Lord of Fire, Lady of Ice

by Michelle M. Pillow

  Brant ordered Cedric from the room with a brusque nod. The young soldier watched Della with boyish impudence. He listened to the door shut before going to his wife.

  “Della?” He touched her shoulders gently.

  “Back off,” she gasped. “Get your treacherous hands off me.”

  Brant did as she commanded, watching helplessly as she vomited yellow bile into the basin. Standing, he grabbed a linen towel from Serilda and wrapped it around his waist. Then, crossing once more to Della, he dropped a linen by her head.

  “Serilda is there naught you can do for her?” Brant knew what Della suspected he was doing with the woman, but now was not the time to explain.

  “Yea, m’lord.” Serilda stepped forward. “M’lady, please.”

  Della glared at her from under the strands of dark blonde hair that had worked loose from the braided knot at her nape. Sweat beaded her forehead and she refused to stand. Instead, she picked up the dropped towel and wiped at her mouth.

  “M’lady, if you would lie on the bed.” Serilda’s sugary-sweet tone was a contrast to her usually brusque nature. Brant didn’t pay attention to the midwife as he concentrated on his wife.

  “Yea, Della,” Brant encouraged. “Rest.”

  “Get your whore out of our chamber,” Della whispered. “How dare you bring her here? Take her to the pasture with the other livestock.”

  “Della.” Brant couldn’t help the warning in his voice.

  “Nay. If you wish to bed the whore at least take her somewhere more appropriate. Perchance the stables would suit you more than the pasture. There will be some privacy.” Della rose to her feet with the help of the straw mattress. “You will not take her in my bed.”

  “I’m not a whore,” Serilda protested.

  “Quiet!” Brant ordered her.

  Della swayed and leaned against the poster of the bed for support, as if it was taking all her energy to stand so proudly before him.

  “But I’m not,” Serilda pouted.

  “I said be quiet,” Brant ordered. He swiped the suds from his eyes as he turned to his wife. “It is not as you think. Serilda is applying healing draughts to me.”

  “Is that what you wish to call it?” Della laughed weakly and waved her hand listlessly through the air. “Fine, have her apply her healing draughts in the barn with the other animals. It is where you belong.”

  “I will ignore that since you are obviously ill and speaking out of your head,” Brant reasoned with as much patience as he could manage. “Lie down so Serilda may inspect you.”

  “Nay.” Della fell against the bed. “I will not have your woman’s hands on me again. I have been checked by her and that is enough.”

  “Della, you are sick.” Worried, he reached as if to touch her, but hesitated.

  “Yea, I may be,” Della jerked away, “but I will not be laughed at again.”

  “What are you talking about?” Brant asked, perplexed. Serilda shrugged her shoulders with unconvincing naiveté.

  “Did she not tell you? Your little woman here told everyone what you had done to me.” Della’s face paled again and she took a long breath. “The whole of Northumbria knows of my checking and they are laughing at me.”

  “Nonsense, Della, they are not laughing. The results were satisfactory. They would praise a maiden for that.” Brant frowned as he turned to Serilda. Again the woman looked innocently at him. He sighed. This was not a conversation he wanted to be having in front of a servant. Going to the tub, he ducked his head under the water and rinsed out the remainder of the soap. When he finished, he said, “Enough of this.”

  Serilda moved to pick his braccas up off the floor, handing them over. Della frowned at the familiar action. Brant grumbled in irritation, but tugged on the clean wool, glad to finally be rid of the lice and filth of Blackwell. He saw how intimate the action looked to his wife and would have been pleased by her jealousy if she wasn’t so sick. He wondered what was wrong with her when an idea finally struck him. Suddenly he smiled.

  “What is wrong with you, barbarian?” Della hissed. Her voice was weak, but her words were poisonous nonetheless. “Methinks you have gone mad, Brant the Thorn.”

  Brant ignored her ire, too happy for the moment to pay it much heed. Hopeful, he asked, “Serilda, do you know what ails Lady Blackwell?”

  The midwife understood his meaning and motioned her hand toward the bed.

