A jarl, Lord Blackwell was one of the few nobles truly descended of pure Norse blood. Generations of raiding and pillaging the land had given way to Norsemen taking Saxon brides and the children of such matches were considered Viking by birth. If her father had been a pure or even half Viking, he would have been Blackwell’s better. Lord Strathfeld was richer and had more land. However, by Viking law, the circumstance of Blackwell’s birth made him more powerful than Della’s father.
While he is titled, it does not make him noble. He is still naught more than a Viking barbarian, a Viking barbarian who is soon to be my husband.
Della closed her eyes as a wave of disgust rose in her chest. Taking a deep breath, she steeled her nerves.
“M’lady has a look of distaste. Do you feel ill?”
She sensed the man kept his emotions well-guarded and couldn’t tell if he disapproved of her earlier remarks regarding her intended. His stony expression puzzled her. She could usually sense what others were thinking.
Mayhap he is as displeased by this match as I! It’s likely he does not care for the Saxons as much as I do not care for the Vikings. Mayhap I can convince him to persuade his friend to leave before the nuptial vows are spoken.
Della turned her most charming smile to her unknowing ally. She ignored his surprise at her sudden change in attitude toward him. “Methinks this marriage between our people is a mistake. Perchance, it is the same for you?”
The Viking’s eyes narrowed and shot flames in her direction, but he kept quiet.
Della took his silence as a fervent agreement. “I do not wish to marry Lord Blackwell and it’s obvious you dislike the match as well. Perchance you can whisper a few words of discouragement into my intended’s unsuspecting ears. It would be well worth your while to do so.”
“And what would these whispers say?” The Viking leaned closer, his face devoid of emotion as he scratched at his beard.
“They would say I love another, that I would not be faithful. They would say I carry the bastard child of Stuart of Grayson in my belly. They would say aught you would see fit.” Della’s tongue edged the line of her upper lip in nervous agitation. She barely believed the lies spilling from her mouth. But she didn’t care, for they could be disproved when it was discovered she carried no babe. “I care naught what the whispers say of me, only that they meet their purpose.”
“It would appear that m’lady has little care for her reputation, nor for the reputation of her betrothed, to speak thusly of herself.” The Viking’s lips pressed together into a thin line.
Was it possible she’d been mistaken in her assessment of him? He didn’t appear as daft as she first assumed and he didn’t seem pleased at her intention to overthrow the betrothment. Jutting her chin up in defiance, she said quietly, “I care naught of his lordship’s reputation. If you are a true and loyal friend to him, you will warn him against me. Do you understand my words?”
“Yea, I understand.” The Viking lowered his head and leaned his face into hers.
Anger glowed like embers of fire in his gaze. He didn’t take her veiled threat lightly. Narrowing her eyes, she returned his hard stare, not about to back down now that she’d stated her case. What did it matter if she got along with a barbarian who owed allegiance to her future husband? If this charade of a marriage took place, her first act would be to dismiss the knave at her side and turn him out of the castle. Her heart pounded loudly in her ears as she stared into his steely gaze. Even before the battle of wills had started, she somehow knew she was to be the loser.
Contemptuously, she withdrew her gaze from his and noticed his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. Suddenly the size and power of the man before her grabbed hold of her senses and she knew she’d stepped too close to the flame. Taking a hesitant step back, she debated as to whether she should turn and run.
“Do you leave so quickly?” Brant asked in low, exact tones as his future wife backed away from him. He wanted nothing more than to wring the life’s breath from her traitorous, unfaithful throat. Her passionless face gave no emotion away.
No wonder you are called Della the Cold-Hearted. Methinks you lack all passions, even fear.
Brant watched the woman’s unwavering composure in awe. She was a beautiful creature, or would be once the ice melted from her features. She looked too young to possess so much self-control, though she was old by marrying standards. He estimated she could be no more than one and twenty years.
