“You would dare to kill an unarmed man?” Stuart asked weakly. “Think of your honor.”
Brant didn’t answer. Instead, he glared briefly at Serilda and then back to Stuart. “Serilda, drop your weapon and move away from her ladyship. Back yourself into the wall and do not move lest I be tempted to kill you as well.”
Serilda did as he commanded. The long knife thumped on the floor. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her as she moved around to the other side of the cot. Brant kept his raised sword trained on Stuart, making his way to the end of the bed.
Then, taking a deep breath, his insides trembling with apprehension, Brant glanced between Della’s legs. A dirty handprint marred the white flesh of her thigh where the midwife had touched her. But he found there was no blood.
They haven’t harmed the child.
Bittersweet relief flowed over him. Catching the frightened gaze of his wife, he had to look away.
Yanking at Della’s skirt, Brant covered her sex before kneeling to retrieve the discarded knife. Tossing it at Stuart’s feet, he motioned for the man to take the blade.
“Nay, it is not fair,” Stuart whined. He sidestepped the knife, refusing to pick it up. “You have a sword.”
Fury rose inside Brant. He gripped the hilt of his broadsword, wanting desperately to slay the man. His arm tensed and urged him to lift it. But, in the end, he could not bring himself to do it. He could not kill a defenseless man in cold blood. The deed would go against everything in his nature. He glowered at Stuart, willing the man to try anything that would justify his slaughter. Just as Brant was about to throw down his own weapon and beat the man with his bare hands, he heard Gunther’s voice. It was calm as it drifted into the chamber from the door, and his words were the answer to Brant’s bloody prayer.
“Then use this, you sniveling goat,” Gunther shot in disgust.
Brant glanced at Gunther as he blocked the frame of the broken entryway. There was no other way out of the chamber. He held up his sword and waited for Brant to nod his approval before tossing it over. Stuart jolted away from the weapon as if it were a striking snake. The blade skidded on the floor, stopping as it hit his feet.
Stuart took a deep breath before leaning to pick up the weapon. He raised the blade as he stood, moving to lunge at Brant with a brutal yell. Brant knocked the effort aside and quickly thrust his sword into Stuart’s gut, severing his spine with the force of his anger. Brant let go of the hilt as it stuck into the man’s flesh.
The wounded Stuart sputtered and grabbed at his midsection as the sword he held once more tumbled to the ground. His legs weakened and became lifeless as his knees folded under his mass. Clutching his fingers around the hilt of Brant’s sword, he tried to pull it from his body. His fingers weakened and he fell lifeless to the floor. It was over. Stuart was dead.
Brant leaned to pull his blade from the dead body, looking at the man’s lifeless form in disgust. As he did, he heard Della’s scream muffled by the bit in her mouth. He turned quickly to her. Serilda was poised above her, a vial of poison in her hand.
“Nay!” Brant exclaimed, recognizing the venom. From the corner of his eye, he saw Gunther’s knife fly over his head to land in Serilda’s shoulder. The vial flew back to avoid Della and the midwife fell wounded to the floor.
Brant gave Gunther a nod of grim thanks as he stood. After many breathless, silent moments, he looked at his deceitful wife. He stared furiously at her, tortured by her panicked face, her amber eyes glowing with a force he could not look away from. Her golden hair was matted and dirty, her skin was caked with mud and grime, and her blue dress was torn and stained. Brant didn’t care about all that. He only saw the deceit he believed her capable of. He didn’t trust himself to deal with her quite yet, and so turned to Serilda, who lay gasping on the floor.
“M’lord,” Serilda panted. Her pale face was taut and her eyes narrowed with pain. Her lips moved as if to plead with him, but she would find no sympathy in the ealdorman.
Brant nudged her with his foot. Her injury was superficial, but for the vial of poison that had landed atop her. The thick liquid soaked through Serilda’s overtunic, spilling forth into her wound and then to the dirt floor. She chuckled, her eyes glittering in the irony that her death was by her own hand. Her arms began to shake as the venom coursed through her veins.
“You will die by your own poison, Serilda,” Brant stated flatly.
