first. “Ebba, get you to the kitchen and tell Isa about our guests. Mayhap they would like a draught of mead after their travels.”
“Yea, m’lady.” Ebba gave a small curtsy and scurried away in relief.
“Do you know Lord Blackwell?” the Viking warrior asked when they were alone. His low voice dripped over her like heated syrup—thick and warm and wickedly sweet. For a barbarian, he was well pronounced despite the heathen accent. He hadn’t moved, but with Ebba gone Della lost some of her confidence. She didn’t like being alone with him.
She was by no means a short woman and yet this man still towered over her. An unsettled feeling curled in her stomach at his nearness, taking her by surprise. She took a step back to put some distance between them. His mouth twitched up in obvious amusement and she was compelled to run. Not many people could frighten her by their mere proximity.
I am a lady. I am above him. The words were less convincing than before.
Purposefully, she gave a slow, dispassionate glance over the length of his attire, refusing to let him know he unsettled her. It was a mistake. Looking at him only made the feelings worse. The flexible chainmail shirt he wore ran across an expansive chest, the heavy links molding into the folds of his muscles. An unfamiliar fire worked its way through her, causing a shiver to run the length of her body.
Repulsive, Della thought, hoping to convince herself she meant it.
From the look of his shabby clothing, she presumed he was part of Blackwell’s hird, the retinue of fighting men who served under him. His crossed arms and widespread stance effectively made an unbreakable barricade. Under his threadbare long tunic, she detected his thighs were like the trunks of two large oaks and his arms like their immense branches. It occurred to her if she were to try, she wouldn’t be able to wrap her arms around his upper body.
Della saw how this man would make a formidable opponent on the field of battle and off it. His hair hung loose, in the typical Viking style, to just below his shoulders with two braids plated into it behind the ears and banded with thin strips of leather. He had trimmed blond whiskers over his jaw. She looked at his eyes, momentarily lost in the clearness of their depths.
Come on, girl, wake up! He is a lecherous Viking!
The barbarian raised his eyebrow and an amused corner of his mouth wrenched up higher than before. She grudgingly noticed the attractiveness of his lips under the short beard.
“Do you know Lord Blackwell?” he repeated. “His manor lies not far from here and you speak as if you are acquainted.”
Blessed Saints! She chastised herself, annoyed at having been caught staring like a dimwitted fool.
“Nay. It’s only
by his inflated reputation that I know of him.” Her icy features remained purposefully blank, though she was hard pressed to keep the hauteur from her voice.
The Viking nodded and Della wondered at his unwarranted concern. As he stepped forward, a lock of his long hair fell across his shoulder. The braid on the left side of his head appeared to be a dark shade of red, while the rest of his hair was lighter blond. It reminded her of a streak of fire burning through a golden field of wheat. It was said that Vikings were able to bleach the color from their hair with soaps, though she had never seen it done.
“Do you ride with Lord Blackwell oft?” Trying to sound uninterested, she turned to watch her father and intended. She decided to ignore the fact that the man to her side wasn’t properly introduced.
Leastways, mayhap I can discover a few things about my intended.
“Yea, oft enough,” he answered, his tone serious. “It’s almost like we are the same person.”
Della scrunched up her nose at his enigmatic words. “And you have fought together in many battles, I presume?”
“Yea, and sometimes we even sleep by the same row of cattle,” the man whispered mischievously.
Della paled and refused to look at him. She was about to question him further when she saw her father turn to her with a look of satisfaction. Nodding her head stiffly in the ealdorman’s direction, she acknowledged his interest.
“Lord Strathfeld is a good man.” The Viking prevented her from asking more. There was a yielding respect in his voice as he spoke. “He has truly proved his worth in battle.”
“Yea, my father has fought in many battles,” Della said.
Those battles were the reason for her hasty marriage. He’d fought bravely several months ago at the Battle of Martin, where King Aethelred had been brought low, and had caught the notice of King Guthrum. Together they had formulated a plan to help ensure Strathfeld’s continued allegiance to the Viking clans. Their arrangement was simply to unite the prominent Strathfeld line in marriage to a Viking noble and have male heirs of mixed blood produced to join the people. Her father had readily offered her up to be a political sacrifice. Not only did he seek to assure peace with King Guthrum, but he also wanted to ensure continued loyalty between his manor and the neighboring Nordic manor of Blackwell. So it came to be that she was betrothed to Brant of Blackwell, Viking Barbarian.
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