Brant hadn’t meant to overhear her conversation with her handmaid. He’d thought simply to introduce himself, for it was clear she thought his seneschal and good friend, Gunther, was he. But when he caught her cutting remarks about his heritage and cleanliness, he couldn’t help himself. He had teased her to teach her a lesson about gossiping. Though now he saw there was to be no end to her insults. The damned Anglo-Saxons always insulted what they didn’t understand and it seemed his bride was no different. He’d hoped since she was a lady, a position allowed her by the very race she now scorned, she would see the wisdom in their alliance.
Brant took a menacing step toward her. He usually would be against striking such deliberate fear into a woman, for he knew they were naturally apprehensive of his large size. He always tried to treat womankind with a gentle hand and, after they got to know him more intimately, they never complained. But this frustrating woman wasn’t fearful of him. In fact she seemed damned near indifferent. Could it be the rumors about her were true? Did she truly feel nothing?
Do you understand your mistake now, little schemer? Brant took another step, closing the distance between them. He noted in grim satisfaction the way her pulse quickened at the base of her slender neck. Nay, you are not immune to my anger, you just shroud it well.
“Do you leave before being introduced to your future master?” Brant forced a hard smile as he fingered a lock of her waist-length blonde hair. He smoothed the submissive strands gently between the pads of his thumb and his forefinger. She wore a simple blue gown, the fine linen embroidered at the edges as to befit her station. By looks alone, she would make him a good wife—someone warm and soft to hold during the night, someone to slake his desires when they arose. First, she must learn to submit to him. He had a feeling she wouldn’t take kindly to being commanded. Lifting the soft lock of hair to his lips, he kissed it lightly before whispering, “For make no mistake, Lord Blackwell will be your master.”
“No man will ever be my master.” She snatched her hair from him and threw it over her shoulder in contempt. “And you will do well to unhand me in the future lest I tear off the offending appendage.”
Brant’s smile widened at her show of defiance. He was going to enjoy taming her obstinate ways. Underneath her icy façade was a fiery passion just waiting to be released. Even through his anger, he had to confess, he was drawn to her unpleasant temperament. And he had worried that his bride would turn out to be an unexciting wife who couldn’t hold his attention.
“I will not be commanded! Not by my father and certainly not by your fellow barbarian over there.” Della turned her chilly gaze in the direction of Lord Strathfeld.
“Of that you can be certain, m’lady,” Brant whispered mockingly to her, as he followed her eyes. He felt more than saw the small shudder of apprehension that radiated through her body. A lazy smile settled on his lips, though his insides were kindled in a temperate rage. His future father-by-marriage nodded his acknowledgment as he made his way toward them. Gunther followed closely behind him. Della’s hand trembled as she grabbed the dress at her waist to still her fingers. He turned and gave an agreeable smile to Lord Strathfeld. “M’lord.”
“Ah! It is good that you are getting on.” Lord Strathfeld nodded worriedly to his daughter, his look of concern belying the pleasure in his words.
“Argh,” Della huffed under her breath in aggravation.
Lord Strathfeld raised a brow at her anger and shook his head in disapproval. Leaning into his daughter, he warned none too quietly, “Della,
this is no way to act before your intended. Would you have him think you are no lady?”
Della looked scornfully at Gunther and held out her hand to him. “It is a pleasure, I’m sure.” The words barely escaped her bared teeth.
Gunther looked at Brant in confusion and then took her hand. He bowed gallantly over it. “M’lady.”
Brant felt a small pang of irritation as Della moved to Gunther’s side. She took up his friend’s arm and turned a self-important stare to him.
“Della?” Lord Strathfeld coughed. He motioned to the man whose arm she held. “Have you met Gunther? He will be replacing Edwyn as seneschal here after I am gone. I was showing him the improvements Edwyn made here in hopes that he would see fit to continue them.”
Brant watched in grim satisfaction as Della turned to Gunther in horror.
“Seneschal?” she mouthed as she dropped Gunther’s arm. Her eyebrows shot high on her face, adding to her icy charm.
