Della let out a soft moan and moved her hand close to her temple to clutch her fingers open and shut on his arm. Her eyes rolled back into her head before she closed them. A single tear fell silently across her cheek.
Brant held her hand as the midwife worked, his heart going out to her. Her fingers kneaded into him. But, despite her suffering, she didn’t let another sound escape her lips. Not knowing what to say, he delicately rubbed the pad of his thumb across her wrist. She felt so small and fragile and weak, nothing like the defiant woman who had faced him down but a moment before.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the midwife withdrew the linen and held it up for his inspection. A small red stain glared at him from the square piece of material. He nodded, not saying a word. The midwife stood without drawing Della’s dress down to cover her legs. Brant let out an exasperated sigh and quickly covered her thighs before the midwife called the maids to examine the cloth.
When Brant leaned back to look at Della, she glared accusingly at him. Her face was drawn and pale as she ripped her fingers from his hand. Without saying a word, she turned away from him and curled into a ball.
Brant moved to the door. He nodded to Lord Strathfeld, unable to get out more than a whisper. “It’s done. She is pure.”
Serilda held up the cloth for the ealdorman to see. Lord Strathfeld nodded and turned without speaking. He slowly made his way down the hall, looking nothing like the great war hero he was.
After the maids and midwife left, Brant shut the door and turned to the immobile woman on the bed. She hadn’t moved. A small shudder racked her body, but she let no more tears fall from her cold eyes.
“Della?” His words were very soft as he went to her side. He leaned closer to better see her face, staring down at her. The faintest hint of where her tear had fallen showed on her cheek. He reached to brush the trail from her flesh, but her cold words stopped him.
“I will never forgive this.” She rolled away from him.
Nodding, he realized she couldn’t see the gesture. Stiff and awkward, he sat on the bed. He lifted his hand to her back and tried to comfort her. She pulled away from him, cutting him off. His hand fell to his lap and all words died before they were spoken.
It had been his intent to punish her and instead he felt as if he punished himself. Moving quietly, he left her, feeling guiltier than he ever had in his life. The image of her small, shuddering body haunted him. Exhausted, he closed the door to her chamber and moved down the hall to the stairwell. Then, hearing a noise, he stopped and listened. A hushed sob echoed from her bedchamber. The noise only added torture to his guilt-laden soul as he made his way belowstairs.
Chapter Four
A warm breeze swept over the bailey to stir the wayward strands of Della’s hair, molding her tunic gown over her body. The glint of steel caught her eye as she gingerly fingered the cold metal of the new sword she’d been given to hold during the pagan ritual. It was a fine weapon with intricate carvings in the hilt. She only wished she knew how to wield it correctly. Mayhap then Brant would not be smiling so vaingloriously next to her.
“How hard could it be? Lift and swing,” she mumbled to herself, moving it slightly so it drifted back and forth like a pendulum. “Lift and…swing.”
Brant glanced briefly at her in amusement, a small smile curling beneath his short beard. Della snapped her mouth shut, realizing she’d muttered it loud enough for him to hear. He turned back to her father.
It was their wedding ceremony. Both of them had been bathed first in hot water and then again in cold, dressed, scented, and finally marched out into the bailey to stand before witnesses. Della found it odd that they were outside the chapel, rather than in it.
More pagan nonsense.
Brant wore a clean tunic, though it too lacked the proper embellishments of nobility and was cut in the barbaric style of his people. Belted at the waist, it fell to mid-thigh. The long sleeves were rolled at the wrists. She wondered why a man in his position didn’t order adequate clothing sewn. Surely he had servants at Blackwell Manor who could have attended to it. It was embarrassing for him to be dressed so on this day and thus a vexation for her.
Della had avoided confrontation with him since he’d brought the midwife to her chamber. She was still sore, deep inside. Serilda’s touch had been anything but gentle. Invariably, when she thought of it, Della would shudder with revulsion and feel violated anew. Though she had partly brought it on herself, she found it much easier to blame her intended. She had seen Brant only once since that time, briefly, while dining, but luckily their guests had started to arrive and she had not been forced to endure his presence.