The woman made a strange noise in the back of her throat. Brant didn’t help her. The midwife’s gaze clouded over as a spasm of pain racked her body. Spit trailed from her mouth to kill off her laughter.
Della struggled against her restraints as she watched Brant in horror. He made no move to help her. Finally, he turned from her, as if wiping her from his sight in disgust. Tears of anguish attacked her heart and shook her body with his rejection. His handsome face held no tenderness for her, no relief, no hope. It was her worst fear. He didn’t care for her, and only came to her rescue out of pride and mayhap a sense of duty.
Brant motioned Gunther to wait outside the chamber. When they were alone, he turned back to her. His stare was detached as he walked to stand over the bed.
Della fought her restraints, desperately wanting to hold him. Tears coursed down her reddened cheeks. She mumbled incoherently through the stifling piece of cloth bound to her mouth, glancing a few times at Stuart’s dead body as she tried to explain. Brant shook his head, his look stopping her words. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t understand them anyway. She barely understood them.
“You are lucky I do not kill you, lady wife.” Brant said calmly. Della made a weak noise and he narrowed his gaze in warning. She quieted. “I will leave you alive to live with your failure and the knowledge of what you tried to do to our child. You will carry the child, of that you can be certain, but you will never raise it. I’m taking the babe from you the moment the child is born. You will never be his mother. You will never look upon him or hold him. You will not even be told his name.”
Della saw the hard set of his beautifully chiseled face as he turned away. His eyes were cold and dead. Not even anger showed through their depths. She screamed against the gag, yelling at him to stop, straining unsuccessfully to free herself.
Brant ignored her cries as he walked silently out the door, his shoulders hunched in disappointment. Closing her in the chamber, he didn’t look back. As he strode out of the cottage, Gunther stopped him near their horses. He couldn’t look at his friend, choosing instead to stare off into the night. When he spoke it was in low, dark tones commanding Gunther in their shared Norse tongue. Gunther froze at what his lord asked of him, but Brant didn’t wait to hear his man’s opinion of the order. Swinging onto his horse, the ealdorman galloped away into the night.
* * * * *
Della watched Brant go. Her heart leapt wildly into her throat to choke her more effectively than the gag.
He thinks I had something to do with this. He doesn’t care for me. Brant, come back, don’t leave me, let me explain.
Her limbs shook. The gag made it hard to breathe. She panicked when several minutes passed and he didn’t return. Then, finally, she heard footsteps coming back to her. She looked hungrily at the door, waiting for her husband to reappear. It wasn’t to be. In his place stood Gunther, a frown marring his brow.
Gunther pulled the gag from her mouth and then moved to slowly unbind her wrists. His actions were distant, as he made no sign of pleasure at her recovery.
“Brant!” Della yelled, her hoarse voice barely audible. Her dry mouth made it hard to speak, but she tried anyway. Screaming louder, she croaked desperately, “Brant, come back. You don’t understand!”
“M’lady,” Gunther stated calmly. She kept straining to be free and it halted his progress to untie her wrists. “Let it be fer now. He cannot hear you anyway.”
“Gunther, you have to get him. You don’t understand,” Della pleaded, trying to jump from the bed even as he untied her feet. She sat up and gra
bbed at his arm. “Please. You must stop him.”
Gunther took in her pleading face. “He will not listen to me. Besides, he has already ridden back toward Strathfeld.”
“Nay,” Della wailed. She pushed from the bed as he finally finished with her ankles and stumbled toward the door. Her feet had been bound so tight they stung as blood rushed into them. Her legs weakened and she stumbled into Gunther’s chest.
Gunther held her slight weight against him. Her eyelids lowered as blackness threatened to consume her. Della’s head rolled slightly before she caught it. Taking a deep breath, she fought the oncoming swoon. “Gunther, you must believe me. I had naught to do with this. Stuart kidnapped me. He was the one trying to rid me of our child. Gunther, I love Brant. I could never kill—”
“Wait.” Gunther broke into her tearful confession with a frown. A look of bleak understanding came across his face. “You carry Brant’s child?”
