Lord of Fire, Lady of Ice

by Michelle M. Pillow

  Brant moved to grab her. “You dare too much, lady wife.”

  “And you too little. It’s my life to put at risk.” She grabbed his tunic and threw it at his head, effectively stopping his advance. Brant ducked out of the garment’s way and caught it with the swift reflexes of one hand. When he looked at her again, she was almost to the door. “So get dressed, lest we leave without you!”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Nay, but this is,” Della charged, not heeding her words. “Mayhap I will run into Stuart while you are gone. He could not have gotten far since last night.”

  “What?” Brant’s eyes turned deadly. In a rising growl that echoed past her, he shot, “You said you walked alone!”

  Della realized what she’d revealed and stopped right before ducking out the door. Trying to amend her rashly spoken words, she rushed, “I did walk alone, only I ran into Stuart on my way back. Naught happened that would shame you. Methought you would not understand and get angry.” His look proved how right the assumption was. “I swear on my father’s grave that naught dishonorable happened.”

  She quickly moved out of the chamber, slamming the door in her haste to get away from him. It was not wise of her to be alone with him after such an admission. She ran to the hall, deciding to let his anger cool before confronting him alone. Brant would not make a scene in front of the servants or his men.

  Brant glared after his tigress of a wife. Her defiance stirred his blood and he took grim pride in the proud tilt of her head, the hard tone in her voice. She was a strong one, his Della. Even though her stubbornness grated against his very nature and they clashed heads more often than not, he could not help but feel a fire in his soul for her. He glanced longingly at the bed, wanting to toss her back onto the soft mattress to finish what had been started that morning.

  It was not to be. Duty beckoned him and the reminder only soured his mood. He shook in fury as he jerked the rest of his clothing on. Rage clouded his judgment as he whispered, “Methinks you are about to find a beating, treacherous wench. I have stayed my hand with you long enough.”

  * * * * *

  Della patted her mare on the neck to steady the animal. It had been too long since she’d ridden outside the walls of the castle. So much had changed since Brant’s arrival. The men no longer quickly responded to her authority. Although she knew each one would keep their oath of loyalty, they turned naturally to accepting the leadership of a man. She resented them for it. Had she not spent many hours proving she was worthy to follow? So what if she didn’t kill men gallantly on the field of battle like Brant the Flame?

  Brant refused to talk to her from the moment he came down. She was already on her horse waiting with the men. Not one of the knights dared to question the claim that she was to come along until they saw Brant’s fiery expression as he looked at her in disapproval. He glared her into silence when she’d started to say his name. Della knew her coming angered him, but she assured herself she didn’t care.

  Brant rode silently next to her, training his eyes forward in detachment. By the hard line of his jaw, it was difficult to remember the affection between them the night before. His disinterest somehow hurt her insecure ego. For, after the night they’d spent together, she was desperate for a kind gesture from him. It was not to be. Apparently, her husband was only kind to her when he wanted someone to warm his bed. Had he not spent the last sennight ignoring her, until yestereve when he wanted her?

  Studying him through the corners of her eyes, she couldn’t help but notice how incredibly handsome he was. Always confident, he sat bravely astride his giant steed. The tan destrier dwarfed her mare, just as Brant towered over her. He had yet to say anything about her meeting with Stuart. Could it be that he trusted her? Della doubted it. More likely, he was avoiding a conflict in front of the men.

  “M’lady, are you well?” Gunther asked quietly from her other side.

  Della jolted, clearing her throat as she turned to the knight. She’d forgotten he rode next to her.

  “Yea,” Della responded with a polite smile. Trying to shade her look with her lashes, she shot a last glance at her husband.

  Well, if m’lord husband will not talk to me, mayhap someone else will.

  Gunther followed her gaze briefly to his friend.

  “It is lovely out, is it not? For such a dreadful day,” Della said.

  “Yea, m’lady,” Gunther replied. “Did you know the cotters well?”