“In light of the betrothal two nights past, Lord Blackwell did present me with the handgeld, or the mundr for our Viking guests.” Lord Strathfeld stood next to Brant and shook his hand in confirmation of the receipt of payment for the hand of his daughter. “And as due to him, I present my daughter’s heiman fylgia, her dowry.”
Della turned an unamused stare to her father as he pronounced the Norse words, but said nothing. He didn’t notice her displeasure as he smiled benevolently over the gathered throng. She had also refused to talk to him, feeling very much betrayed and very alone.
Della knew there was no turning back. The betrothal agreement between her father and her bridegroom was as binding as the marriage itself. If she were to refuse, Brant would have a legal claim to her father’s land and title. Even if Lord Strathfeld were to refuse, King Guthrum could easily give it to Blackwell for him. She lifted her chin as she felt Brant step closer. The tangy scent of mint and rosemary drifted off his body. Della self-consciously edged away from him under the pretense of adjusting her sword.
“Since the death of my unborn son, I have only a daughter to leave my worldly possessions to. So, in light of my death, she will receive Strathfeld and all of its holdings to be held and managed in good faith by her husband, the future Ealdorman of Strathfeld.” Her father paused in his speech, coughing and pounding himself on the chest.
Della clutched her hands together around the tang of the sword at the mention of her brother’s death. A terrible ache stirred deep inside, almost choking her. She stared boldly forward, not letting her anguish show. The tears crystallized in her eyes before they ever had a chance to completely thaw. In truth, none would ever know if the babe had been a girl or boy, only that it had died along with her mother. The horrible memory stiffened her resolve against her soon-to-be husband.
“With the consent and blessing of our King Guthrum, I name Lord Blackwell, future Ealdorman of Strathfeld, the only heir to my title.” Her father finished with another handshake to the bridegroom to seal the pact of trust.
Della stiffened as the witnesses cheered behind her. She adjusted her head rail of white gauze. Over the rail, she wore a crown of small purple flowers entwined with a halo of wheat. A wayward stalk kept poking the side of her head, causing her irritation to grow, and her mind drifted from her father’s words, as he continued to speak.
Her wedding gown was new, but simple. It had been a gift from the serving maids and a surprise for Della, who was touched by the unexpected present. She hadn’t bothered to order a new overtunic made for the occasion. It was edged with soft, pale blue embroidery and had wide sleeves that only went to her elbows. The bodice was snug and the skirt swung out over her hips to rest just above her ankles. Her undertunic was older, but still in fine shape. It hugged tight at the wrists, showing, along with the bottom hem of the skirt, from beneath the overtunic. A rounded neckline fit across her breasts, exposing the tops of them more than she would have liked. She caught Brant ogling her chest. Narrowing her gaze, she glared defiantly at him. His smile widened by small degrees.
If Della had been given her way, she would have worn a gown of mourning, but Ebba had hidden the dress she’d laid out. Della also refused to talk to Ebba.
All of a sudden, Brant turned to her and grabbed her hand. Della choked down her surprise. She hadn’t
been listening to the ceremony. The formalities were over with and it was time for the exchanging of vows. His warm, large palm closed over her trembling fingers as he lifted them to his lips. Kissing her hand lightly, he stared deep into her eyes. Della could swear she felt his tongue flick quickly over her knuckles. He rubbed her wrist with the pad of his thumb, a trait she was beginning to associate with him. She shivered despite herself.
The fire of his touch started at her fingers and worked itself down her arm. Her heartbeat quickened. For a moment, she forgot who she was as she looked into the light pools of his eyes. They were the color of the heavens on a clear day, just after sunrise. She inhaled a ragged breath as his smile revealed perfectly straight, white teeth. His nose was proud and his lips...
Mmm, his lips. Della groaned inwardly as she remembered the feel of them on her breast.
The sun reflected off his long blond hair, making the red streak look as if it were a trail of flames. Rays of light glistened on his sun-bronzed skin. It was the first time she had looked at him with the aid of bright daylight. He was as handsome as rumored, which probably meant he’d had as many women as rumored.
