Brant grimaced through the fog of his memory. Vaguely he recalled doing just that. The songs had reminded him of Della. He once again waved at the boy in agitation. “Yea, I am awake, Rab. Begone! Tell your mistress to bother me no more.”
“M’lord?” The boy bounced back and forth on his feet.
“Yea, go relieve yourself then, Rab.”
“M’lord, shall I tell you the rest of the message?”
“Pray tell.” Brant waved his hand in the air before dusting the straw from his clothing. “If it will get you gone any faster.”
“M’lady, that is Lady Blackwell, wishes fer me to tell you to get cleaned up and proper smelling before you come to the great hall. And these are her words, m’lord, not mine. She bid me to tell you not to dare disgrace yerself just ‘cause yer too proud and pigheaded not to listen to her this once—”
Brant punched his fist through the side of the stall. The stallion lifted his head in protest. Rab flinched, jumping back. Brant grimly examined the hole he made.
“M’lord,” Rab continued, his voice faint. “She bid me to tell only you and not to repeat the command to anyone else.”
“Command?” Brant repeated, his tone harsh. He was pleased to have an outlet for his wrath.
“Nay, not command,” Rab corrected. “Request. That is what she said m’lord—request. Humbly request.”
“Nay, do not protect her. I know m’lady better than that.” Brant took a deep breath. Della had sent a boy to wake him? And she dared to enter the hall after he ordered her not to? For that she would pay.
“M’lord, wait. I have not told you who is in the hall.” Rab chased after him.
Brant ignored the child. Intent on finding his wife, he stormed angrily toward the castle. The sun shone bright over the yard. Servants and peasants watched him, stunned. A few recoiled in horror at his stern expression and beastly appearance. Brant didn’t care. Most of them had been avoiding him and his foul temper anyway. He preferred it that way, choosing to spend his solitude away from their prying eyes and gossiping tongues.
Stopping as he entered the hall, his eyes took a moment to focus in the dimmer light. His nostrils were assaulted with the smell of lye. With a grimace, he noticed the floors had been cleaned. What had his meddling wife done? Why did she disobey him so openly at every turn?
He disregarded the pleasure the clean hall gave him, intent on the pretense of hating her. Rudely making his way to the high table to face his wife, he stopped below her. It took a moment for her to notice him, but by that time Brant recognized their guest.
“Your majesty.” Brant bowed. His anger faded as he witnessed the distress on his wife’s face. No doubt he embarrassed her. That was punishment enough for now. Brant genuinely smiled for the first time in a long time.
“Lord Blackwell.” King Guthrum stood and reached his hand out. “Your lovely wife has been entertaining us. Delightful creature.”
Brant nodded, not knowing what to say. His wife did indeed appear lovely. Her hair was plaited neatly at her nape and, though her skin looked overly pale, it was flawless. She wore his favorite burgundy dress with the gold cord. Looking at it, he couldn’t tell that it had been stained and torn. Her flushed cheeks turned a darker red at his perusal, or was it the king’s pretty compliment? It didn’t matter. She looked like an angel compared to the drunken hell he had been living in.
An Angel of Ice. Brant snorted.
The king cleared his throat. “Brant, it has been too long. Your lady wife told me you were currently bathing.”
Brant let an easy expression settle over his face as he shook his head to clear the image of Della’s naked body from it.
“Yea, your majesty. I did say that. Methought he was, but it would seem I was mistaken. M’lord?” Della turned to her husband and gave him a look of desperation. “Was it so terrible, the break in the wall?”
Brant just nodded, having no idea of what she was speaking. What was wrong with the wall? He raised an amused brow at her. She reminded him of the time Lord Lester and Sir Vladamir visited. She’d tried to save him from the embarrassment of not being able to read. How had he forgotten that kindness in his anger toward her? How had he forgotten her many kind acts?
“I was telling the king that you were awakened early this morning to fix a wall that tragically fell last night—behind the chapel.” Della narrowed her eyes. The amber gaze begged him to pay attention.