  By the look on his face, he knew what she was doing and he didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seemed a bit anxious to help her stir up trouble. Not daring another glance in Brant’s direction, she imagined she could feel his eyes burrowing into the side of her head. “Yea. They have worked the land for many generations. Helga’s family often comes to the castle to help with the brewing in the fall.”

  “Helga?” inquired Gunther.

  “Yea, she and her husband are the ones who reported the raid.” Della swallowed hard as she studied her hands on the bridle. Her words were weak, as she admitted brokenly, “It’s close to Blackwell Manor—closer than the others.”

  Gunther nodded.

  “Will we be stopping at the manor, m’lord?” Della turned to ask her husband, curiosity to see his home getting the better of her. In the past, she’d never dared to venture to it. She wondered what kind of a manor he kept without the benefit of a woman’s touch.

  He glared at her for a long, hard moment before snapping, “I will.”

  Della swallowed past the lump forming in her throat. Stiffly, she clutched her horse’s reins and stared at her trembling hands. She knew that meant he would be staying there alone. Did her defiance upset him so much that he was to abandon her? And why did she care? Is that not what she’d wanted since the beginning?

  Gunther slowed his horse so he could edge his stallion between the warring couple. Shielding Della from Brant’s dark scowl, Gunther turned his attention to his leader, asking what Della thought, but couldn’t say. “Brant, do you mean to stay there alone?”

  “Nay, there are servants and I will take two of the men with me. It’s time I checked on the manor.” Brant ignored Della, purposely rejecting her involvement in the discussion. “What better time than now, while I am so close?”

  Della effectively felt excluded. She turned her attention forward, but kept her ear on their words.

  “It will give me time to learn if any there know of the raiders,” Brant continued in low tones. He quickened his stallion’s pace.

  “And I?” Gunther asked, keeping in stride. “Will I be going with you?”

  “You will accompany Lady Blackwell back to Strathfeld and make sure she stays there. You are given permission to use any means necessary.” Brant finally turned his eyes fully to her. “Even if you must lock her in her chamber with irons.”

  Della gasped and paled. Brant let a hard smile tilt his lips.

  “Yea, m’lord,” Gunther acknowledged. He looked helplessly at Della when Brant’s back was turned to yell a fast order to the men.

  When Brant finished, he continued speaking with his eyes forward. “She is not to be alone at any time except while in bed. I want a man posted at her door. Make sure he knows that she goes to sleep late and wakes early. I will not have him asleep at his post. And she is not, under any circumstances, to see Sir Stuart. I hear the man is in the area as of late.”

  “Yea,” Gunther said. Della knew Brant’s words were just a show. Gunther was his friend and would know that her cousin was not to be let in. The detailed orders were meant to scare her. It was working.

  Della turned her eyes and ears away from him, not wanting to hear more. The humiliating punishment he planned was chastisement enough. She let her mare slow until she trailed the men. Without having to be told, two of the soldiers rode forward, giving her their silent protection as they built a shield of human and horse around her.

  * * * * *

  It was late morning when they arrived on the west section of Strathfel
d land. The party moved in relative silence, aware of the grimness that was awaiting them. The earth was charred black from the recent fire and the cotters’ homes had been burned to the ground. Only a few cottages’ frames stood amidst the destruction. The raiders had killed a half dozen families and the smell of their charred flesh floated on the breeze. Brant recognized the stench immediately.

  His wife hadn’t said a word regarding her impending imprisonment inside the walls of Strathfeld. In fact she had said little. Gone completely was the light mood of sport between them, to be replaced once again by the icy barrier of her countenance. Brant was sorry for it. He knew her reasons for hardening herself against him and also the reasons she felt compelled to naysay him at every turn. Knowing didn’t make it easier to live with. He was her husband and it was his duty to protect her, but beyond that, he had given his word to Lord Strathfeld before his death. And if locking her away was the only means he had to keep her safe, then so be it.