“Yea, m’lady.” Gunther let her hand slip from him as he turned to Brant, not even trying to hide his amused smile. “Brant, did you introduce yerself?”
“Lord Blackwell?” Della gasped and turned her head sharply to look at him. Realization dawned in her amber eyes.
“M’lady.” He bowed and offered his hand to her.
“Oh!” Della opened her mouth in shock. She jerked away from him as if he were poisonous. “You are a detestable, unspeakably miserable lout! How dare you not reveal yourself to me?”
Gunther chuckled and soon all the servants in the hall were doing the same. Della turned around in dismay, quickly making her way abovestairs.
“It would seem you did not make a favorable impression on her, Blackwell,” Gunther said in amusement. “And to think we left the fighting behind us. Perchance you are just too much Viking fer her.”
“Yea, perchance.” Brant gave a wry smile as he stared at the place his bride’s feet had disappeared from. And perchance the battles have just begun.
* * * * *
“M’lady?” A knock sounded on the door, following the maidservant’s words. “M’lady, it is me, Ebba.”
“Come, Ebba.” Della sat on her bed with her back to the door and kicked the bottom of her shoes against the nearby stone wall in frustration.
“M’lady? What are you about?” Ebba eyed her with concern, tilting her head to the side as she investigated the source of the hard thuds.
Della sighed and dropped her feet to the floor in order to stand. Leaning against the cold stone of the wall, she pretended to look out the narrow slit window. “What news from my sire?”
“They are done with the negotiations. Lord Blackwell has announced his intention to marry you in front of yer father’s men and yer sire has named him his heir pending the marriage.” Ebba eyes shone with excitement. “And yer husband—”
“Nay, future husband, Ebba. He is not my husband yet,” Della corrected tersely. And if I can help it, he will never be.
“Yer future husband,” Ebba amended before rushing on. “He gave yer father the handgeld in good faith. It is said he paid a princely sum fer yer hand. It’s said King Guthrum blesses this match so that the manors of Blackwell and Strathfeld can become one.”
Della shivered at the maid’s words. She doubted it was truly a ‘princely sum’ Brant paid, for her future husband didn’t clothe himself like he had many coins. Already, she knew Brant would become Ealdorman of Strathfeld upon her father’s death, as well as remaining Jarl of Blackwell to combine the titles. She’d hoped her hasty words of being unfaithful would have dissuaded her suitor. It wasn’t to be. The men had actually gone through with the dealings. The last splinter of hope left her.
“Begone, Ebba,” Della said dismally into the window. She refused to turn lest the woman see her nervousness. Ebba was a good servant and an admirable companion, but she was still a servant and prone to gossip. Della didn’t want her childhood home knowing the full extent of her displeasure over the marriage, at least not yet.
“Ah, m’lady?”
“Yea,” Della finally moved to look at the woman. There was something to the maid’s tone that worried her. It was rare that Ebba didn’t do exactly as told.
“It is to be a Viking wedding.”
Nay! How could her father have agreed to that?
“Perchance I did not hear you?” Her voice croaked and she was sure her heart nearly stopped beating.
“Yea, m’lady. It’s to be a traditional Viking wedding. Lord Blackwell was insistent on that point. Though, it will be presided over by a Christian priest as well, so it will be binding in everyone’s eyes.” Ebba took a step back.
By All the Saints! A pagan wedding? A shaking started in her stomach, only to make its way to her heavy limbs. It wasn’t completely unheard of, but she’d just assumed they would follow the local customs. She took a deep breath, mortified by the news. You will not get away with this, Brant the Fiery Thorn!
“What else?” Della demanded, feeling that Ebba was hiding something from her.
Ebba shook her head in denial.
“Ebba?”
“Naught else, m’lady.” The woman’s voice was weak.
“Leave me.” Della didn’t believe her, but it didn’t matter. Whatever else there was, it wouldn’t compare to a pagan wedding.
