Lord of Fire, Lady of Ice

by Michelle M. Pillow

  Men at the lower tables devoured the feast, spitting the bones and waste onto the floor like mad dogs. The rushes were already soiled and she knew the stone beneath them would have to be limed, a horrible chore that would take all of a morning to complete. She shivered in disgust, having worked so hard to keep her home clean only to watch her hall destroyed.

  A grim-faced man standing in the back of the hall caught her attention as he glared at the guests. He was the only person not visibly enjoying himself. Della nodded to him and smiled.

  “Who is that?” Brant asked suspiciously.

  Della grimaced as he addressed her, refusing to look at him. It didn’t help. She could still see the piercing gaze of his blue eyes clearly in her mind. “Perchance it is another lover. Would you like to have me checked again this night? Mayhap Serilda did not do it good enough the first time.”

  “Della,” Brant warned.

  “He’s my father’s seneschal, Edwyn, and he is just arrived from visiting King Guthrum. My father had him personally deliver the news of our impending nuptials and the completion of the betrothal agreement, as per request of the king.”

  Brant nodded, visibly relaxing at the explanation. He didn’t comment on her abrupt tone.

  “And afore you accuse me of aught else, Edwyn is an honorable man. He’s only a friend to me and has helped me to manage this keep while my father was away.” She shot her husband a sidelong look from beneath her lashes. “Besides, he’s rather aged don’t you think?”

  Gunther interrupted their conversation and drew Brant’s attention away from her. She didn’t understand the words they spoke in their shared foreign tongue. Ignoring them, she discreetly motioned Edwyn to her side. The older man nodded and made his way to the high table.

  “Edwyn, it’s good you are back with us.” Della presented her hand to him, which he took briefly.

  “M’lady.” Edwyn nodded.

  “Have you been to see my father?” Della’s question came out in a rush, belying her uneasiness. She kept her features calm in case anyone looked at her.

  “Yea, m’lady. He bid me to bear witness to the completion of the ceremony and report back to him.” Edwyn sighed. She forced herself to look over the hall with a slight smile she didn’t feel. “It would seem he is not doing too well. I told him to seek the help of healers nigh on three sennights ago, but you know yer father. He would not hear of it.”

  “You knew he was sick?” Della was unable to keep the pain from her voice. She moved an unconscious hand to his arm. “Why did you not tell me?”

  “Lord Strathfeld was wounded at Martin. We thought he would heal, but after a time, the wound just got worse. M’lord has been fighting to see this day and is very proud of you. No one was told of the illness. He was afraid if the news was revealed before you were wed, Sir Stuart might try to intercede and make a move fer the title. And, m’lady, Lord Strathfeld is well aware of yer fondness fer yer cousin.”

  Della nodded as she fell back into her seat, weak with the realization of her father’s scheme. Finally it made sense to her—the hasty engagement, the push for a quick wedding, her father’s desire to please the Viking king. In her father’s mind, he was protecting her from an uncertain world. She knew Lord Strathfeld believed that they had a force to reckon with in the new King of Wessex. And she also knew it was impossible to change political loyalties at this juncture. Her father had agreed to the marriage to ensure she had the protection of the Viking armies behind her if the war was to spread itself into Northumbria once more.

  For if Lord Strathfeld’s dying act was to give his title to a respected warrior of the Viking army, then King Guthrum would remember him kindly, and in turn, would feel a debt to keep his daughter safe. This arranged marriage wasn’t because her father actually liked the Viking barbarian at her side.

  Nay, perchance he doesn’t favor him over me at all. He was only trying to protect me. What a sweet, diligent father I have and what a poor, ungrateful excuse for a daughter I have been.

  Tears welled in her eyes and Edwyn quickly sat beside her. He leaned to her, refusing to touch her lest the guests or her new husband construe his attentions as unseemly. “M’lady?”

  “Oh, Edwyn, I have been such a spoiled child.” Shutting her eyes tight, she lifted her balled fist to her lips and bit her knuckle hard to keep from crying.