  “You dismount,” Brant commanded a group of men to his right. Then, circling his horse, he pointed to another nearby group, and said, “You ride. Search the area.”

  The soldiers were well-trained and obeyed his orders immediately.

  “Della, get back here!” he yelled. His wife had swung from her horse and was running full tilt to the nearby destruction. He quickly dismounted to fetch her.

  Della skidded to a stop in front of a burned cottage frame. Her mouth fell open in fright, trapping the silent scream that died in her throat. She heard the vicious howl of her husband through the fog in her head, but ignored it. Her heart beat wildly in her chest, so savage a rhythm she thought it might explode from the constraints of her skin. She shivered in dread.

  Walking forward, she tripped over a metal lock covered in ashes. It was still bolted to a piece of charred doorframe. Inside, where the walls of the dwelling had once stood, the scorched figures of a mother holding her child sat amongst the ashes. They were burned into an eternal embrace. She again looked down at the lock, realization dawning on her. The family had been locked inside to burn. Brant caught her as she stumbled backward, her twitching hand on her throat as if the action could keep the bile from coming up. She looked at him in horror.

  “Dead.” Her breath came in great open-mouthed pants and her eyes widened in alarm as she took in more slain bodies that littered the nearby ground. “All…dead.”

  “I know, Della. Why do you think I didn’t want you to come?” He moved forward and tried to hug her to his chest.

  “Who would do such a thing?” Tears spilled over her cheeks, as she stepped away from Brant. The image of the mother and child would not leave her. The smell in the air had been oddly familiar and, seeing the bodies, the memory came back to her in a rush.

  “They burned her,” she whispered, backing away from Brant in dazed terror. “The Vikings burned my mother with a candle from her trunk. My mother had just bought it the night before from a poor beggar woman. She didn’t even want the thing. It was so ugly and it smelled like rotted cream, but she bought it to help the peasant so her family might eat. And they laughed… They laughed at her when she screamed for help. I was tied to the bed so I could not make them stop what they were doing. And they just kept laughing.”

  “Yea, Della.” Brant made a move for her. “It is a most monstrous thing. Let me take you back to your horse.”

  “Who?” she managed to ask when her eyes cleared of the memory. Della motioned despairingly to the burned cottage. “Who could do such a thing? That is just a child—an innocent!”

  “M’lord, I found this by the edge of one of the cottages.” The noble couple turned their attention from one another at the sound. One of the soldiers held up a leather waist bag. “It looks as if it was dropped as the raiders departed.”

  Della glanced pathetically at the man as he unintentionally answered her question. He was new to Strathfeld and she guessed he’d signed on after her father’s death. Her eyes drifted from his ruddy red face to the satchel he held. An all too apparent yellow mark of two hammers glared at her.

  “Vikings did this.” She stared at Brant. “Your people. How could you? Does your kind have no soul? No conscience?”

  “Nay, I had naught to do with this.” The reasonable tone in his voice didn’t affect her. “Della, do not judge me by the actions of others. I would never do such a thing. You should know this of me by now.”

  “Nay!” She held up her hand to stop his advance. Her wild eyes flashed in panic as he continued to move toward her. Pointing a finger, she said carefully, “I want no more of you or your pagan curses. How could I have thought I loved you? You are a Viking. Your kind did this. This is what they do. Your kind killed my mother. Your kind has no soul.”

  “Della,” Brant persisted.

  She shook her head, unable to reason. Tears froze eternally in her eyes. “Do not come near me. Go to your Blackwell Manor. Live out your days there. I want no more of you.”

  “But, Della—” Brant was cut off by her vicious glare.

  She turned from him, her pain keeping her from staying to hear anything he might have to say.

  “Della, wait,” he tried anyway.

  “Roldan!” Della yelled.

  The man was instantly by her side. “Is all well, m’lady?”

  “Nay. It was a mistake for me to come.” Della turned and didn’t take her eyes off Brant. His face was hardened to her, his blue eyes dark with an emotion she could not ascertain. She matched his deadly stare. “Take me home, Roldan. I am done here.”

