Lord of Fire, Lady of Ice

by Michelle M. Pillow

  Mayhap, I have been poisoned, she thought, dispirited.

  “Serilda?” Gunther shook his head and laughed. He pounded his fist on the wooden tabletop until those in the great hall stopped and turned at the commotion. As he threw himself back, his drink spilled onto the floor.

  “M’lady, would you like to share the jest with all of us?” Roldan leaned past Gunther with a hopeful smile, eyeing her from the other side of the table.

  “Nay, Roldan. Turn back to yer mead,” Gunther denied for her. A maid righted the fallen goblet and set it on the table. Then, filling it quickly, she retreated back down the platform. Gunther lifted his goblet to Roldan and announced for all to hear, “Let not m’lady repeat her poisonous barbs. They are likely to make e’en you blush.”

  Roldan laughed, believing to understand. The man turned back to his meal and the soldier with whom he conversed.

  “I am glad you find my husband’s bedsport with Serilda amusing.” Della glared at him once they were again free to speak. She stiffened, about to stand.

  “Nay, Della, stay. I did not mean to imply methought it amusing.” He tapped her arm lightly to keep her beside him. “I cannot believe Brant did not tell you. It was a mean jest, truly.”

  “What?”

  “Serilda on his lap. He saw you belowstairs and pulled the closest maid into his embrace. Methinks it was to make you jealous. I see it has worked.” Gunther nodded in personal satisfaction.

  “But, then, he didn’t bed her?” Her breath quickened at the thought. She trembled, hardly able to believe it true. Carefully, she watched Gunther’s face for a lie.

  “Nay, and he would have told me if he had, of that you can be assured.”

  “But that does not excuse the others. Who was he with in the stables?”

  “Nay, there are no others, not since he wed with you, m’lady.” Gunther met her eyes.

  “You speak the truth.” Della saw his honesty. A smile came unbidden to her face. Relief, so sweet, washed over her and for a moment she could again forget her anger. Taking Gunther’s hand in hers, she whispered, “But he let me believe. The servants said…”

  “Servants oft gossip about things they know naught about. Of m’lord’s reasons I know naught. Brant is a proud man and proud men do not explain themselves.” Gunther patted her hand, before lifting it from his own and placing it away from him. “Mayhap he likes a jealous wife.”

  “Please, Gunther, you must excuse me. I-I…” She paled and her words trailed off. Darting to her feet, she moved hastily down the platform stairs, almost knocking a maid’s tray to the ground as she made her way through the door to the kitchen. She mumbled a quick apology to the stunned servant before continuing on.

  Falling to her knees on the kitchen floor, she vomited into the first empty pot she came to. Several of the maids tried to watch her in curiosity, but Isa shooed them from the kitchen. The cook silently rolled her dough, waiting for Della to stand.

  “M’lady.” Isa glanced up from her rolling to give the noblewoman a matronly smile. “Be there aught wrong with the meal?”

  “Isa, do we have a crust of bread? My stomach cannot handle the meat tonight.” Della tried to smile. When Isa frowned, she amended, “The meal is wonderful. My stomach is weak. Methinks I’m ill.”

  “Hmm.” Isa grabbed a fresh loaf and tore off a piece. As she handed the dry morsel over, she asked, “Have you told his lordship, m’lady?”

  “What?” Della was confused as she took the bread. Tearing off a piece, she stuck it in her mouth and chewed slowly, not too eager to swallow.

  “About the babe.” Isa continued her rolling. Then forming a loaf with deftly precise hands, she placed it aside on the table.

  “Whose babe?” Della took another bite of bread. “I did not see a babe. Was it one of the cotters?”

  “M’lady, are you not with child?” Isa asked in pointed amusement. She nodded toward Della’s stomach. Isa formed another loaf and placed it with the other. “You have the sickness.”

  “Oh, Isa, nay. It’s only a weak stomach, though I do wish it would go away.” Della reached down and touched her narrow waist. “I am afraid I have lost weight. When you are with child, you gain it.”

  “Who told you that nonsense?” Isa laughed so that her plump body shook with the force of it. She reached down under her cutting table for a bucket of water. Lifting it, she said, “Fer it is nonsense.”