  “Nay, m’lady, Lord Strathfeld knows well yer reason fer not wanting to marry a Norseman. He understands the pain you still carry in yer heart and is sorry fer it.” Abruptly Edwyn sat up and looked over her shoulder. “Mayhap this is not the time to discuss such private matters, m’lady.”

  Della nodded, realizing her husband must be listening.

  “Della?” Brant confirmed her suspicion.

  “Yea, Lord Blackwell?”

  Brant laid a gentle hand on her arm. Edwyn nodded in approval of Lord Blackwell’s concern. Della frowned at the seneschal.

  “Is all well?” Brant asked.

  Della didn’t have the energy at the moment to fight his touch. She took a calming breath before turning to him. “Yea, m’lord, all is well.”

  Brant studied her watery eyes. Slowly he nodded, accepting her answer.

  “M’lord, you stare like a commoner. Mayhap you could direct your eyes elsewhere.” Della snapped to her senses and pulled her arm away. Her weakness embarrassed her. She stood up to face their guests and imagined she could feel Brant glaring at her. He would not like her public show of distaste. After a few moments, he stood and moved as if to talk to her.

  Della ignored him and lifted up the wedding kasa. She studied the bowl-like vessel. It had two large handles on each side and a strange Viking symbol of a hammer engraved into it. It looked very old, even for bronze, and had already been filled with dark ale when she’d arrived at the high table.

  It was customary for the bride and groom to drink from the same cup for four sennights after the nuptials, at least whenever they were together at the high table. Usually the one larger wedding goblet was set before them with liquor, but they were permitted to have their own smaller goblets. It was a formality only, but one that must be adhered to, otherwise the wedding was not considered legally binding.

  The crowd quieted some in respect to watch the couple. She nodded to Edwyn, who had once more made his way to the back of the hall, before presenting the cup to her husband. Brant’s strong fingers lightly brushed hers as he took the cup from her. Della felt the unfamiliar shiver begin in her hands, only to work its way to aflame her stomach with a strange kind of fire. He held the two handles as he took a small taste. A look of confusion passed over his face and he hesitated before swallowing.

  Once he set down the cup, Della picked it up to hurriedly take her drink. The ale was thick and overly salty. She set the kasa down and turned to Brant, who studied her with a look of extreme repentance.

  “Would you explain the drink, m’lord?” The salty taste still stung her mouth and she wished another drink were nearby. “Is it another pagan custom? Perchance made from sheep dung and grass?”

  Brant shook his head. A somewhat mischievous smile curved his lips. “Nay, m’lady. It is made from the sow’s blood that was sacrificed in honor of the Norse Goddess, Freyja, to bless our union with many children.”

  “Do you waste a good sow for such purposes?” Della fumed.

  “Nay, it is being eaten by the wedding guests.” Brant didn’t take his eyes off her.

  Then the truth of his words hit her. He had made her drink sow blood? Della turned to the kasa and then back to Brant. All tender gratitude she had been feeling for his help with her father, though it had been little, slowly slipped away.

  “You are a despicable, detestable, miserable boor.” Della kept the pretense of a smile on her features. “I will not drink this for the next two fortnights.”

  At her words, Gunther, who was still to her husband’s side, turned a disapproving look to Brant. It was obvious he didn’t think much of Della’s sharp tongue.


  “It is only required this one time.” Brant strained to suppress his amusement. “Besides, it could have been a goat.”

  “I would see my father this night.”

  “Your father insists we finish so there can be no doubt as to our union. I gave him my word and I will keep it.”

  “Could we please get this farce over with?” Della turned from him in dismissal.

  “Noble guests,” Brant announced, stopping her. His tone had turned serious. “We are grateful you have shared in our day. It would appear we are to leave the festivities early. My new bride is anxious to…” He paused. Della couldn’t move. “To make the match binding.”

  The meaning in his words was clear and the inebriated crowd cheered out lewd suggestions as Della’s face turned red. Mortified, her mouth opened as her eyes darted to Brant. A smug look lined his features.