“Yea. Methinks he may not have known until he saw Serilda with the knife. But I told Rab, and the boy surely must have told Brant.” Della trembled, her words rushed and incoherent in her desperation. “Did he not tell you?”
“Nay.” Gunther moved out of her way, nodding as if in understanding. Della sank wearily onto the cot. “It is why he thinks you are to blame fer this treachery. Did you not tell him once that you would… It doesn’t matter.”
“Gunther, please,” Della began desperately. She collapsed back on the bed as tears streamed down her face in despair. Her hand jerked into her long hair, pulling it roughly from her face. Then, sitting, she looked at the splintered chamber door. “I need to tell him.”
“Hush. I know well, Della, that you had naught to do with this. I have seen you with Rab. You have too big of a heart to murder a child before he takes his first breath.”
Della again stood as her world stopped spinning. Her feet wobbled under her weight and Gunther lifted a hand to her elbow for support. She was too tired to wipe the tears from her eyes. Seeing Stuart’s dead body, a wave of nausea rushed over her. The fact that she was free finally hit her and she shook violently.
“Oh, Stuart,” Della whispered in grief. Her face paled and she shook her head sadly. In death, he resembled the boy she loved so much, and her heart ached for him. But, even as she mourned him, she knew his death was the only way she would be free of him. “You were the foolish one, dear cousin. Mayhap death will bring you a peace life could not.”
Gunther let her go as she shrugged out of his grasp. He moved to the door and waited patiently as Della kneeled by her cousin to close his eyes. Then, taking the satchel at Stuart’s waist she searched for the ring he had taken from her—her wedding band. In the pouch, she found a white square cloth with a spot of blood. Inside it was her ring.
“What is that?” Gunther leaned over to see.
“My ring,” Della said. “Methinks this must be Stuart’s blood.”
“Nay.”
Della gasped at Serilda’s voice. She’d forgotten the woman was there.
“It’s yer maidenhead from yer checking. I gave it to him so he would be the only man to possess it.” Serilda’s pale lips barely moved as she said the words. Her eyes turned to the dead man and a light smile entered her troubled gaze for a passing moment. Then, as the breath hissed from her lungs, she stopped moving.
Della dropped the cloth onto Stuart’s chest and slipped the ring onto her finger. Her body ached, her feet and hands tingled with feeling, and she was so tired she could barely stand. Closing her eyes, she whispered, “Just take me home, Gunther. Please, I just want to go home.”
Gunther led Della from the room, awed that after all the man had done to her, she still had enough heart to forgive Stuart. Swallowing over a lump in his throat, he knew Blackwell was indeed a lucky man to have such a selfless wife. And for the first time in his knighthood, he debated the wisdom of the orders his friend had given him.
Chapter Twenty Five
Della beheld Gunther as he formed a makeshift torch out of a branch and some dried grass. Taking his flint, he easily lit it with two flicks of his wrist. Della watched the torch blaze, her heart numb. Gunther shielded the flames with his hand. Then, when it burned steadily, he drew it along the cotter’s hut to alight the roof. Even with the recent rainfall, the old roof was dry enough to catch fire. Gunther threw the torch inside.
Della watched, dazed, as the flames consumed the old building, burning the cottage to the ground and burying her cousin and Serilda within the fiery tomb. Gunther led his horse to her, handing her up silently before seating himself behind her. They didn’t speak as they rode and Della didn’t look back, not even when she heard the structure fall.
Rain descended, and through the moonlight, the land became more familiar to her. Gunther traveled back to Strathfeld. Della sat stiffly before him, her head held proudly against the elements. Then, as they neared the great oak where Della had bid Brant to meet her in the missive, she asked Gunther to stop. He reined in his horse and she slipped to the ground. Paying little heed to Cedric’s dead body as she stepped past it, Della made her way to stand before the tree.
For a long moment, her form was unmoving in the shelter of the tree’s large limbs as she looked up into its great branches. Lightening crashed across the sky as if answering some silent whisper she’d given it. Then, kneeling, she grabbed a handful of weeds at the tree’s base. Pulling hard, she tossed them behind her, so she may touch a small heart carved in the exposed bark before coming back to the horse.