  “Della, methinks you should let Serilda tend to your illness,” Brant said when Della began to speak. “We can discuss this misunderstanding later.”

  “Nay.” Della’s features were set, as if she tried not to sway on her feet. “I will not have that woman touch me again. I care not what you do with her, only leave me alone.”

  “Be still, Della.” He motioned Serilda to the bed, hiding how Della’s words stung him. “I will not leave until you do so.”

  Della frowned. “Fine, but only because I am too tired and too nauseated to argue with you any longer.” She moved toward the bed, only to stop and grab Serilda’s hand tightly in her own. Twisting the midwife’s fingers back, she threatened, “Treat me as you did last time and I will have your fingers broken and your battered, naked body thrown into the moat for all the men to enjoy.”

  “Yea, m’lady,” was Serilda’s not-too-meek reply.

  Brant smiled at that. His wife had a lot of fight to her, even when sick. It would also seem she was not going to be as silent as her last inspection.

  “Turn away,” Della told him. “I do not wish to see your face.”

  Brant nodded and did what she wanted, too excited not to comply. In his head he counted the days since their first lovemaking. It was not too soon to tell if she was with child. His child. His heir.

  After a few moments, he heard Serilda stand from the bed and turned in excitement. The midwife bit her lip and gave a funny look to Della, who had closed her eyes and curled into a ball.

  In a not-too-quiet hush, the woman said, “It is only a sickness of the stomach. It will pass within a sennight. Give her broth to eat and let her rest.”

  “Are you sure?” Disappointment unraveled inside him.

  “Fairly sure, though it could be too early to tell.” Serilda backed toward the door. “I am usually right, though. I don’t think it’s that.”

  “What?” Della asked without opening her eyes. “My head is spinning and I don’t have time for this nonsense. What did you think it was? The plague? An outbreak? Has there been news of others? Is that why you seemed so happy? You thought I was to die on you?”

  “M’lord thought you may be with child,” Serilda answered unceremoniously.

  Brant wanted to slap the impudent woman, but instead he ran his fingers through his wet hair. To his annoyance, he discovered there was still lice soap in his locks. Frowning at Serilda, he realized the soap didn’t burn at all.

  “I’m sorry, m’lady. You are not.” Serilda left the chamber.

  Brant watched the door close quietly behind the midwife.

  “Go ahead. Go after her.” Della eyed him wearily. She rolled away from him in disgust.

  Brant didn’t like the dejected tone of her voice. While he talked, he leaned over to once again rinse the soap from his hair. “Naught happened, Della. She was applying healing draughts.”

  “Nay, do not call it that. I saw you with my own eyes.” Della refused to sit up. “Take your lies elsewhere, barbarian.”

  “Della—” Brant dried his wet hair with the discarded towel and moved to the bed.

  “It’s all right,” she broke in. Brant stepped closer to hear her better. “I said you could leave for Blackwell and live there with your mistress. Serilda is a fine choice. She cannot bear a child of her own.”

  “I’m not leaving Strathfeld.” Brant sat on edge of the bed. He reached to touch her hip in a light caress. She didn’t move under his hand. He wondered if the jealousy he thought he’d seen was imagined. “I have reason to stay.”

  “Oh, yea, I know your re
ason. You wish for an heir.” Della inched away from him. Her voice fell into a low murmur. “Would you really have me perform marital duties now? I’m likely to vomit on you.”

  “Della. That is not what I meant.” Brant withdrew his hand and let out a long, frustrated sigh. By Thor’s Hammer, wench, you are most aggravating!

  “Fine, then leave me be.” She pulled at the coverlet behind her back. After several hard jerks, Brant was forced to stand and let her have it. “Go to Serilda. I’m done talking to you.”

  “Della,” Brant started, uncertain. He shook his head and again ran his fingers through his wet hair. He was pleased to discover that the itching was gone from his scalp. Serilda’s potion had worked magnificently, even if she had lied about the administering. “Never mind, I’m done arguing with you.”

  His wife didn’t answer him as he finished getting dressed and she didn’t look at him as he sat on the bed to pull on his shoes. It was as if she didn’t care that he was there and he imagined she wished he wasn’t.