Ebba took a deep breath as she hurried down the hall, away from her angry mistress. Lady Della looked fit to kill at the news of a pagan wedding. All in the manor were well aware of her ladyship’s abhorrence of the Viking people. It was no great secret.
Ebba ran faster, eager to get away before she could be called back. She’d lied to her lady, but what else could she do? She wasn’t going to be the one to inform Lady Della that Lord Blackwell demanded her maidenhead checked.
Chapter Two
“Gunther, I’m pleased you have agreed to stay on with me,” Brant said in their native speech. It was early in the day and they were alone in the main hall. He grabbed a wooden goblet from the high table and took a long drink of mead. Smiling secretly to himself, he let visions of Della storming up the stairs brighten his mood. She had a chilly disposition, even more so than rumored, but there was fire hidden there as well, just waiting for the right tinder.
He looked around the quiet room, knowing it would all be his. Someday soon, if Lord Strathfeld was to be believed. The old ealdorman sensed his time was near. It was always sad when a good soldier and leader passed on.
Strathfeld’s hall was made of stone and not wood like so many manors were. It once had been a Roman fortress, plundered and then refortified by the Anglo-Saxons, and was now sitting on Norse land. Many of the walls still reflected the old stronghold, making Strathfeld a strange blend of old and new. By all standards, it was impressive.
“Yea, where else was I to go?” Gunther answered in the same language. He too took a drink. “But with my rich and noble friend.”
Brant studied the main hall. The room showed the large extent of the wealth he was to inherit along with the title. The nobles’ table sat high before the rest of the long hall, with the other tables and benches lower for the servants, soldiers, and freemen of the keep. On the far end, separated by curtains, were the sleeping pallets for the soldiers. True to Viking style, a large stone fireplace had been built into the middle of the hall, excellent for producing heat, but it did little in the way of light. To compensate, candles made from animal fat and beeswax were placed along spikes in the stone walls. Next to the main hall was the kitchen with a fireplace of its own for cooking.
He’d already explored much of the home. Abovestairs there was a separate chamber for the lord and lady of the keep, with narrow slits in the floor so one could peek down onto the guests to make sure everything was in order. Lord Strathfeld had informed him that the chamber had never been used and that it was where he wished Brant to stay. There were smaller sleeping chambers—one for Lady Della, one for the ealdorman, and a few for honored guests. There was even a small room for sewing set up with looms and
cutting tables. Many homes didn’t have such fine accommodations and often the lord and lady slept in the hall with everyone else. Brant looked forward to the silence of sleeping away from the men.
Directly outside the kitchen were the castle gardens and a small fruit orchard, and beyond that were the pens for animals to be slaughtered in the fall. The old fortress itself set high atop a motte of earth and rock. It towered a good fifty feet above the bailey. In front of the castle was the bailey yard, which was surrounded by a large wall made of both stone and timber, and in turn was surrounded by a large ditch and wooden palisades for reinforced security. By some ingenious plan, the servants’ chambers were built into the bailey wall to utilize space and to better keep watch in times of conflict. The only way out of the keep was through the front gate and over a stone path that was surrounded by water on both sides. Contained within the inner bailey were the exercise yard, a small chapel, the stables, a couple barns, a few workshops, and a small brewery.
Brant knew from his travels that the castle was one of the most innovative of their modern age, both in discipline and in design. Lord Strathfeld had taken great care in the planning, utilizing many of the ideas from the southern kingdoms. Brant had been in awe of it since he had first detected its magnificent fortress walls from the distance.
Setting the goblet back down with a thud, Brant wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his dirty tunic. He was still amazed by how quickly this change in his life had been brought about. One day he fought a war, the next he was inheriting land so vast he could hardly imagine it. He knew the reason Lord Strathfeld sought him out as a suitor for his daughter was because his Viking blood was pure, he had a valiant war record, and he lorded over a small piece of land next to Strathfeld.
Lord of Fire, Lady of Ice Page 2