  “My eyes tell me women gain weight and, well, Serilda told me it was a stomach sickness.” Della watched Isa wipe the dough crumbs into a pile and sighed. She fingered the bread, but didn’t take another bite.

  “That one!” Isa shook her head in disapproval. “You did right in throwing her from the manor. I know not what she would have to gain by lying to you about a babe, but she did lie.”

  “She had naught to gain. That is how I know I am not with child.” The idea of carrying a babe rolled over her curiously. She didn’t know what to feel. If what Isa said was true, would Brant leave for good? Would he feel the extent of his ‘duty’ had been accomplished? Della swayed and leaned against the table.

  “Nay, m’lady, I would wager my kitchen on it. You carry his lordship’s babe in yer belly.” Isa smiled kindly. Ignoring her bucket of water, she moved around the table as she dusted off her hands. In a rare moment of seriousness, she touched Della tenderly on the shoulder. “It’s no stomach illness, child.”

  “How can you tell? Do I look different?” Della inquired through her shock. She gazed intently down at her waist and smoothed the blue tunic she wore over her flat stomach. Spreading her fingers wide, she pressed them into her midsection. She felt the same.

  “Nay, but soon you will.” The cook gave her a delighted smile. “You have not had yer woman’s time since before yer marriage and you are sick in the morn and at night. Am I right?”

  “Yea, and sometimes in the oddest hours of the day.”

  “And the sickness, it comes as suddenly as it leaves?” Isa persisted logically. “And you are overtired?”

  “Yea,” Della whispered as the reality of what Isa was saying started to make sense. Her hand fluttered nervously over her stomach. Swallowing over the dryness in her throat, she asked softly, “But how? It is not possible.”

  Isa chuckled as she patted Della on the arm. “If you have to be asking that, you best bring it up with yer husband. It’s my guess he would be the one to tell you about the how of it.”

  Della’s hand shook and she dropped the crust of bread, letting it fall forgotten to the floor. Isa sighed as she leaned over to pick it up. Della wordlessly made her way to the kitchen door. Isa whistled a tune softly behind her, but Della kept walking, needing to be alone.

  * * * * *

  Brant spurred his horse onward as King Guthrum motioned for the ealdorman to join him at the front of the traveling party. Along the sides of the trail was nothing but forest. Brant knew the outriders would be nearby, hidden well within the trees. They had ridden hard since dawn through Mercia toward the northern border of Wessex to meet King Alfred on hallowed ground, where it was believed no blood would be shed by either side for fear of angering the Christian God. Brant thought the idea foolish since Guthrum didn’t believe in that God.

  “Your majesty,” Brant allowed as he slowed his stallion to an easy trot beside the king. Guthrum held up his hand, motioning the guards on either side to fall back.

  “Lord Blackwell.” The king kept his gaze trained forward as he spoke. “It is a strange journey, is it not?”

  “Strange?” Brant stiffened and looked around. Always the loyal knight, his hand went to the hilt of his sword to rest. No birds flew in the sky, the insects of the forest hummed lively. Nothing seemed amiss. He relaxed his guard as he turned to the king. “I detect naught in the forest.”

  “Your men, do they doubt our mission?” The king busied himself, straightening the frippery on his horse’s mane. The ribbons of purple velvet matched the king’s cloak. Brant looked at his own horse, d
ecorated in only the barest leather straps. He didn’t feel the need to dress the animal in finery.

  “Nay. They are all loyal, as am I.” Brant managed a polite smile. The king’s words were true though. His heart hadn’t been in the mission. It was left back at Strathfeld in Della’s infallible keeping, although she didn’t know it.

  “Then why are the men in such disheartened spirits? I have never seen such downtrodden knights, even in the face of tremendous battle.” The king stopped his horse and motioned to one of his guards. “Here. We camp here. I would not stay too close to the border.”

  The soldier nodded and passed the orders down the line of men. Two riders were dispatched on either side to tell the outriders the plan. The sky had just begun to turn a purplish red and the cool autumn breeze picked up. It whipped Brant’s hair into his eyes. He tucked the strands behind his ears, not bothering to give an answer.