Rain poured on her face, washing away the grime of her imprisonment. Her tired eyes lifted to him and he helped her back up without question. They rode on, neither one of them complaining about the weather. Gunther didn’t slow his steady pace, didn’t offer to find her shelter, and Della never thought to ask him to do so.
The sky was dark with the nearing of the midnight hour as Strathfeld came into view. Gunther reined his horse so that they could see the magnificent keep from atop the nearby hillside. A light came from the direction of the hall. If Brant rode full gallop, he would have beaten them by little more than an hour.
Their bodies were soaked and cold, as they watched the manor. She sighed as Gunther spurred the horse onward. The animal hung his head low, trying to avoid the onslaught of rain. Finally, Della turned to Gunther and gave him a brave smile. They both knew what anger awaited her below.
* * * * *
“M’lord, might I have a word with you?” Della asked from her place on the main hall floor. Her voice was docile as she looked up to the head table at Brant. Her gown was drenched, her hair falling in a heavy wet mass to her waist. She hadn’t stopped to change from her rain-soaked clothes before heading straight to the hall from the stables. The bruise on her cheek had begun to yellow and heal, and the knot on the back of her head had all but disappeared.
The hall was filled with soldiers, weary from the last several days spent searching for the countess. Hearing the news of her imminent return, they waited to see her, drinking to warm their blood against the chill of night. Brant told them nothing but the fact she was alive and would be arriving soon. A few of them dared to smile at her, but she didn’t return the look.
Brant sat handsomely above her. His regal face motionless as he kept his eyes on her. She stood before him proud and tall, awaiting his answer, but inside she trembled with the importance of the moment and her flesh tingled with a need to hold him. Dried blood stained the sleeve of his tunic. Her heart leapt in worry at the sight, but she stilled it. His hair was wet, but not nearly as drenched as hers. And, to Della, he was the most beautiful sight in the world.
Now that she faced him, a chill overtook her damp body. She didn’t know whether or not it was from the cold, drizzly weather or from Brant’s angry stare. Courageously, she insisted, “Please, m’lord.”
Brant raised an eyebrow in her direction. She could tell he was still mad. His fists shook as he wrapped them around a goblet in what looked to be an effort to control his rage. His glar
e bored dangerously into her.
“Methought I gave you an order, Gunther. I want this treacherous woman forever banned from my sight,” Brant commanded. “You are to take this prisoner to her chamber. She is to be tied to the bed.”
A murmur rose over the hall at Brant’s decree. Gunther didn’t answer. Della knew he was seated behind her at one of the tables. Scared, she forced herself to continue.
“M’lord, may I please have a word with you?” The words came more forcibly this time and the hall stayed silent. Servants stared in bewilderment, pausing in their duties to watch the reunion. Some of them yawned, having been awakened from their sleep.
Brant’s breathing deepened notably. The men watched with avid attention, not even lifting their goblets to drink. She felt their eyes on her, waiting.
“M’lord, I would explain how you are wrong,” Della persisted, never having seen him this distant. There was a terrifying quality to his controlled temper.
“How I have wronged you?” Brant fumed, incredulous. Suddenly, he shot to his feet, darted around the table, and moved swiftly down from the high platform. He grabbed the hair at the nape of her neck and pulled her head back until she was forced to look at him.
“Even now your beauty is treacherous,” he whispered. Then, louder, he said, “You, Della the Cold-Hearted, are fortunate you still carry my child in your belly lest I be tempted to beat you now for your daring.”
Della shivered at his passionless voice. The onlookers gasped, eagerly spreading the news of her condition. Brant took a deep breath and turned to the main hall. He still held her firmly in his grasp as he led her by her neck. Her feet shuffled through the rushes leaving a trail behind them as they moved, but he did not hurt her.
“Blackwell.” Gunther stood from one of the back tables where he had been sitting quietly with Roldan and a dozen of the men. He slowly moved forward. When he was in whispering distance, he said, “Mayhap you should hear m’lady out.”
Lord of Fire, Lady of Ice Page 37