  Fingering the gold thread on the brown tunic she’d made, he traced over the intricate design. He didn’t understand his wife. Did she still blame him for the raids? Did she still blame him for her mother’s death? It made no sense, her unreasonable anger. But it was there and it was very real. He no longer had the strength to fight it.

  “I will not force marital duties on you, Della. I never have, never will. Serilda is not my mistress.” Brant leaned closer to her prone body. Her side rose in even breaths as she refused to look at him. A light quiver worked over her. “I don’t want anyone but you.”

  There, I have said it, Ice Princess. Now you know. I have no desire to take breath without you. Methinks I am in love with you. Nay, I am fairly sure I know it. I love you, wife.

  “I love you,” he whispered. He hadn’t meant to, but now it was said and he didn’t try to take it back. Brant waited for an answer to his shaky admission. He’d known the moment he’d seen her at the gate that morning. He loved her. He wanted to say more, but her silence forbade another word to whisper past his lips. She didn’t answer, which to Brant could only mean she didn’t care.

  Silently he stood and turned from her. His heart fell against the walls of his chest in heavy thuds, the weight of his blood tingling painfully in his limbs. He felt a beginning choke form in his throat, but didn’t let the moisture fall from his eyes. Soldiers didn’t weep and he was one of the best.

  Taking a deep breath, he opened the door and walked slowly from the room. Not once did he look back to see if she noticed and inside his heart went dead.

  * * * * *

  Della awoke to hunger pains twitching in her stomach. Slowly, she pushed herself up on the bed and she looked around the dimly lit chamber. She was alone. The fire had been allowed to burn out, which meant no one had been to check on her. Had no one noticed she was gone? How long had she slept? From the heaviness of her eyelids she would have easily guessed two days.

  Lifting her arms, she stretched her sleep-tightened muscles. The nausea was gone and she felt well enough to get out of bed. As she swung her foot over, she frowned. The chamber pot hadn’t been changed. Yawning, she looked out the narrow window and noticed it was indeed dark outside. She’d slept the day away and it both amazed and frightened her. How had she gotten so tired?

  It took only a few moments to straighten her clothing before she was ready to leave the chamber. Her stomach growled. She was starving.

  “Cedric?” Della called as she opened the door to the chamber. Her voice sounded odd from sleep. “I’m ready to go down.”

  There was no answer. She looked around the darkened hall. Her dutiful guard was not at his post. Had Brant called the man off?

  “Lord Blackwell?” she whispered, but received no response. Shutting the door behind her, she walked down the stairwell. Then, like a slap to the face, she remembered catching Brant with the midwife. Della cursed as she realized that even now he was more than likely with his mistress. As she made her way to the hall, her mind focused on the sounds below. She heard a clamor of tumultuous laughter followed by fists pounding on wood.

  Cheerful voices projected from of the main hall, growing louder with each step she took. It had been a long time since the hall had been so loud. It reminded her of the time of her father and she wondered in momentary confusion if she’d dreamed her marriage to Brant the Barbarian. The thought soon left her as she neared the main hall. The playful scream of a maid rang to the boisterous encouragement of the soldiers. Music filled the castle, something she vaguely remembered being at her wedding, but the celebration hadn’t been as lively as it now sounded to be.

  Della quickened her steps, curious to see who was now visiting to demand such attention. Could it be the king? Why was I not told we had such an important guest? I should think I needed to be there. Brant the Fiery Thorn will not take kindly to me not making appearance at his table.

  She rounded the corner to the main hall, her mouth gaping open in surprise. A serving maid danced on top of a table, surrounded by several of the soldiers. Her young body flung around in undisciplined movements and she kicked food and drink onto the floor. The rowdy men pounded the wood in time with the music, cheering the woman on, screaming louder when she took off her apron and tossed it aside. Della gasped and ducked to avoid the flying garment. The maid continued to take off her clothes, much to the delight of all. Della couldn’t watch.