“Yea. It’s done.” Brant smiled at her relieved sigh.
“Wonderful,” Della proclaimed in relief as she looked at the king. “So you see your majesty, it’s not necessary to send your stonemason to assist us. My lord husband has all of Strathfeld well under his control.”
Since when do you acknowledge my control, lady wife? Brant smirked.
Della moved from her seat to make room for Brant beside the king. She directed her dazzling smile at him and his heart clenched in his chest. He knew her concern was only an act, but nonetheless it poured over him like droplets of refreshing rain.
“Majesty, what brings you here? I wasn’t expecting you for at least another fortnight.” Brant took his seat at the table. His sore back twinged in protest, the muscles having been aggravated by the many nights in the stables. Ignoring the pains and aches of his body, he saw Della motion to a maid to bring him a trencher.
Brant couldn’t help but wonder at the change in the hall. By the looks of his home, no one would suspect that the lord and lady of the manor were estranged, and just the night before, the hall had been littered with rotting food and drunken, fornicating knights. Or that the ealdorman had been bingeing himself into a stupor alone in the stables.
“Sir Vladamir reported the death of Lord Strathfeld. I came to pay my respects to his daughter and to congratulate you both on the success of your union.” Guthrum took a sip of his mead, obviously proud of his part in deciding the match.
Brant gave a soft laugh as he thought of Lord Lester sputtering in the moat.
“Yea, I heard of that as well.” Guthrum suppressed a grin and Brant wasn’t surprised the man read his expression so easily. “You were quite right to throw that obstinate man out on his arse. Though, in the future, please be more hospitable to my ambassadors.”
“Yea, your majesty.” Brant took a drink to hide his smile in his goblet, trying his best to look properly chastised.
A maid brought forward a trencher filled with cold meat, cheese, and slices of bread. She set it before them. Guthrum leaned forward to take a piece of cheese, chewing it thoughtfully. Brant ignored the food. His stomach protested its very smell.
Della was amazed at the familiar way her husband addressed the king. Occasionally, she pretended to sip her drink as the men quietly discussed matters of politics. Surely she hadn’t known Brant was a man of such import, to be trusted so readily by royalty.
When Rab had informed her of their guests, she’d panicked. The king’s banner could be seen long before they could make out the king within the traveling party. For royalty, it was a small entourage that accompanied King Guthrum into the keep. Nevertheless, Della suspected that more of his men camped in the forest just beyond the sight of the castle. No one had seen Lord Blackwell and the king insisted he be produced. Distraught, she’d said the first thing she could think of—that he was overseeing repairs—then she’d sent Rab to find Brant.
“Della, would you see a bedchamber readied for his majesty and cots for his men?” Brant looked as if he had been hesitant to make the request. She could not blame him. They had done nothing but fight as of late. She’d been sitting quietly for so long that it took her a moment to realize he addressed her.
“M’lord, I have already taken the liberty.” Della smiled, lost in her own thoughts. She turned back to her mead, content to watch the liquid swirl in her cup.
“M’lady, mayhap you should check on the preparations,” Brant insisted.
“Nay, I trust Ebba to see to them.” Della smiled again with a vague nod.
Brant cleared his throat. “Della?”
“Yea, m’lord?” She turned to look more fully at him. He was filthy and smelled of the stables. By the straw in his hair, she guessed that is where he’d slept the night before. She unconsciously lifted her hand to remove a piece of straw from his beard. The whiskers were overlong and needed to be clipped. Nervous, she fingered the straw between her thumb and forefinger, rolling and crushing it.
Brant looked at her in surprise, one brow arching like she’d often seen him do. It amazed her how familiar he really was.
Next, his lip will curl slightly in the right corner, she thought, dazed by his attractiveness. A blush heated her cheeks when it did.
“I see the match is well made!” King Guthrum slapped Brant hard on the back, knocking them out of the trance.
Brant’s half smile turned to a laugh. He glanced over to acknowledge the king and then turned back to her.