  “Lord Blackwell, methinks it is because their leader is dispirited,” King Guthrum continued as if they hadn’t stopped talking. He was content to sit astride his horse as he watched his orders being carried out. Several of the men headed toward the trees to set up a small camp.

  Brant still didn’t answer for he could not deny it. It was true. He had been a little sharp with the men. He missed Della. Thoughts of his wife only caused his mood to fade into extreme sadness. She didn’t care for him and at every turn she made sure to let him know. But she did desire him, and in that he took a little hope. Mayhap in time she would grow to love him.

  Brant remembered the soft line of her sleeping face as the combination of morning and firelight caressed the softness of her flushed, naked flesh. She’d slept on her stomach, her back completely exposed to him, and he’d stared at her in wonder as he quietly dressed. He’d wanted to wake her before he left, but thought it best not to, since she had been so sick as of late. Her illness worried him. Thinking of it only made him ache to turn around, but he would never forsake his duty for his own personal whims.

  “So, it is as methought,” the king declared with a knowing grin. Brant was not sure if Guthrum’s eyes held pity or joy. “The legendary Brant the Flame is in love—and with his wife, no less.”

  Chapter Twenty One

  Della gradually became accustomed to the idea of her pregnancy. Now that she accepted what was awry with her body, she didn’t seem to be as ill, or mayhap it was she didn’t care because she knew the cause. The last several days without Brant had cooled her anger toward him, and she had to admit Gunther’s words helped a great deal in lessening her animosity. They left her longing to see him and deathly afraid of what he would say when she did. At times she wondered if he would come back at all. Mayhap he would leave her like she had often urged him to do.

  At night, the image of his body haunted her. She woke up in the early dawn hours dripping with sweat, her heart pounding in apprehension. She worried for him. King Guthrum would not have ordered him away unless there was to be danger. During the day, she wondered if her child would have the same red streak in his hair, or the same mischievous glint to his eyes. Or mayhap it would be a girl who looked like her. She smiled to think of it and again ran her hand possessively over her stomach. Already she felt a hardening bump where her child would grow. Nothing else mattered, not so long as Brant was delivered safely back to her. Once he was, she would make sure he never left again. And, no matter how hard it was for her, she was determined to tell him how she really felt.

  “M’lady!” Rab’s yell echoed over the bailey as he flew around the side of the castle.

  Della looked up from where she leaned against the wall and smiled at the foundling boy as he skidded to a stop. His red cheeks puffed with each breath and his hair was tousled about his head.

  “Yea, Rab, calm yourself. I am here.” Della motioned the boy to her side, stepping away from the wall and into the sunlight to see him better. The boy’s face paled dramatically to see her.

  Blessed Saints, Brant’s hurt.

  “What is it?” She asked when the boy didn’t speak.

  Rab looked hesitantly at the ground then back to Della. “Another raid, m’lady. They burned the crops and slaughtered the cattle.”

  Della’s heart leapt in bitter relief that it was not bad news about Brant, but that was before Rab’s words sunk in completely. Her limbs weakened. “And the cotters?”

  “Killed. About twenty o’ them.”

  Unsure as to what she should do, Della began to walk toward the gate only to stop in disbelief. Turning back to the boy, she said, “Nay. It cannot be. Not with Lord Blackwell gone. Did you inform Gunther and Roldan? Do they ride out?”

  “Yea. Roldan bid me to find you. He and the other men ride at once. He is leaving Cedric to watch over you and a few of the other knights to man the walls until he is back. He said it should only be a day and a night at most.” Rab stepped forward as Della swayed uneasily on her feet. “M’lady?!”

  “I’m all right, Rab,” Della protested as the young boy made her sit on the ground next to the castle. He fanned his hands frantically in her face as she took deep breaths. She lifted her hand, bidding him to stop.

  “M’lady, should I get someone. Yer face is as white as the fresh linens.” Rab made a move to leave. She reached out her hand to stop him, but he was already running.

  “Nay, Rab. Hold!” Della yelled. When he turned to look at her, she motioned him back. “I do not need you to fetch anyone. Just come sit with me a moment.”