  The hall was a mess. Ale and mead flowed freely and, by the look of the drunken faces, the gaiety had been going on for quite some time. Traveling musicians played loudly near the center fireplace as couples danced around, kicking the rushes into messy piles on the floor. From where she stood in the crowd, the musicians were the only strangers to the hall she could see.

  Another maid screamed frantically, running past Della in her haste to get away from a lustful suitor. She didn’t try too hard, for he caught her easily and they both went tumbling to the floor in a fit of laughter. Della felt the blood draining from her face. Her limbs were weak and her stomach tight. Never has she laid witness to such debauchery at Strathfeld.

  Cedric arm-wrestled with a burly-looking knight. Food littered the once tidy floor. A piece of roasted mutton flew past her head, hitting the clean tapestry behind her. It soiled the thick cloth with a greasy stain. Della watched in stunned silence. This refuse-hall cannot be my home. I’m having a dream. Nay, a nightmare!

  As another playful scream drifted through the air, Della moved into action. She skirted past the revelry and made her way to better see the high table. Surely Brant would not allow such indulgence in his presence—not in her orderly keep. The people defiled the main hall, they spoiled the carefully scented rushes and after she so recently had them replaced.

  Finding no guests at the main table, she stiffened. The only occupants at the table were her husband, Gunther, and the two women sitting across their laps. On Gunther was Gayla. Della knew that out of all the women, that particular maid spent the most time there. Della didn’t care about Gunther. Her gaze turned slowly to Brant. She didn’t want to see it, but how could she avoid looking at him? At them?

  There, on her husband’s lap, sat Serilda. Brant had a goblet of mead in one hand and Serilda in the other. Della couldn’t move. Sound faded as she stared at them, replaced by an intense pain. In anguish, she watched Brant lean over the woman with a mouth full of ale. He let the liquid fall from his lips so it ran over the woman’s dark skin in trails of red. The midwife leaned her head back in lusty laughter, grabbing Brant by his hair. Della’s insides burned.

  No one seemed to notice her as she stood motionless in the middle of the hall. The loud shouts punctured her dull senses, but she ignored the obnoxious yells, ignored the loose-moraled maids. But she couldn’t ignore the pain that wrapped her tight, squeezing at her heart.

  That lascivious son of a whore! Della made her way to the table, letting anger settle over her body, unable to deal with the hurt Brant’s actions caused. How dare he d
isrespect me?

  Della stalked to the high table to where Serilda wantonly nuzzled Brant’s throat. The woman’s hands were on the ealdorman’s thigh, very close to massaging his member. Unmindful of her actions, Della ferociously grabbed the woman by her hair and yanked her from Brant’s body, throwing Serilda to the floor.

  Brant’s drunken eyes shot up in dismay. Seeing Della, his frowned deepened and he had the audacity not to look guilty at being caught.

  The imbecile is drunk! Della stood before him, hands placed firmly on her hips. Her heart beat heavily in her chest and, though she tried to breathe, the air could not find her lungs. She wanted to yell, but her voice was lost. How could he? Here? With Serilda? Why Serilda? She stared at him, not wanting to believe what she’d seen with her own eyes.

  Serilda screeched behind Della in outrage. Della turned to the midwife and growled. “Begone from my sight, whore! Before I have you kicked into the moat with the rest of the excrement.”

  “How dare you!” Serilda yelled back. The usually controlled woman looked fit to kill. Her eyes wildly dashed about in her head and she raised her fingers like pointed claws as if she were about to attack.

  “You dare to raise your voice to a lady?” Della scolded. Never before had she used the power of her station to make her point. Usually she was above such paltry things, but now, in front of the midwife, she would say anything she could to get the better of the woman. For in light of her husband’s attraction to Serilda, she needed all the assistance she could get. “Must I remind you that the penalty for such an act is death?”

  “Nay, m’lady.” Serilda’s angry brown eyes shot hot flames, but the woman bit her tongue as she looked past Della to Brant. He sat lazily in his chair, but said nothing. “I didn’t mean to raise my voice.”

  “Begone from this manor by morn. If you are still here on the morrow, you will be hanged for your insults to me.” Della smiled at the sour victory, knowing she had every right by law to banish her from the manor.