“M’lady, would you see to my bath?” Brant asked, polite.
“But I already have,” she answered, not really paying heed to Brant’s words.
“M’lady, are you feeling ill? Shall you go lie down?” Kindness shone in his gaze.
“Nay…” Suddenly, she realized that not only her husband, but the king, was giving her an expectant look. The men wished to talk privately. “Yea, m’lord. Perchance I am ill and must lie down, but right after I see to your bath and the king’s chambers.”
She smiled as sweetly as she could, save the circumstance, and made her way from the head table. Her heart thudded and she felt as if she floated on a sea of trembling emotion. Now she thought of it, she was feeling quite ill again.
Chapter Nineteen
Brant’s eyes narrowed as he watched Della walk away. His expression gave away none of his thoughts, but inside he worried. She looked pale and she was overly thin. The slenderness worried him. She’d always been a slight maiden, but now her gown hung on her frame a bit too freely. Mayhap the stress of late was starting to wear on her as it did him. Mayhap she was ready to call a truce.
King Guthrum took a sip of his mead as he watched Brant in silence. They’d known each other for a long time. Setting down his goblet, the king waited until Della reached the stairwell before clearing his throat to get Brant’s attention.
“Delightful lady.” King Guthrum interrupted his thoughts, slipping into their shared native tongue. “I wager you are not so upset about this match as you once were.”
Brant grunted and said nothing. He didn’t have to. Shooting a bemused glance at the king, he then directed his attention back to the empty stairwell entrance.
“Methought so,” King Guthrum chuckled. “So where were you, really? The poor dear cannot lie to save her life, but the way she tried to cover for you was charming.”
“Who said she lied?” Brant sniffed, not giving anything away with his expression. Picking up his goblet, he took a deep drink. Then, leaning over, he grabbed a slice of fresh bread to keep his hands busy as he spoke. “It is as she said. I was mending a wall that mysteriously fell in the night hours.”
“From the stables?” The king laughed heartily.
Brant lightly waved his hand, not answering.
“And may I see this wall?” The king shot him an innocent smile. Brant didn’t trust the mischief in it.
“The wall would not interest you. It is only a wall, much like any other. I doubt even I could find it again.”
The king shook his head, amused. “Fine. I will allow you your secret, Lord Blackwell, but only this once.”
Tearing off a crust of bread, Brant bit into it and slowly chewed. The morsel sat heavily on his empty stomach, but he forced himself to take another bite.
“Where is Gunther?” The king thoughtfully traced the royal crest emblazoned on his ring. “I have yet to see him about.”
“I sent him to Blackwell Manor. I’m having a great section of it burned down.” Brant grimaced at the reminder of his lice-infested home. “Damned place is infested with lice, rats, lazy servants.”
“All hard to be rid of,” the king said. “I noticed your wife keeps a very clean keep. Mayhap I should move in here with you, for this keep puts all five of my properties to shame.”
“Nay, it is too much to expect a man to bow every day before he breaks his fast.” Brant leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. His own smell was beginning to offend even him. “Besides, I should hate to see what happens if the king also decided to take a liking to my lovely wife. I am not a man who shares my things well.”
“Fair enough,” the king laughed, not at all offended by the deliberate words. “Lady Blackwell is indeed beautiful, but I respect you too much to cuckold you.”
“So, what is so urgent that you must ride all the way here? And do not tell me you came to see me content in my marriage. I should think you have more to consider than my happiness with a Saxon bride,” Brant stated. “I already signed your document.”
“Alfred wants a peace treaty,” King Guthrum stated unceremoniously, not at all stunned by Brant’s swift perception of his visit. “Methinks he just wants to get me alone so he can have my head and take my lands.”
“Nay, not even the impertinent King Alfred would be so bold. He knows we would revolt against his rule. The Vikings would never live under his tyranny.” Brant knew well what the king was going to ask of him.
“Yet you are so willing to live under mine.” Guthrum shook his head in amusement. “Nay, Alfred has the impudence of youth in him. He may try to be overbold. You are well respected by him, Brant the Flame. I want you at my side for fear that we may need to fight our way back.”