Was it not Gunther who said he was born with a fire between his legs? No doubt he has many mistresses awaiting him elsewhere.
Good, let him have his mistresses! Della shook herself back to reality. It would mean that Brant, the fiery one, would spend less time demanding his husband rights and more time in the arms of other women. Lifting her chin in defiance, she arched a brow and dug her fingernails into the back of his hand. If the marriage bed was anything like what she’d experienced at the hands of the midwife, she wanted no part of it.
Brant’s eyes narrowed in displeasure, but his angelic smile stayed intact. He squeezed her hand tighter, causing her fingers to flex out in pain. Tears sprang to her eyes.
Gunther stepped forward and handed Brant an old sword, which he took in his free hand. Turning back to Della with the weapon he presented the hilt to her. She eyed it with a sneer.
“For our oldest son. To be kept in trust by you until he is old enough to wield it. And to then be passed on to his wife and in turn our grandchildren. It is a symbol of our ancestors and the continuation of the bloodline. May we be blessed with many, many children.” His voice was strong and confident as it rang over the onlookers. The Vikings cheered in approval and the few Anglo-Saxons who attended peered at each other in confusion over the strange declaration of words.
Brant grinned impishly as he let go of her hand so she could take the offered sword. Her fingers throbbed as she tried to grab the heavy hilt. The unexpected weight of it brought the tip crashing to the ground. Della dragged it to her side and a few men chuckled behind her. Her bridegroom smiled his irritating smile.
Brant watched her expectantly as he held out his hand to receive her sword. Della took a deep breath, all the while cursing his pagan ways. Using her wrist, she hugged the old sword to her waist and flexed her fingers. Her hand throbbed as the blood slowly returned to the crushed appendage. Staring at him for a long moment, she lifted the new sword to him blade first.
Brant gave her a look of warning and she in turn gave him an expression of innocence. Her tone even, she repeated the words that she had been forced to memorize earlier. “And for you, m’lord, a symbol that I am no longer my father’s, that I am yours. For you to protect me in times to come and in turn to protect our child and our home.”
Brant’s smile widened, hiding his relief that she hadn’t refused to speak and thus cause another scene. In truth, Della didn’t speak the traditional vows of the exchanging of the swords, but he thought the ones he’d made up for her were more appropriate. They were to be a reminder of his expectations of her. Only Gunther, who chuckled quietly behind him, noticed the alteration. He tried not to let his amusement show as the crowd hushed for the couple’s exchanging of vows to satisfy the church.
Digging into the pocket of his tunic, he grabbed a ring and slipped it onto the hilt of his new sword. He studied her for a moment, feeling guilty for what he had put her through and cursing the midwife for not being a little more sensitive to his bride. Della was a maiden after all. He wondered if she was still sore from the examination.
Would you let me soothe that ache, Ice Princess?
His bride was indeed ravishing—except for her constant icy scowls. For a moment, he’d thought he had seen her softening toward him. But no, he admitted to himself in disappointment, it was clear she held no tender thoughts of him. In time, he hoped her angry heart would calm so they may live peaceably together. Although divorce was traditionally accepted amongst his people, it was not allowed so readily by the Christian church.
“I, Lord Blackwell, future Ealdorman of Strathfeld, take thee, Lady Della of Strathfeld, to be my wedded wife…” He continued with his vows, watching Della’s face as he spoke. She didn’t move.
When he was done, Della took the ring from the hilt of the sword and slipped it on her finger without looking at it. She shot him an expression of annoyance. Brant tried not to be hurt by her blatant disinterest in his gift. Swallowing visibly, she repeated his words back to him in a hushed voice. After she had spoken, the crowd was quiet, obviously not knowing she’d finished. A priest cleared his throat and held up his arms. Saying his quick blessing over Lord and Lady Blackwell, he bade them to kiss and seal the union. Della paled, her eyes traveling to his lips.