  “M’lady.” Rab bounced anxiously on his feet as he looked over his shoulder. “Not a lesson now. The men are about to ride out and I must watch if I am to be a knight. Gunther said I must help to man the wall while he is gone.”

  “Nay, not a lesson.” Della smiled and patted the ground insistently. “A secret.”

  “Secret?” The boy came back, intrigued. “Between only us?”

  “Yea, between only us for now.” Della already knew Isa would tell no one.

  “What?” Rab seemed to realize he was being overanxious and leaned against the stone wall. He tried to act disinterested, but his excitement showed in the jittery movements of his body.

  “First, I must secure your promise to tell no one. Not until I tell you it’s fine.” Della shaded her eyes and looked up at him. He had thinned out in the face, no doubt a benefit of Brant’s training and attention. She pulled a weed and wove the stem through her fingers. “I shall keep you to this promise.”

  “Yea, I will tell no one. Not e’en under torture.” Rab leaned closer. “Not e’en if they pull out my fingernails and—”

  “I shall hold you to that,” Della broke in before the boy could go on. “I carry Lord Blackwell’s babe.”

  Rab’s eyes rounded and he giggled. Della grabbed his hand and pulled him down to sit by her. Wrapping her arm around his shoulders, she tousled his hair. He tolerated her affections with an impish smirk before fighting the embrace.

  “I will expect you to be a good example for this child, Rab.” Della pinched his cheek playfully and released him. “I depend upon you to help me.”

  The boy nodded. “I will guard him with me—my—life.”

  “And if it’s a girl?”

  He thought about it for a moment. “I’ll teach her how to hold a sword and climb trees. That way she’ll be fun to play with.”

  Della chuckled. “You best go if you are to see the men off.”

  Rab gave her an impulsive hug before jumping to his feet. With a jaunty wave, he ran toward the main gate. She watched him until he disappeared, feeling too lazy to get up. Twisting the weed in her fingers, she picked a few more and plaited them into a braid. A frown marred her face as she thought of the poor cotters.

  Horse hooves sounded like distant thunder as the men left. Gunther and Roldan undoubtedly took many of the soldiers to investigate the raid and even more had left with Brant. Aside from the peasants and servants who lived within the walls, the castle was almost empty. Della yawned and tossed the weed to the ground. She heard the
front gate close.

  “At least Edwyn does not have to seek my permission before he lets people out of the castle, lest I might think I lived in a prison.” Della gave a short laugh.

  “Is it not a prison, Della? Has your heart changed so quickly?”

  “Stuart?” Della jolted in surprise, pushing up from the ground. Straightening to her full height, she dusted off her tunic gown as she glanced in the direction of the gate. From what she could see, the bailey was empty. She was alone with him. “You frightened me.”

  “I did not mean to. You must have been lost in your thoughts not to have heard my approach.” Stuart took a leisurely step forward. A deliberate smile lingered on his face. Della wondered how long he’d watched her before making his presence known. Lowering his chin, he tilted his head thoughtfully, studying her. She shivered, but held her ground.

  “How did you get in here? Gunther would not have let you pass. Lord Blackwell has forbidden it. Methinks he is still angry from your last visit.” Unable to take his intense gaze, she took an uneasy step back.

  Stuart’s eyes were rimmed with dark circles and he looked like he hadn’t slept for some time. His chin held two day’s worth of whiskers, where he normally was clean-shaven and well kept. When he laughed, the sound was mocking. “Oh, yea, Lord Blackwell.” Stuart looked to the heavens as his laughter slowly died. He seemed unconcerned that any would hear him. When he turned back to her, his face appeared solemn. It was as if he decided the effort to smile was not worth it. “Your black-hearted husband.”

  “Do not say such harsh things, cousin.” Della lifted her chin. He took a step toward her only to suddenly stop and laugh again. The sound twisted unevenly in the air until she was forced to back away from him in fear, inching along the ground.

  “Nay? And why is that, pray tell?”

  “Lord Blackwell is my husband and I have told you there is naught to be done about it.” The hairs on the back of her neck stood tall. Looking over his shoulder, she tried to find help. The yard was still empty. She took a deep breath and willed her heart to still. Keeping her voice calm, she asked, “How did you get in here?”