The king was not asking, but demanding, and it was Brant’s duty to obey. He didn’t want to leave Della, or Strathfeld. He was tired of wars, tired of campaigning, of bloodshed. “When do we leave?”
“Good man.” Guthrum nodded. “Send word to Gunther, he can stay here in your stead and protect what I have given you. And, although I will miss his sword, I fear he will not get here before the dawn.”
“Dawn?” Brant asked with a sense of dread. Again his eyes moved to the stairwell.
“Yea, we will leave on the first light of morrow.” Guthrum coughed and raised his goblet to his lips. After drinking, he said, “Go get you to a bath and take leave of your new wife properly. I shall understand if I see you no more this day.”
* * * * *
Della stared blindly at the ceiling of her quiet bedchamber. The lonely strands of an abandoned spider web fluttered in the slight draft coming from the narrow window. A fire burned in the fireplace giving the room a soft, orange glow. Curling into a ball on the bed, she rolled on her side. She’d taken her hair down and now pushed the long length out of her eyes.
When she closed her eyes, she thought of Brant. Then, as if bidden by her longing, she heard his heavy steps on the stairwell long before he reached the door. The noise stopped and she sensed him outside the chamber. When he didn’t open the door, she turned her head on her pillow to stare at the wooden entryway.
Come in, she beckoned silently. Della pushed herself up, never taking her eyes from the door. Her heart beat wildly as she waited in breathless anticipation. She could not force herself to call out to him.
Della waited for a long moment. Still he didn’t come in. She knew it was her husband, knew the familiar sound of his footfall as he’d approached, and felt him as sure as she felt the mattress beneath her. As quietly as possible, she moved to the edge of the bed, gingerly placed her feet on the floor, and soundlessly walked over the hard stone.
Resting her forehead against the smooth oak barrier, she willed him to come to her. With her eyes closed, she could imagine him standing on the other side, disheveled from his nights of drinking and yet most handsome. Finally gaining courage, she reached for the latch. Her hand shook in nervous excitement. Would they fight? Would he still be mad? As she pulled, she felt him push gently from the other side.
Della’s insides melted with expectation and her gaze
instantly sought his blue one. She froze, not seeing the gaunt expression lining his tired features, not noticing the awful smell coming from his unwashed clothes. Her eyes could only see the man she loved—the man she’d missed desperately.
Brant hesitated outside the door. His eyes dipped over her form before finding their way back to her gaze. They both stood with their hands on opposite sides of the door latch, staring at the other. Both expected anger or ridicule from the other and didn’t find it.
Coming to her senses, Della took a quick step back, moving so as to not block his entry into their chamber. It had been a long time since they’d shared the same space without fighting. She swallowed, unable to speak. He invaded her with his forceful presence.
Sweeping his gaze over the chamber, his attention paused near the fireplace on the bath she’d ordered drawn for him. When he again looked at her, he watched her intently. Brant took a single step in, holding his free hand out to her as the other fell from the door. “M’lady, you dropped this in the hall.”
She stood before him as he held out a crushed piece of straw. It was the same piece she’d taken from his beard. He angled it to her like a tentative offering of peace.
“Thank you, m’lord.” Della didn’t dare take the straw and risk touching him. If she touched even his smallest finger, she would be swept away into his magnetic embrace. Only she didn’t know if she would be accepted there and didn’t wish make a fool of herself yet again. “Please, come in.”
Brant nodded, coming inside he closed the door behind him. The straw fluttered to the ground as he moved past her. His shoes crushed softly into the fur rug, muffling his movements. Without comment, he shrugged off his overtunic.
“Did Rab not find you?” Della asked, curious. She had wondered.
“Yea, he did.” Brant slipped his undertunic from over his head and turned his back to her as he dropped the dirty clothing on top of the discarded overtunic to make a pile.
Lord of Fire, Lady of Ice Page 29