  If you, m’lord, want a battle of the wills, then you have just met your match in a woman! Della swore she would repay him for this insult.

  A crowd of giggling, eager women rushed the high table before she had a chance to rebut his claim. Hands grabbed her, pushing and pulling as they led her from the great hall. She didn’t recognize some of their faces. With the suggestions of the men ringing loudly behind her, the women forced her toward the stairwell.

  “Della the Cold, it seems her ice has melted after all!”

  “If it’s too hard a task, m’lord, I would be willing to do it fer you!”

  “Nay, Lord Blackwell knows well how to sheathe his sword!”

  “It would seem Lady Blackwell has heard that as well!”

  Della was repulsed by their blatant disrespect. They kept up with their vulgar remarks, only shouting louder once she disappeared into the stairwell. The women giggled at the overbold men, a few even whispering their own unblushing suggestions for the bride. A persistent wave of hands pushed at her, forcing her toward the bedchamber. And, ringing loud above the entire commotion, she heard the irritating sound of her husband’s lusty laughter.

  * * * * *

  “It would appear the maiden has not softened yer mood.”

  “I would be better off with my mistress in Jorvik.” Brant said to Gunther, even as he stared at the stairwell. He had tried to let her outbursts pass unpunished, for she had much on her mind with her father’s illness. Clearly, she hadn’t been told of Lord Strathfeld’s condition beforehand. But as she’d tried to walk away from him as if she were too good to be in his presence, he couldn’t help the plan that formed in his head. No matter how sorry he felt for her, he could not allow her public insolence to continue. There were too many eyes on them, too much at stake. One wrong look, one wrong act on his part and he would have more headache then he needed. If it had been anyone else but Gunther, he wouldn’t have admitted his irritation over Della’s actions. “My bride is a shrewish wench.”

  “It’s not so bad—” Gunther laughed at the skeptical look Brant gave him, drawing curious attention to them. Lowering his tone, he said, “She is more beautiful than rumored and I should think you would like a bit o’ fire between the linens.”

  “Yea, she is beautiful, but her beauty does have an awful spite to it.” Brant took a pitcher from a passing maid and lifted it to his lips, gulping down the contents. When he finished, the maid was giggling. Handing it back to her, he said to his friend, “I am sorry for her sadness over her father, but I will not disrespect the wishes of a dying man to ease the displeasure of a quick-tempered woman. I promised to make this union work. The shrew is about to meet her match.”

  Chapter Five

  Della huddled beneath a thick coverlet, teeth clenched in apprehension. The women, unfamiliar with the abovestairs of the keep, hadn’t thought twice about following her direction to her own bedchamber and not her husband’s. Though she’d protested every step, nothing she said could have spoiled their good humor. They giggled at her attempts to stay their hands as they quickly, and with surprisingly expert skill, undressed her. One plump, elderly woman even pinched the flesh of her backside.

  She had never been seen naked by so many curious eyes and had tried to cover herself with her hands. When that didn’t work, she’d taken one of her sleeping gowns from her trunk. The act only seemed to amuse the women more, as they laughed harder and suggested she wear nothing at all.

  With the women gone, it was only a matter of time before the men arrived with Lord Blackwell. Seconds blended with minutes until she had no idea how long she waited. Every slight noise made her jump with alarm.

  The bedchamber was uncommonly cold even with the fire blazing in the small hearth. Within the flame danced images so haunting that she couldn’t look away. The first was that of a fiery red streak through pale blond. Then of her husband’s supple lips under his beard and his clear, summer sky eyes behind the sweep of his lashes. She tried, but could not banish him from her thoughts and she hated herself for it.

  What is wrong with me? I refuse to be attracted to a Viking. I cannot be. Another thought occurred to her and she slapped the flat of her hand against her temple. The drink!

  “The lout has woven one of his pagan spells over my senses,” Della said to herself in vexation. “That loathsome, ignorant son of a pig! That…that… Argh!”