Brant leaned in to Della, watching as she shot a sidelong glance to her father. Lord Strathfeld started coughing. As Brant moved his lips to join with hers, she sharply turned her head to the left, causing him to miss her mouth and instead kiss the tip of her ear. He grated his teeth in irritation as he heard the assembly chuckle with laughter. Grabbing her by the shoulder, he was intent on giving the crowd a good show.
“Nay!” Della struggled against him, unable to break his grasp. She sought his gaze, panicked as she pushed at his chest. “My father!”
Brant glanced to Lord Strathfeld in bafflement. The older man’s face had turned a grotesque shade of yellow. His lips were edged with blue. The ealdorman fell forward. Brant let go of his wife. She rushed to the man’s side to catch him, getting pummeled by his heavier weight.
“Father!” Della eased the man to the ground the best she could. The head rail was knocked from her hair so the strands flew freely in the breeze to tangle around the fallen man. Unmindful of the damage the dirt did to her wedding tunic, she kneeled on the ground. “Please, someone get help.”
The throng of people burst into chaos. Brant motioned to Gunther, knowing he’d understand his silent command to go after Serilda. She was the only one at the castle who had knowledge of the healing draughts.
Kneeling beside his wife, he lifted Lord Strathfeld out of her arms. Della stood, hovering next to her father. Brant noted her stricken features as tears worked their way into her eyes.
“Della, let us get him inside.” Brant kept his voice soft.
He motioned to some nearby soldiers for assistance. After they hoisted the fallen ealdorman up, Brant helped to carry the man abovestairs. Glancing back, he saw a tear slip down Della’s face. A maid picked up her headpiece and several more hurried forward to try to dust off her gown. She grimaced as she shooed them away, moving to follow her father.
* * * * *
Della was a married woman, despite the minor formalities they had yet to complete. For the most part, the worst was over—at least publicly. She’d given her word, bound herself to the barbarian. In doing so, she’d assured her noble place, assured protection for her people, assured the Viking king would look upon them in favor. And she’d assured that happiness would never be hers.
After Lord Strathfeld’s collapse, her husband had carried her father abovestairs to his bedchamber. He didn’t look well and Serilda had said he might not last the night. Lord Strathfeld had been insistent they hurry back belowstairs and finish the formalities, so none might later claim the marriage was not legal before his death. Della hated
to leave his side, but with his insistence she had obeyed. Already, she’d upset her father enough in the last several days and now berated herself for not talking to him. How selfish and foolish she had been not to see past her own anger and insecurities.
When she came down, the feasting had already begun. Gunther had been good enough to tend to the guests in their stead. She could see how he was a good man to have around, despite his numerous liaisons with the servants.
Brant made a few polite announcements regarding her father’s health and for once she was glad there was someone to take over for her. It didn’t mean she liked her barbarian husband, but even she could admit to being grateful. She didn’t know what she was going to do without her father. He was the only family she had left, not counting Stuart. For all she knew, her new husband would forbid her from ever seeing her cousin again.
Not that his forbidding will do any good, she assured herself.
Plastering a false smile on her features, she stood at the high table, looking over the feasting wedding guests, pausing to nod regally to her father’s friends as they lifted their cups in her direction. She let her gaze travel over the crowd and concentrated to keep her agony from her face. In truth, she didn’t know many of the guests. There were the servants, knights, and a handful of nobles who’d fought with her father. She even could distinguish a few of the men who fought under Brant, Vikings all of them. They had been lurking about the manor since her husband’s arrival.
The eve wore on mercilessly. Her muscles were bunched into hard knots and it felt as if her stomach was on fire. Several times one lord of something or the other would venture to the high table to give words of congratulations and ask the proper questions of the ealdorman’s health. Della said nothing as Brant dutifully answered the queries.
Traveling minstrels played a lively tune, prompting some of those in the hall to dance. Others drank and gamed with vigor. She directed a withering look at a few of the maids who brazenly consorted with the robust male visitors. Della could not stop them from finding a bed partner to share the night with and they would not seek her approval before doing so.
Lord of Fire, Lady of Ice Page 6