  Brant felt his heart collapse into the pit of his stomach. When she’d looked inside the cottage at the bodies, he’d known she was punished enough for her defiance that morning. He’d seen the great fear in her eyes and was helpless to fight it.

  Then, as she remembered the past, he recognized the crazed light that momentarily flickered within her. She didn’t see him, but a painful memory. He’d lost many promising soldiers in the same terrifying way. It would happen after a fierce battle, when they’d witnessed more carnage than their minds could fathom. They went momentarily crazy, unable to take the mental anguish.

  But the battle Della remembered was old and ingrained into her soul so deeply, he feared no one would ever pluck it out. What chance did he stand against the spirits of her past, the haunting memory of their cries? He was only a man and men did not fight spirits.

  How could I have thought I loved you?

  His heart would have filled with untold joy at her unintentional confession had her eyes not disputed the fact. But any droplets of happiness that flowed in his chest were bittersweet and didn’t last. There was no reasoning with her. Not about this, never about this. And as she rode away, his pride didn’t let him stop her.

  Chapter Sixteen

  A fortnight came and went since Della had last seen Brant standing outside the ruins of the burned cottages. He hadn’t come home that night, not that she’d been expecting him to do so. Those long, lonely days brought both tremendous rain and unreasonable shine, and the castle worked on despite the rift left by the missing ealdorman.

  Della had made how she felt about seeing him again very clear. In that first sennight, she’d told herself repeatedly that she didn’t care if he rotted like the burned bodies of the peasants. But she thought of him constantly and her treacherous body ached for the feel of him.

  Gunther returned to Strathfeld late the same night of the fires, briefly informing her through tight lips that Lord Blackwell was at Blackwell Manor and was not expected to come back anytime soon. He was to have her escorted during the day and confined to her chambers at night, protected by a guard, where she would remain until she notified her warden she was ready to come out in the morning.

  “You are not a prisoner. Lord Blackwell does this fer yer safety,” Gunther had explained grimily, though Della hadn’t questioned the order.

  The words still rankled. Right, not a prisoner. Yet every time I wish to do so much as relieve myself, I have to do it
with a guard outside my door.

  Della slept less than before. The smell of charred flesh brought with it a myriad of memories, all of Lady Strathfeld’s death—images she’d long tried to silence. They rushed forth to torture her like the giant waves of a thunderous ocean mingling amongst the sailors of a sinking ship. They united with the new image of the dead child and its mother, a new torture with the old. Why had the Vikings let her live all those years ago? She would’ve rather died alongside her mother as a child than live the life of agony she’d come to know as an adult.

  It had taken her only a few days to realize through the clouding fog of pain that Brant was not at fault for the raid. The knowledge did little to ease her suffering. Her hate was unreasonable, but she couldn’t help it. The past was becoming too hard to fight.

  Mayhap if her mother’s killers had been brought to justice, mayhap if she had seen them dead, then she could have healed. But they were still out there. She could only imagine the number of crimes they had committed over the years.

  What am I to do?

  Della cried inwardly as she looked about the dejected manor. It was clear everyone felt the discord of the married couple. The servants were not as cheerful, the men not so boisterous, and her heart did not beat as much as it should.

  “You might as well be of use again this morn, Cedric.” Della gave a wry look to the young soldier ordered to follow her during the day. He was the same man who’d held up the leather satchel at the raid sight. Della was not pleased with the reminder his face brought, but said nothing when he had been assigned as her main guard. “I will teach you how to churn butter. No doubt your strong man-arms will be of some use to us.”

  The soldier groaned. “Nay, m’lady, I beg of you. These past sennights I have helped you to dust the manor, I have picked herbs in yer garden, and I have e’en helped you to sew yer blankets. Do not make me tend to more women’s work. I beg it of you. It’s degrading as a man and as a loyal soldier who has done no treachery.”