  That is why I still smell his scent of mint and horses, of earth and man. He put me under a spell!

  Hitting the padded straw mattress in frustration, she shivered anew. The memory of his scent drifted over her as if he were there. She bit her lip, rubbing the top of her thigh through the coverlet. The spell tempted her to accept what it offered and, for a single moment, she let the thought of her husband overwhelm her.

  Closing her eyes, she gently touched her lips with the pads of her fingers. She wondered what his mouth would feel like against hers. What untold promises did his hands hold for her, as he caressed the entire length of her form? Had he not said he intended to do just that?

  Della ran her hand over her cheek and down her throat, imagining that it was his caress touching her. The erratic beat of her heart sounded in her ears. An ache started in her body, an unfamiliar longing that set a fire within her stomach and caused her thighs to tingle.

  From the back of her mind, she heard a faint scream. It was her mother’s voice, telling her to stop, to fight the curse he put over her. She jolted at the terrifying sound. It was so real that it drowned out even the loud crackling of the fire. Balling her hand, she forced herself to remember her mother’s face, to hear her cries for help. A tear slipped over her cheek. Time had faded much, but the impression of her mother’s death, the knowledge of it, was still there. She’d been young when she witnessed it, but not so young as to forget that Viking barbarians had killed the woman. And now her father was in the other room, dying. She should be with her father, not sitting on a bed waiting for her louse of a Viking husband.

  She twisted the ring Brant had given her around her finger, not taking it off. A thin band of bronze with a polished piece of amber in the middle was an odd choice in wedding bands. Most noblewomen received thin threads of gold and large jewels. The weight felt awkward on her finger, like a shackle. It would be a constant reminder that she now belonged to her husband—from daughter to wife and no say in between.

  Part of her irritation was because the king would not let her inherit the responsibility of the manor, despite the fact she’d been solely in charge of every decision for the last five years. Della knew every inch of the keep, every page of every ledger, every villager, every animal, and every season. She knew every child, every illness, and every memory. And now everything was being taken from her.

  After what seemed like both an eternity and a second, she heard the boisterous throng of men leading her husband to her. Della cringed as they opened the door to Brant’s bedchamber. She should have been waiting for him there, but she could not bring herself to leave the comfort of her room.

  Mayhap the oafs will get lost, she hoped.

  “Nay, it’s empty!” a man crowed. His d
runken words echoed loudly over the clamor of men. “Mayhap the Lady of Ice has melted away completely.”

  You drunken lout! Della felt like screaming. She nestled deeper beneath the coverlet. It wasn’t her fault she had to be tough to run the manor. How else would the men follow the direction of a mere woman? Tears rushed to her eyes anew. I’m not cold-hearted. I’m not!

  The men came nearer and their insults grew as they encouraged each other on, remarking on her icy nature, claiming how Lord Blackwell best be careful lest she freeze parts of his body off. The last drew a heated debate between them on whether she would melt or Brant would freeze.

  “Methinks the maiden is hiding from you, Brant!” Della recognized Gunther’s taunting voice.

  She clutched the linens and held them to her chin, the texture rough against her palm as she agitated her fingers. Keeping her eyes on the door, she willed the men to lose their way, but eventually the light from their torches shone beneath the frame. They’d found her.

  Della refused to look as the door was thrown open. A gush of cool air filled the room, making her stiffen in dread. For a long time, she didn’t move amidst the robust jests. When finally she looked, she saw her husband. Some of the men were pulling at his tunics, baring his strong stomach and sides.

  She sucked in a deep breath and held it, letting her eyes roam from his delectably flat stomach, up his muscled chest, to his thick neck. For a man of his large size, there wasn’t a single ounce of fat on him. A small trail of darker hair grew seductively below his navel, leading a downward path into his tight fitting braccas. His feet were bare.

  Unsure, she quickly brought her gaze to his face. He had the same aggravating smile that often graced his lips when he looked at her. The men pushed at Brant’s back. Her stomach turned, fear choking her as he loomed forward.